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Saturday
For the first time in weeks, I’ve woken looking forward to the day ahead. The time I spent chatting with Freya last night over a few of her uncle’s beers were more relaxing and enjoyable than probably the last few real dates I’ve been on.
Cautiously, I inch my eyelids open to ease into the sunlight streaming in from the skylight above the bed. The same way the duller light shone down on me most of the night. The land of the midnight sun is truly living up to expectations. However, the reason the blindless clear glass window is directly above the bed is a mystery to me. But a little thing like a lack of sleep isn’t going to ruin my plans for today.
After I returned last night, Freya texted to say she was free this morning and wondered if I’d like a local tour guide. I jumped at the chance. Her bubbly personality is addictive, and I’m willing to admit at least to myself that she’s the reason for my better mood.
We agreed to meet at the Nordic House, and it feels like a double bonus jackpot. I get to see her along with one of my favorite buildings. It’s only a short walk down the hill and with a takeout coffee clasped in my hand, I set off.
Within a block, I’m passing some of the colorful houses that give the city its unique style—one a fire-engine red from the bitumen sidewalk to the top, another is a sedate cream until my gaze travels up to a dazzling aquamarine roof. It reminds me of Victoria Street in Edinburgh but on a larger scale and with less uniformity.
It’s the middle of summer, so the sun shines about twenty hours a day. But this far north, there is no real heat in it, making the midmorning walk at my usual brisk pace still comfortable. Even if I’m at odds with the people in this more casual northern capital.
A huge multicolored mural covering the entire wall of a corner house catches my attention, and I stagger to a stop. I’ve read about the cool street art of Reykjavik, and this wall is a jaw-dropping example in both scale and detail. Reykjavik is fast becoming one of my favorite cities, and I’ve only just started to explore.
Further on, the streetscape turns into rich green parkland as I draw closer to the Nordic House, the low nature-inspired structure appearing on the other side of a small pond, as if part of the distant mountains. The still water provides a perfect reflection of the white walls, and I stop to admire the classic styling of Alvar Aalto’s masterpiece. The thought of designing a unique building such as this one, using environmentally sustainable techniques, would be amazing.
I follow the grassy path around the pond, stopping occasionally to admire the different perspectives while taking a few photos. I’ve studied every angle and curve of the design on paper but still, I need to see it all for myself. Back at the entrance, I wander down to the edge of the water. And sitting on a bench with her back to me is Freya, her face turned up to soak in the sunshine, eyes closed, blond hair tumbling in thick waves down her back. The glossy, silken waves shine like a beacon in the sun’s rays, drawing me to her. But I wait and watch for a moment.
Already, it feels like she’s taking up more space in my thoughts than she should. I’m struggling to remember that she’s the woman who mistakenly took my bag, and who I only met face-to-face for the first time last night.
She’s too young for me, I tell myself. Something that has played on my mind overnight. Not enough that I wanted to cancel today because, selfishly, I wanted to see her again.
Hands in my pockets, I stroll toward her, stepping around the bench to stand in front, and making sure I don’t block the sun’s beams lightly kissing her cheeks. I envy the peaceful expression painted on her face. It’s been a long time since I tilted my head back and soaked in nature. I want to capture this moment—Freya relaxing with the Nordic House behind her—so I can scroll back and remember the point when I decided to change direction in my life.
I snap a photo, then clear my throat before saying, “Halo, Freya.”
Her eyes spring open, and on this clear sunny day, the green is like the northern lights have been captured in them. It’s not the right time of year to see the lights, yet here they are, on full display just for me. And it’s as rare and special as it feels when I see them filling the sky from my Calton Hill home in Edinburgh.
“Hallo,” she responds, jumping to her feet. “Are you excited to see your special building?” She almost sounds more enthusiastic to be here than me, and that makes her even more attractive.
It’s different from the usual reaction I’ve had from women I’ve dated in the past. Without exception, they’ve been bored by my interest in architecture. Happy to accompany me the first time but making up excuses the next. They never lasted long after that. What’s the point if you have nothing in common? My perfect woman needs to show an interest in some of the same things as me, just as I would be interested in sharing some of what she enjoys.
“Aye. I hope you don’t mind, but I took your photo in front of the building.” I open the image and tilt it toward her. “You look happy.”
She smiles like she’s keeping a secret. “How could I not be? It’s a beautiful day and so quiet and peaceful here. I don’t get a lot of quiet living in Dublin.”
A soft sigh leaves her lips. “Do you ever feel like you want to close your eyes and take a memory snapshot of the moment? I do that sometimes so I can pull it out and relive the moment in my head when I’m having a bad day.” She looks up at me, and I wonder at the melancholy behind her words.
“If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you, Freya?”
A wrinkle furrows her brow. “I’m twenty-six. Why?”
Thank God. At least the age gap is less than ten years. Though she looks much younger. “I wondered because that sounds very cynical for someone so young.”
“Twenty-six is not that young. Plenty of years for me to develop a healthy cynicism.” Again, I feel that she’s hiding something behind her words.
“Young compared to my thirty-five years,” I add, wanting her to know exactly how much older I am.
She slaps my chest playfully. “That’s not that old.”
A feeling of lightness sweeps through me, and it wipes away the years between us as irrelevant. We continue around the side of the building to the front entrance.
“Isn’t it beautiful? The simplicity of the design.” I look up at the straight pure-white walls. “The organic shape of the roof, with those deep-purple ceramic tiles, is typical of Aalto’s buildings. It’s the aspect of his architectural principles that I like the most. I want to design buildings that are a part of the natural landscape like his. See how he designed the rooftop to reflect the mountains?” My jaw clenches when I think about how far my designs in the last couple of years have been from this idea. Boring little boxes in one new housing estate after another on the outskirts of Edinburgh. Each row of terrace houses like a row of new dentures, all shiny and uniformly the same.
I shake my head. “Sorry, I’m blethering on.”
A tiny wrinkle appears between her brows before one of those cute, tinkling laughs steals my words. “No, please don’t stop. It’s interesting. Though it makes me feel like you should be the tour guide. You certainly know more about buildings in my city than I do.”
