I checked out of my hotel in the morning to afford me a few more hours of museum/gallery hopping. While that was an excellent idea, I still found myself getting distracted on my walk back to the hotel to hop the airport shuttle bus.

On previous walks through the city, I kept meaning to take a few photographs of the doorknobs. I'm sure that they are standard issue in most of the hardware stores, but every time I went to open another door, all I could think of was my favorite Bukowski poem, "The Area of Pause."

I'm pretty positive I've written out this poem on this blog before, so I will just make reference to the stanza that was living in my head:

few have the ability to stare

at an old shoe for

ten minutes

or to think of odd things

like who invented the

doorknob?

Sometimes the things that stick with you are strange, but I suppose things reemerge from time to time for a reason. For whatever reason, this line about doorknobs sticks with me.*

A last note about Iceland? I don't know how many of you watch "No Reservations," but this is the first time that I whole-heartedly disagree with Anthony Bourdain's sentiments toward a place, its people and its food.

Except for the shark. The shark is terrible.

*Just if you were curious: Osbourn Dorsey is credited with inventing the doorknob in 1878.