I was scared to go to Iceland weeks before I stepped foot on the plane. I was scared because I knew we were going somewhere with a cold I could not imagine. I was scared because we had horse riding and snowmobiling on the agenda, feats seemingly too adventurous for me to handle. I was scared because the number of COVID cases had started to rise unexpectedly, and was traveling really the ethical thing to do right now? I was scared because my chronic diarrhea had been steadily getting worse for a full year and I was at the point where, in the weeks leading up to the trip, I thought to myself over and over again, “I don’t know how I’ll make it through this without shitting my pants.”
Don’t get me wrong, I had been wanting to visit Iceland for years and I am immensely fortunate for the opportunity to do so, it’s just that the feeling of risk — that unavoidable presence in all of our lives for the past two years — was everywhere.
I know this is supposed to be about a grilled cheese sandwich, but, as always, the sandwich is a metaphor. But to start with the sandwich itself, it came from Café Babalu in Reykjavik, Iceland, a place that felt like it knew me from the moment I stepped in. I know that sounds a bit ridiculous but we stepped inside and I felt the warmth of the heater and something to my right caught my eye—
“Dinosaurs!” I exclaimed to my partner. Indeed, there was a display of dinosaur figurines immediately underneath a poster that proudly proclaimed “GRILLED CHEESE SANDWICH.” The scene felt a bit surreal. I know I am not the only person in the world who unironically loves both dinosaurs and grilled cheese sandwiches, but in the moment I let myself feel that this could somehow be for me.
We ordered our food and headed upstairs to a table and around us the café cat stalked past, and there was a framed picture of two men kissing in front of a cabin, a nestled in the corner was a book nook — and the warmth continued to spread, merely amplifying as the grilled cheese and tomato soup was delivered to our table.
I had been craving tomato soup since we arrived in Iceland — probably due to the aforementioned cold — and it had been so long since I had had a proper grilled cheese sandwich. In the end, this meal couldn’t quite beat my near perfect grilled cheese experience, but it was close.
Even still, the risk was lurking in between the bread. Was that a pain in my gut? Was that a grumble of my intestines? I better go to the bathroom before we leave, just to be safe.
The risk was lurking everywhere. We rode the horses and I felt absolute wonder in watching the Icelandic sunrise as we were doing so. But what if I fall? We went snowmobiling and the cold no longer mattered because of our snow suits. But what if we topple over and my legs get crushed?
Despite the risk I did eat the grilled cheese sandwich and, this time at least, I was okay. I rode the horses and I was proud of myself. I rode the snowmobile and I marveled at being on top of a glacier.
But those terrors lurking in all that risk did triumph in one way – I did end up catching the virus, maybe from the exact café where I felt such warmth, although I’ll never know.
After I told someone this, that I caught the virus while in Iceland, they asked, “Was the risk worth it?” I said “yes” in the moment because it felt easier than explaining my actual feelings — “I don’t know” or “maybe” or “depends on who you ask.” Who knows how long I had the virus, laying in wait in my system, before returning home and who I might have passed it on to. Would any of them have died? I’ll never know.
Risk has always been everywhere, but we’ve been conditioned over the last two years to equate our moving through the world with the death of others. How do we live with this much risk around us?
Was the risk worth it for me? Yes. Was the risk worth it for the world? I can’t begin to answer that. Maybe in twenty years we’ll all look back on this time and think, “The people who traveled for pleasure sure were selfish.” But maybe we’ll think, “Everyone sure was just living the best they could.”
But this was about a sandwich (like I said, always a metaphor). The sandwich was warm and just this side of too crunchy but perfect when dipped in tomato soup.
As I returned home and returned to the reality of my chronic diarrhea (side note: I only made it through the trip by taking a lot of loperamide), as I started seeing a nutritionist to try and uncover what foods my body can and cannot tolerate, I realized that this could potentially be the last grilled cheese sandwich I’m able to eat for a long while. And if that’s the case, I feel content with the memory of eating it in the warmth of that uncanny café.
I’ll say, for now at least, that the risk was worth it.