Integration

Last night, I went bowling in Keiluhöllir, a place so completely modeled after similar facilities in the United States that the computer graphics and the shoes all come from America. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to be speaking English there with my Commonwealth friends. 

This morning, I called the priest for Keflavíkakírkja, Séra Skúli, so he could express kveðju from my mother at the funeral for Guðrun today. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to call him, the priest that baptized my son, and who I ran into up at Skalholt one summer Sunday. We always speak Icelandic.