Supposedly, there is a law stating that every word in the Icelandic language must contain at least one acute accent, indicating an elongated or emphasized vowel. I’m not sure how well this information would stand in court, but it's something my brother told me as we stood in line for a hot dog inside the Keflavík Airport. Chances are he imagined up the law himself. It was the day after Christmas, and the terminal was packed with bundled travelers who bustled past windows outside of which it was pitch black.
As an aproned man handed bunned and dressed hot dogs to the German couple in front of us through a windowed stall, I contemplated the overhead sign: Íslenska mart. Wearily, I mouthed the word, curious to see how it may sound when spoken. Ísklenska. I had no idea what it meant, and the distantness of the word only reminded me I hadn’t slept very well on the plane.
The German couple moved away, creating a big fuss over gathering their luggage at once before parading away with their food. Before Ethan and I could step up to the counter, the aproned hot dog vendor whisked the window shut, leaving us to look at a sheet of metal with a paper menu taped to the front.
“Alright, let’s just get on with it then. The shuttle should be here soon, and clearly that guy has places to be,” Ethan said as we watched the man exit the stall through a side door, folding his apron as he meshed into the chaos of the terminal.
“You’re probably right. What the hell though, I’m starving.”
It was six a.m. and the sun would not be rising for another six hours. Frigid air leaked through the narrow windows that lined the autowalk. My brother and I had taken an escalator down to customs where we were met with a snaking line of travelers from the United States and Canada. The woman working border security posed us all the standard questions: What is the purpose of your travel? How long will you be here? Where will you be staying? How are you related? Have you brought any United States products into the country? After the usual questions were answered, she scanned the passports, stamped them, and nodded for us to move along.
“These days it’s really a toss-up whether they’ll stamp your passport or not. I’m not sure why,” I said as we hastily walked toward the yellow glow of the “ground transportation” sign at the end of the corridor. “They stamped mine in Indonesia,” Ethan said, “look it’s pretty cool.” He handed me the open booklet. Speckled islands in maroon ink were pressed over the USA passport page depicting a faded bald eagle.
“That is pretty cool,” I said, secretly jealous that my passport had no such speckled islands. After a few minutes of walking, we arrived in front of the exit where automatic doors let in floods of cold air and specks of crystalized ice whirled onto the tiled floor.
About half an hour prior, our parents and younger brother had left the airport through the same exit to find a shuttle that would take them to the rental car unit. Ethan and I had stayed behind, instructed to find a tall, blonde man who would let us climb in the back of his van that would take us to the same location. Supposedly when the time was right, we could find him by the car rental sign, next to “ground transportation.” At that moment, the area was absent of any tall blondes so we stood by, assessing the airport.
Beyond a cluster of benches where Nordic families in woolen mittens sat like sheep waiting for their own transportation, the chunky sign of a necessity store brought my attention to the void in my stomach.
“I need to get something to eat before we leave. I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday. I think I slept through the snack cart on the plane.” I gestured to the shop across the room. Hoisting our backpacks higher on our shoulders, we made our way toward the open aisles, only to see our greatest craving tucked behind the counter: a glass case of rotating, glistening hot dogs.
Letters above the case spelled out “PYLSUR” in blue ink. The man behind the counter looked joyful as he lined a soft, brown bun with dried onions which made me imagine the unexplored crunch factor of an Icelandic hot dog. Like the aproned man who had abandoned his station before border security, he too wore a white apron with a special pocket for the metal tongs.
“We need to get one right now.” I said, transfixed by our euphoric discovery. But Ethan had already stepped up to the counter, Krona in hand. I furrowed my brow, unsure of how he had already acquired Krona—the Icelandic currency that after much consideration on the plane, had an exchange rate I still didn’t understand. While Ethan ordered, I plucked two child-sized chocolate milks from the refrigerated wall and a bag of twisty chips and placed them on the counter.
The hot dogs were longer than American hot dogs, and were more comparable to sausages rather than processed meat. They came coated in three sauces that seemed to be different variations of mustard. The sauce on the left side was thick and buttery smooth. The sauce on the right was crunchy and brown. Down the middle, a grainy glaze the color of milk chocolate smelled sweet and spiced.
“All the sauces taste exactly how they look,” Ethan said as we bit in.
“I like the one that tastes like a muted dijon, with kind of a mayo base. How would you describe this?” I asked.
“Like an American standard hot dog with a slightly more slender profile. And a casing with more bite. Dried onions, mustards of sweet and sharper flavors on a regular bun.”
After swallowing the last bite, I wanted another. Instead, I popped the straw into my chocolate milk box and gulped the contents down in seconds.
“By the way, Pylsur doesn’t have an acute accent,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, I guess it's a fake law anyway.”
