"Round the world! There is much in that sound to inspire proud feelings; but whereto does all that circumnavigation conduct? Only through numberless perils to the very point whence we started, where those that we left behind secure, were all the time before us.
"Were this world an endless plain, and by sailing eastward we could for ever reach new distances, and discover sights more sweet and strange than any Cyclades or Islands of King Solomon, then there were promise in the voyage. But in pursuit of those far mysteries we dream of, or in tormented chase of that demon phantom that, some time or other, swims before all human hearts; while chasing such over this round globe, they either lead us on in barren mazes or midway leave us whelmed."
Part of Iceland is about the sights. The place is, on the whole, strange; steam rises from the ground, and you can see where the earth has split open and filled itself in. The island itself is expanding. But it's still a small place, with a small population, and a peculiar history. But, like a lot of places, its residents are proud of it, proud of themselves. I don't blame them; I think I envy them.
Iceland is a country of settlers, but Icelanders have sagas that date back to the 10th and 11th centuries. And there's something about that appeals to an American with loose roots. I find--have found--the myths of Native Americans hugely appealing, primarily because they come from the place I'm from. But they don't belong to me, and there are times--well, there are always times. But maybe ownership isn't the most important thing. After all, I have no claim to Iceland, but I can still go there, still read the Icelanders' sagas. All sorts of things are open to me.
But for now, I'm back on American soil. There are plenty of stories here that are mine, mostly because I made them.
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