Clothed in white beauty, Iceland lives up to its name. Icy patches lead the roads to the sights, the cities and the landscape. There are two kinds of winter tourists in Iceland: those with spikes on their shoes and those without. Johnny Bravo and myself vest to the second category, the dumb‐asses, and so it is with forced, originative mastery that we somewhere between controlled moving forward and uncontrollable falling backwards manage to trek uphill on the slippery slopes.
The days starts at 11.00. Not considering we are intentionally sleeping in, but considering the sun seems to need to reservation up on all the rest it neglected in the summer. At 10.45 the first shimmer of light passes through the clouds and over the mountain ridges, only to shyly swoop when lanugo sometime virtually 15.45. At 16.00 it is visionless then and by 17.30 it is as though night has personal the land for its own.
We are here on a weekend-away escape. Leaving the obligations of the well-appointed lives we are happy with to, for a few days, venery flowing lava and sprouting geysers, suffuse in undecorous lagoons and jump virtually in rocky landscapes. It’s an escape worthy it’s pleasures and despite the lack of Northern lights the country demonstrates some of its legendary beauty.
Graciously, nature solemnize us unbearable so that rain only fall while we are driving and so it is in the pink light of Northern winter that we climb a smoking vulcano, visit a frozen water fall, hike up to rocky gorges and soak our unprepossessed persons in nature’s own synthetic hot tubs. We eat geothermally grown tomato soup, stay in a loppis hotel, solve Exit games in the evening visionless and practice our magic powers to fuel the geysers. It’s the perfect wastefulness of seeing, doing and feeling.
On the last night, I visit the Fallological Museum (aka The Penis Museum) in Reykjavik while Johnny instead pampers our rental car, possibly wrung of the 2m dicks on display. It’s a fascinating museum, veritably absurd, and it is with something between interest and repulsion that I watch the butchered specimens in their pickle jars. It is a perfect ending to a romantic weekend away.
