Where are you going?” he asked from the driver’s seat.
“Thingeyri,” I replied. A confused look appeared on the man’s face.
“Thingeyri,” I said again, this time changing the intonation in my voice.
“Ahh, Thingeyri! Yes, I can take you there!”
I had been standing alone by the side of the road for two hours, hoping someone would give me a lift. Earlier that morning I’d taken the ferry to Brjánslækur, where I naïvely assumed the bus would align with the ferry’s arrival. But after landing, the dock master corrected that assumption: there wasn’t a bus until 6:30 p.m.
I looked at my watch. It was 11 a.m.
Crap, I thought.
I raced to the top of the dock in hopes a car would pick me. But as the cars exited the ferry, driving off to complete their journey, none did. Scores of other people walked toward waiting cars filled with friends and family. They too ignored my jutted-out thumb.
Alone, I went into the ferry terminal, ate some soup, and ventured back to the road. To my left was the empty dock and, past that, a vast, tranquil bay that shimmered on this sunny day. To the right side of the road were farms, sheep, and rolling hills. The only sign of human activity was the little red ferry building where, if all else failed, I could stay until the bus came.
No cars passed.