Giving Thanks With Snyrtingar

Over the past few years, I've developed a somewhat unnatural affinity for Iceland. It all started the summer before I became a senior at college. Collegium was embarking on a tour of France, Portugal, and Spain, and most of the choir members had seats booked on a flight to Paris via Frankfurt. A lucky few, however, departed several hours later and touched down for a brief hour in Reykjavik, Iceland. That hour, my friends, has been the source of much hilarity ever since. It was there that I informed Meg of her future firstborn son's name - Snyrtingar Winston Jeffrey the Fourth, after the word emblazoned on the sign pointing to the restrooms. (Yes, I am that mature.) While devouring a cafeteria doughnut covered in frosting and crispy chocolate sprinkles, we planned out the pilgrimage he would take on his eighteenth birthday to discover the true meaning of his name. At the time, we could blame our giddiness on the sugar high, but it quite frankly still sounds like a good idea to me, so perhaps I have no excuse.

I'm thinking of Iceland this evening because of my propensity for eavesdropping. As I climbed the stairs in the parking garage near St. Thomas after today's class, I overheard the following conversation taking place two steps above:

"Do you have turkeys in Iceland?"

"We do now, we import them. When I was a child, we didn't have any, though."

This informative chat gave me a great and marvelous idea. Forget family Thanksgiving; I'm totally going to Iceland on Thursday to sample imported poultry and delicious baked goods. If you happen to be called Snyrtingar, do feel free to come along; there's something we should probably talk about before we land, but don't worry - the sprinkles are worth it, and there's a turkey with your name on it. Well, possibly not your name exactly, but you get the idea.