Everyone and their mother in Iceland.

The day I came back to work, I could not stop bragging about my solo trip to Iceland. I had bought a plane ticket 12 hours before I left for my five day stretch off. This was not received well or at all by my co-workers because I did not know them at all yet. It was week two of thirteen in Palo Alto, and I probably sounded like a lunatic. My favorite response was my future friend A’s response: “What is with Iceland. Everyone I talk to has been there or is going there. So trendy.”

All I can say is that hell yeah it is trendy. But unlike suede choker necklaces and shirts with the shoulders cut out, travel trends are wagons on which I want to be. International plane tickets for less than $500? Wow, WOW airlines. Thank you very much! No brainer, right?

I actually debated for two hours after coming home from a three day stretch of work. Ultimately, my then seemingly normal Airbnb host and wine helped push me to purchasing my plane ticket and picking out my Airbnb for the first night. A man named Vilbert would be hosting me. He promptly sent me a link that provided me with excursions and a discount. Thank the gods for Vilbert, man. I ended up using that site for everything (FYI Adventure Vikings is what the site was called).

I hastily made my way to my room with measuring tape to see what carry on would meet the WOW standards. My smallest suitcase was two inches too tall. I panicked and then accepted that this was my opportunity to truly become a minimalist. How cold could Iceland be anyway? I grabbed my tiny, tangerine backpack (status classic Jansport size) and stuffed a pair of jeans, a pair of leggings, two sweatshirts, enough underwear to last a week (ya never know), and my camera. There was no room for my tripod, no room for an extra jacket. I simply wore three jackets, gloves and a hat out into the 60 degree weather the next morning. Sometimes it is nice to profusely sweat from being resourceful instead of from lack of resources. I was a boss ass bitch, rocking the look of a shop lifter.

Long term parking, shuttles, security blah blah blah. All that went down fine. I was on my plane by 10am, ready for a nonstop eight hour flight that would drop me down into Iceland at four in the morning.

Now I am not sure how I have struggled with mild insomnia for the past year and now magically can fall asleep on a plane, but that is how I am now programmed. Like a baby being driven around the block, my ass hit the seat and my eyes glued themselves shut. I slept most of the way, in between pedaling my feet and pacing, fearing a DVT (deep vein thrombosis). The thoughts of a nurse, I am telling ya.

Once we touched down, panic set in. Had I just thrown out $500 to go somewhere and not do anything? It was four AM and the sun wouldn’t be up until ten. I sat in the airport and started planning as much as I could. I broke down and decided renting a car would be expensive but allow me to make sure my trip wasn’t wasted.

That was by far and away the best decision I could have made. Iceland doesn’t have fantastic public transportation, especially for a short, unplanned trip. I was shuttled to my rental company, little tangerine backpack in hand. A couple shared my shuttle and commented on how lightly I had packed. If I hadn’t been so tired, my ego may have exploded. I felt like the ultimate adventurer. I was soon to feel like the ultimate grandma (details to follow).

I’ve come a long way, but I am still cheap. I order the cheapest glass of wine on the menu, I ask for student discounts with my three-year old college ID. That is just who I am. Car rentals are no different.

When the employee offered me the full gravel and wind protection insurance for an extra $60/day, naturally my answer was “HELLLLLL NAWWWWWW”. He insisted that there were sand storms and loose gravel that warranted the extra insurance. I asked where such things occurred and he responded that the southern coast had the most tumultuous weather. Well then I wasn’t going there. He then told me to be careful when I open the car door because the wind was known to rip the door right off of the car. It became clear that Iceland would be a place I would have to pray to a god I didn’t believe in if I wanted to make it out alive.

Not to stop everyone from reading further, but the most treacherous thing about Iceland was, get this, the ice. Every fucking time I swung my feet from the drivers side in a ladylike fashion, my feet were met by an iceskating rink and I went from sassy solo traveler to Bambi with no Thumper. That country’s name is no joke.

I was on my way to the Blue Lagoon by 7:30am. There was still no sign of the sun or a coffee shop. My brain couldn’t differentiate from am to pm and I was now in a snowy landscape where not a tree could be seen. Snow drifts and half open eyelids of rocks peaked lazily at me from the vast fields surrounding me. I found the Blue Lagoon’s parking lot easily enough and parked just as the spa was opening. I was ready for a nice soak in a beautiful hot spring, hopefully accompanied by coffee and a cocktail.

I made my way up the long stone pathway still covered in navy blue darkness. As I walked up to the counter inside I remembered that I had made the same mistake I make on every trip, I had forgotten to pack a bathing suit. I found the place to be booked up until 8PM anyway, so I could solve that problem later. I made my way back to the car and unpacked my two sweaters I brought, layering them in haste and leaning my seat all the way back. Here is where I owned my grandma-ness and succumbed to my exhaustion. The sun would be up in an hour and then I could make my way to the city center.

My alarm soon woke me up. I looked around at the patches of unreal turquoise water that lay scattered around the parking lot. I started up the car and felt myself thaw as I made my way towards Reykjavik. The only stop I had in mind to get me downtown was the church, Hallgrimskirkja. And like a true American traveler, I never learned how to pronounce that name. It loomed impressive and already dripping with tourists at nine in the morning. Inside, the universal silence all churches possess, resonated, stinging my ears, intensifying the beauty of the interior that nearly matched the exterior.

My head ached, making the visit short lived. After many nightshifts, I knew the cure was strong coffee and rich food. I spent the rest of my morning eating and walking around. Popping in and out of the expensive boutiques and brick-a-brack stores. Behind the haze of my mind I remembered that I needed both a swimsuit and long underwear. I had made the plunge to reserve a glacial snorkeling experience the next day and figured I could used an extra layer.

To no surprise to me, finding a bathing suit was near impossible. I knew I had packed extra underwear for a reason. I was sure something would be appropriate enough. Now it was time to find some long underwear. The only problem was, in my delirious stupor, figuring out the currency exchange. The Króna to the USD was about 1 to 1/100 but somehow dropping the zeroes was such a challenge for me. Were the leggings I was holding $8 or $80. Also, how funny is the word legging. My mom calls them leggins. Which sounds like legumes and oh god yes they are $80. No thanks!

So I gave up all hope, until I came upon a thrift store. I found myself in the leotard section contemplating what must have been vintage olympic ice skating costumes from the 80’s. I briefly thought of how gross it was to buy a leotard with no way of washing it before wearing. Then I saw that it was actually $8. My mind was made up.

The city was full of graffiti. Sophisticated, dark, grimy, any style one could think of popped off of the pastel walls like a hologram. The bottom of the city led to the ocean and a huge glacier across the bay. A gigantic glass theater, the Harpa, reflected the cool blue sky and the white mass in the distance.

It felt like the sun had just risen and was already about to set. I saw a sign for the only Penis Museum in the world and found myself ending my day among whale dicks floating in formaldehyde like pickles in vinegar. My fellow museum patrons were a variety of stone faced couples to giggling girlfriends. I was somewhere in between. On the precipice of giggling but then remembering my luck. I was born a human. I would never be assailed by those weird, wrinkly, fat as all hell, chodes. This was no laughing matter. Travel had once again made me grateful for the circumstances into which I was born.

It was finally check in time at my Airbnb. I was staying with someone named Vilbert in a hostel style room. I had enough time to nap in my room and then head to the Blue Lagoon. It was dark again, so I would be missing the turquoise waters, but all I needed was a good soak. In my groggy state I assessed my undergarments and chose the least offensive, only to realize that I had only brought one bra. I recalled a sign saying bathing suits were available to rent. Another fate accepted.

I found myself walking the cobbled pathway again, this time sure of my appointment. As I made my way to the host, I gave him my name and time that I had scheduled. He was hot and young, and I was too, right? I started smiling and doing my best to flirt as he looked me up in the computer. He returned my smile and wished me the best. I almost walked away when I remembered that I had decided to rent a suit. I turned back to him to ask and I immediately saw the disgust in his face. He responded, “Uh yes we do offer rentals” and mentally gagged. Believe me, I have seen people mentally gag many times during my nursing career, I know what it looks like. He handed me a navy blue one piece adorned with FOR RENT ONLY in white letters, running vertically down the side. The equivalent to flipping a business sign to “closed” in front of my vagina.

I was unbelievably grateful for the darkness as I made my way out to the pool. I entered from an enclosed glass room that led out into the cloudless night. The steam rose from the beautiful spring. The bottom slate rock smooth against me feet, and I lost myself in the night. At any point I could float on my back and stare up at the infinite sky. Stars made me dizzy as they blazed through the haze. In the spirit of vacation, I detoxed with a complementary mud mask and retoxed with cheap beer served at the poolside bar. Small groups of drunk people made out or spoke in languages I didn’t understand. I knew I hadn’t wasted my money. I was alone and it was wonderful.

This feeling only followed me as I drove out into the night. My twenty minute drive back to Vilbert’s ended up taking over an hour. I was driving in the dark and saw a glimmer of green in the sky. I pulled over in time to see the faintest wave of the northern lights in the sky. Propping my camera, I made a shotty attempt to slow the lens and capture the lights. I had little time and luck, but I could now say I had seen the northern lights. Even if the rest of the trip was a wash, I had seen them.

I awoke in the dark and fumbled to change into my leotard and leggings the next morning. A new national park was on the horizon for me, Thinvellier. I happened upon a bakery and was able to eat warm croissants as I drove into the park. The sun rose, making the snow on the fields glow rose gold. I pulled over into the drifts to take photos. As the door opened and the 30 degree air hit my face, I felt the whole experience jump on top of me. No trees, no humans, no animals; it was just me in nothingness. I am used to nature making me feel small, but this time I felt colossal.

I hoped to hold onto that feeling when jumping in just above freezing water in mere hours. I had signed up to snorkel in Silfra, Silfra is the fissure between the Eurasian and North American plates. I was met by my extra spicy, hot nordic looking snorkel instructor at a visitor center. He led the group to the spot where divers and snorkelers were getting into drysuits. My entire group was from China and amazed that I was traveling alone. I felt empowered until I had to have the instructor pull my head through the hood of the suit like I was a newborn entering the world. The whole process of putting on a dry suit would humble even Kanye.

We waddled our way across the road to the entrance point into the water. We passed a sign indicating scuba diver crossing, which seemed utterly ridiculous being surrounded by ice and snow. I started to get even more nervous with my face and hands exposed to the elements. I had gloves to wear, but the instructor had warned us that they would immediately fill with ice-cold water. We spit into our masks and then we took the slow plunge into the water. I was the first to submerge myself.

I am the little fish. I love water. Cold, hot, luke warm and stagnant. I do not care. It was immediately worth every penny to be in that deep, dark, lifeless water. Narrow passageways lay before me, with only the strained breathing through my snorkel echoing in my ear. Enough to make me panic, except I was already so excited, panic didn’t seem possible.

Once everyone was in the water, I followed the instructor to make my way through the crescent shaped fissure. I became accustomed to the cold, and began to talk a bit with my instructor. He had to occasionally yell to members of the group to stop them from flippering into the wall of the rocks. About halfway through, he turned to me and told me that we were at the point of where the two plates almost met. He had me hold out my hand to touch one plate and stretch my flipper to touch the other. I was touching both plates at once. Soon, the crescent gave way to a turquoise paradise that I swam around in for as long as possible.

I explored the park a bit more that day and returned to the city center to check into my hostel. After a pricey dinner of some basic fish and chips, I made my way back to the hostel to be picked up for a northern lights tour. As luck would have it, a man around my age sat next to me and we became fast friends.

The bus took us out past the lights of the city, deeper into the country. The brash tour guide was regaling us with stories and legends for almost the entire ride, making me want to pee my pants in laughter. My personal favorite tale was that in Iceland the aurora borealis was an ominous sign. It was said that a pregnant women who walked out under the lights would birth a cross eyed child. It was more in the deliverance by the Judi Dench wannabe, but the legend itself was worth a few escaped screeches of laughter. I can’t always be a sophisticated traveler!

This time I truly saw the lights. The neon green swirled behind the shadows of evergreen trees. I momentarily stared with jealousy at the people with tripods, and then decided to get over myself. I attempted to steady my camera on the ground for a few shots and then watched the lights fade slowly then disappear completely. Back on the bus, I found out that my new friend was staying at the same hostel and ready to hit up the gay bar with me. He was meeting a man and I was planning on dancing my ass off in a non-hostile environment.

Well he met his man at Kíkí queer and I was cornered by three creepy guys on the dance floor. One man actually walked right up to me, his face inches from mine, and stared intimidatingly as he bobbed in the least sexy way. I retreated from the dance floor nervously laughing, making my way to chat with a man from Liverpool in a fisherman’s sweater.

As we began chatting, I found out he was a scuba instructor for a different company. I learned about his training and his 100th dive being totally nude. We also had a steamy make out to ensure that creepy bobblehead dancer didn’t get any funny ideas. We are talking full on, hold me up in the air and make a scene in the bar. Yup, this trip was absolutely worth the dough.

Hungover but very much alive, the next day I set out to drive the golden circle. As I started driving in the reverse order, attempting to end in Thinvellier instead of beginning there, I realized I was passing a hiking spot I had been eyeing up online. It was a three mile round trip hike that led to a natural hot spring in the snow. I knew that if I made the hike, I might not be able to drive the full circle. I probably wouldn’t be able to drive any of it. Somehow, I didn’t care. I pulled off into the small village and made my way to the trailhead.

The first half mile was pure ice. I climbed around the hills trying to find patches of snow that were safe to hike up. At times, I sidled up next to ditches that led straight down into creeks. I passed warning signs marking pools at 100 degrees celsius. Patches of snow threatened to melt under my feet, exposing them to hot water of unknown temperatures. Each turn in the path led to a new stressor, making me impatient for the natural jacuzzi for which I was headed.

I finally came upon pools in which it was safe to swim. I found myself at a muddy edge peppered with snow. I held my breath as I took off my layers, sacrificing my only bra to a soggy fate. There were two American men where I had chosen to wade in, and I decided to swim past because for all they knew, I didn’t speak English. I had felt their eyes on me and I didn’t feel like talking. My cover was blown a few minutes later when a friendly French woman (A.) and her Dutch guy friend (S.) joined us. They began to introduce themselves and I felt embarrassed for how rude I had been.

We talked a lot of politics and I found out that the two American men were med students, the woman was a law student from France on a study abroad program, and her friend was visiting her from the Netherlands. The American men told us about their drive out to the southern coast to Black Sand Beach and how the gravel and wind assaulted their car. Shoutout to my car rental company for telling me like it is!

We chatted for over an hour, but one by one we were forced to face the cold to change and head back. I ended up making dinner plans with the woman and her friend. I spent my last night in Iceland talking about anything and nothing in a warm restaurant with my new friends. They taught me about the registry that existed for native Icelanders to help ensure that there were no relatives dating each other. The population is actually that small. A. told me that all she had learned to say in Icelandic was ” I don’t speak Icelandic” and “one hot chocolate please”. I could not have met better people. I made my way back to my Airbnb, hung my bra to dry and slept as long as I could.

My flight out was scheduled for 3pm, so naturally I signed up to go horseback riding at 8am. I drove out past the airport I would be flying out of and realized how rushed I would feel. Oh well.

The group I rode with consisted of a young woman guide and a young family from Sweden. The children were beyond excited. They sat adorably perched on top of the white, stout horses. Icelandic horses are known for their fifth gait called the tölt. It felt like I was riding a worm through the old volcanic fields. The gait was the equivalent or a wiggle and a trot. The perfect ending to my trip, by far and away. I was snuggled in a snowsuit the stables had provided, riding on a moonlike landscape. At one point we stopped to let one of the children hop off the horse and attempt to find a hidden place to pop a squat. God I love people.

There is not much more to say. I left my “trendy” trip with a new sense of self. I could probably put a price on that sense of self, the trip wasn’t as cheap as I had planned, but the connections I made with the earth and with the people around me were priceless. There are so many more daring places to go, but just like life, travel is what you make it.