Three hundred and ninety-five people per square English kilometer, in Iceland, 3.1. Sure figures for culture shock. The reality of a return to the homeland is an even stiffer shot for the system.

On Icelandic soil my Englishness is more English than ever. Traits and characteristics picked up from home shine, I screen Blackadder and Peter Cook videos to illustrate British humor.

Stepping onto English land again, the opposite occurs. The little changes to self make all the difference and I’m not sure where I am anymore. Now this is the international adventure.

Landing in London the gross disparity in population density is the first to hit—even from the air the visual of endless orange street lights and giant conurbations marks a world apart. Jumping onto the tube, heading to the centre—these do little to help that feeling.

An oblivious inconsideration of other people’s physical existence is a pet peeve in Iceland. Underground I am quickly reminded that the opposite can be just as frustrating.

There is as much jostling, bumping and pushing as I ever encounter on Reykjavík’s surly streets, only the manner is different. Indifference replaced either with willful obstinacy or polite panic—wild dives away from collision as radars finally switch on split-seconds from disaster.

It is all quite tiring. After a thousand apologies I am missing the bluntness quite badly.

In the grocery store, excessive thank-yous are almost as comical but far more welcome. A pleasant package of manners, to accompany the jaw dropping range of good produce. Last time I visited, we missed the train on account of gawking at the mouth-watering variety we are deprived of on our oceanic outcrop.

Out the door with a full bag and a blissful smile, I still can’t wait to escape the city. All the food in the world could not fill the need for a little space—something you have to travel a lot further for in England than in Iceland.

The newspaper I buy for the rail journey is filled with news about the world and I feel like every person answering the phone is speaking to me. The world seems at once a bigger place and a tighter fit.

The foreigner feeling grows with every town we buzz past and every sleeper we rumble over. I find myself missing Reykjavík in a way that I never do when I am there.

It is unbearably hot.

Finally reaching my parents’ farm I find respite. In the middle of nowhere, the weather is fierce and autumnal, the wind howls furiously outside the window. It is beautiful. A home just like home.

Simon Barker – frigno@gmail.com