What fits
At the entrance to Alek's basement apartment in Vesturbær, there are three pairs of work gloves. Three different thicknesses. The thin ones for electrical work, the medium ones for fiberglass hulls, the thick ones for welding. Every morning he chooses the pair for the day based on what's pending in the workshop. If he doesn't know what's waiting, he takes two. Under the kitchen table is a Teng Tools toolbox with what he doesn't leave at the shop: a socket wrench set, precision screwdrivers, and a multimeter he wipes down with a dry cloth every Sunday.
The steel thermos is on the counter. Alek fills it with black coffee before seven every morning and takes it to the workshop. In Iceland coffee isn't an accessory: it's the second highest per-capita consumption in the world. Alek drinks five or six cups a day. The thermos comes back empty by midday. Sometimes earlier.
And the sandwich. He makes it the night before: rye bread, cold lamb or cheese, nothing more. He eats it sitting on the Grandi dock watching the cruise ships maneuvering in the new harbor, or leaning against the wide bollard at the north corner of pier 4, which has been his spot for years even though nobody assigned it. In July, with the sun that won't set and tourists walking past the converted gallery spaces with ice creams, he eats fast and goes back to the workshop. In January, with four hours of light and the dock empty, he eats slowly.
