My dinner consisted of a family-size bag of “Cool American” flavored Doritos, gas station fish and chips, and a ginger ale. I sat in my rental car alone with my not-so-fantastic feast, killed the engine and turned the lights off. No plasticware, no napkins.

My car faced west and sat at the northern most point of the small fishing village in Iceland, wedged somewhere between the sky and the frigid dark ocean. The sky had not yet revealed its intentions—complete cloud coverage or to surrender to the stars. I kept my fingers crossed for the latter. I had hoped to see the Northern Lights.

The moment was both pathetic and peaceful.

With not much to think about and no one to talk to, my mind wandered to the odd predicament I found myself in just prior to parking my car.

I had arrived in the village a couple of hours earlier. My car crept through the desolate streets as I looked for a place to sleep and to grab a bite to eat.

The wind whipped around every corner and the boats rocked in the harbor while I searched for signs of life. Colorful box houses sat modestly hiding the town’s inhabitants. Where is everyone?

A couple children rode by on bikes and stared at me as if I’d just slaughtered their beloved house pet.

Hostels were closed, bed and breakfasts were closed; even the large hotel on the hill had a note taped to the door, “ For accommodation, please call…” (Number provided with no area code). I sat in the empty parking lot contemplating plan D.

I knocked on a few B&B doors, and peeked in hostel windows with no success. TVs were on, but no one came to the door. I accosted the pizza man. He made a call for me and provided directions to a B&B operated by his buddy (whom he assured me would come to the door). He was a man of few words but helpful. Being a desperate traveler who clearly learned no valuable lesson from the movie hostel (I, II, or III), I was on my merry way.

I was relieved to see an older man with a friendly face meet me at the front door. He took me  to the back entrance of his home that opened into the basement. It was void of meat hooks and appeared to be a legitimate B&B. It was clean and simple. Also a man of few words, all he asked was that I remove my shoes in the vestibule and leave the key on the counter before I leave. I agreed to stay and thanked him for his hospitality.

Now that I found a bed I could find a nice spot to eat a hot meal. The older man suggested the gas station when I asked. Not exactly what I had in mind but I politely thanked him and jumped back into my car.

Assuming off-season had the same effect on restaurants as accommodations, I wasn’t discouraged to see many closed. There must be some place locals gather for a drink and home-cooked meal.

Just by the harbor the faint glowing windows of a small restaurant brought sheer hope and joy to my heart and stomach. I couldn’t park the car fast enough.

I imagined a room of deep mahogany reflecting the bouncing flames from the warm fireplace. It would be filled with friendly folks conversing and laughing over cold beers and hot Icelandic lamb soup. Fishing décor and maybe the steering wheel from the helm of an old ship would boldly present itself on the wall or bar. Just like in the movies, everyone would be blonde and have Viking names like, Thor and Haldorra Sveinsson. They would raise their glasses and sign songs about rum and syphilis.

I was greeted with silence. The tables sat empty; a dessert case displayed some questionable pastries, and three employees standing behind the bar scurried back into the kitchen in response to my arrival.

I stood alone and confused. After a brief moment a man made his way out to greet me, hands folded precariously in front of him, head slightly cocked, eyes peering downward. “Can I help you?”

After an awkward verbal exchange, ultimately what he uncomfortably explained to me was that they were serving hamburgers only. Since I don’t eat beef, he was kind enough to suggest I try the fish…at the gas station. Yes, the man at the restaurant kindly suggested I eat elsewhere. My impatient inner-American wanted to fight its way out and explain why this was unacceptable service, but thankfully, I was able to refrain.

I pulled into the gas station feeling defeated. I felt so alone, unwelcome, and well, uncool. I sat in my car for a moment frustrated and watched the young girl sweep the floor while listening to her iPod. When I approached the door I discovered I must have been too late. It didn’t budge. I pulled a little harder. Nothing. The girl with the broom looked up at me annoyed and continued sweeping. They must have just closed. I stood for a forlorn moment and took pity on myself for my luck and made my way back to the car. Then, to my surprise, I saw a man enter. I approached the door again. This time I pushed. It opened. That’s embarrassing.

I reviewed the numbered meal options–all some variation of hamburger, hotdog or pizza except of course for the number 10, the Fish and Chips.

While I waited for my number 10 the girl with the broom and the boy frying my frozen fish patty shared knowing glances. As if they belonged to some secret society and I was the very unwelcomed intruder. “Who is this strange being unfamiliar with basic door operation driving child-molester slow through our streets?”

I wasn’t’ sure what I’d done wrong, but my presence alone seemed to be enough. People stared at me, skeptically. Like, this was them behind closed doors and the village idiot let me in. I felt like the kid at the lunch table who pulls the soggy pickle out of her lunchbox when all the other kids have twinkies.

I got my box o’ fish and drove to edge of town. The fish was awful so I started in on the bag of “Cool American” flavored Doritos. Evidently, Northern Europeans are yet to experience ranch dressing, the flavor that has swept our country and sorority houses nation-wide.

I wondered what cool American tasted like.

My headlights shined out into the dark crashing waves. Cold wind beat mercifully against the side of my car. I imagined how generation after generation could survive in this harsh landscape, one that yields so little, long before the luxuries of our time. I imagined a lineage that comes from the violent and instinctual sons of the Vikings. I imagined this community in its beginning, close and protective of one another.

I imagined how tourists come and take pictures of their cute little houses and cute little boats.