The Transformation on Icelandair Flight 623

From what I could tell, the blonde lady sitting across the aisle from me was a local Icelandic woman. I was a Filipino-American visitor to her land of Vikings and volcanoes, concluding a weeklong wedding anniversary trip.   As the Boeing 757 lifted off the ground and started to make its way up to the sky, I strained to look past my husband in the middle seat and a teenage girl who sat by the window. I gazed out of the small frame and into the vast expanse of the barren brown-green lava fields surrounding Keflavik Airport, bathed in bright sunlight that betrayed the end of winter chill that still hung in the air.

I tried to take in as much as I can with my last glimpses of this fascinating country before the clouds obscured my view. My blonde neighbor sat reading her magazine, seemingly oblivious to the departure from her homeland, raising her eyes slightly and briefly when a flight attendant made an announcement over the public address system.

Halfway through the flight, I watched her pull out a map of the New York while I ate my last vanilla flavored Skyr, a delectable Icelandic yogurt. I turned subtly to see what area she was studying but couldn’t make it out without giving myself away.   She squinted her eyes and tilted her head, making out the streets and avenues. She traced her finger around the city grid, as if looking for something. Or maybe she was just getting herself oriented to the lay of the concrete jungle.

It was what I was doing just the day before when I was sitting in the front seat of our tour van. I pored over the map of West Iceland, following our route around the majestic Snaefellsness peninsula, trying to pronounce the foreign, polysyllabic names of the little fishing villages lining the rugged black pebble coast and the farming towns that stood at the feet of the imposing snow-topped mountains.

I wondered if she was feeling the same heady mix of excitement and nervousness over the prospect of exploring unfamiliar terrain read about in books and seen in movies. It was then, I think, that the imaginary lines between us started to blur.

The pilot announced we were approaching Newark International Airport and would be landing in less than twenty minutes. The change was approaching.

The woman started to crane her neck as I did earlier, attempting to peek through the window on her side and then on mine. She was taking in her first look at the seductive New York skyline with a hint of a smile forming on her lips. Perhaps she’s already imagining the adventures that were about to commence as she steps onto the fabled streets of the five boroughs. I certainly empathized with the thrill of indulging in new exploits. While her New York to-do list may be filled with expeditions into the shops, restaurants, museums, theaters, and other venerable nooks and crannies of the city, my Iceland itinerary was packed with explorations of moss-covered lava fields, slippery ice caves, thundering waterfalls, and massive glaciers. While I reminisced about my recent adventures, I could sense the palpable anticipation of the start of hers.

As the seatbelt sign turned off with a ding, the passengers scurried to their feet, jostling to reach for their bags in the overhead cabins, only to be rewarded with the long wait for their turn in the procession out of the plane.

I met my sister-traveler’s eyes and smiled. We looked nothing alike. She was tall and slender, with crystal blue eyes and the Nordic aquiline nose. I stood an inch and a half over 5 feet, saddled by winter weight, with brown eyes and the rounded nose of the Malay race. I asked her if she was coming home or visiting. With an eager grin and a thick, guttural Icelandic accent, she said she was on vacation. I wished her a great time and watched her march down to the front of the plane.   The transformation was complete.

In the time it took our plane to fly over the North Atlantic, my comrade and I traded places and circumstances. Unlike the kooky Hollywood movies, the exchange was not due to a spell, potion or fairy dust.   It is a willful act that all travelers take: to step out of the familiar and engage the new, the exotic, the extraordinary.   Five hours after we got on Flight 623, she stepped off the plane a wide-eyed visitor to my turf and I emerged the nonchalant native.

The fascinating thing about travel is the change not limited to the physical location. The shift occurs within our person as we move from one point to the next – imperceptible at first until it becomes undeniable. Such is one of the many gifts of travel.