Better Than Good

I PACED THE CRAMPED ROOM OF OUR guesthouse in Reykjavik, Iceland, and checked the clock on my phone for what felt like the hundredth time.

- Alikay Wood, Editor

My dad was rustling through his suitcase, looking for who knows what.

“You almost ready?” I asked, doing my best to hide my irritation.

“Just a few more minutes,” he said.

We’d already wasted almost an hour when we could have been out exploring. I flopped on my bed. What am I doing here? I wondered. More important, what is he doing here?

I’d suggested we go to Iceland on a whim as we talked on the phone in the fall. I never thought he would actually go. My dad is not an adventurous person. Until now, he’d never been outside the United States. He’d certainly never mentioned visiting Iceland.

I didn’t think of it again until I was home in California for Christmas. We were clearing the dishes on Christmas Eve when he brought it up.

“I didn’t mean to pressure you earlier,” I said. “Not everyone wants to go to Iceland. You don’t have to come!”

“No,” he said slowly. “I want to go.”

Three days later, we’d bought tickets. The next three months were a flurry of preparations. We FaceTimed, trying to figure out what to do in Iceland. Every week or so, I’d get a picture of new winter gear he’d acquired for the trip: a full-length poncho, a water pouch that matched mine, hiking boots.

Still, it didn’t seem real until he arrived at my apartment in New York City in March. From there, we’d catch an overnight flight to Reykjavik, the capital of Iceland. I couldn’t sleep on the plane. I stared out the window into darkness. My eyes caught a haze of pale green light. The Northern Lights— one of the main reasons I’d wanted to come to Iceland. The other was my dad.