I went to Iceland in case you didn’t pick up on that from the 57,000 tweets, posts and declarations to assure you I was going and going alone.

And here I am, fucking blogging about it like the true basic bitch that I am. I do have to say, the first impression rose without a doubt goes to the Icelandic boy that helped me buy 4 bottles of wine at the duty free store at 5am before I even left the Keflavík airport. That was some truly non-judgmental shit. He gets it. Thanks, bro.

But let’s start from the beginning. “Why Iceland? What’s there?” Asks every single person I’ve ever met. Well like, a lot of cool shit I didn’t even know about until I bought the INSANELY cheap plane ticket from WOWAir (I’ll get to that, be patient). To be honest, someone mentioned it in passing and I was intrigued. I wanted my eyeballs to be exposed to the northern lights. Which I didn’t even actually get to see because Icelandic summers see no moonlight. The sun set around midnight and was alive and well before 5am every day. In the height of summer, darkness barely even exists. And the amount of daylight decreases by 6 minutes every single day in August.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. Talking about me. Right, so ICELAND. So far I haven’t spoken a word to anyone. Not even on my flight. I sat in the center seat (farm animal style) between two guys about my age, but none of us spoke a word. They slept. I read. They hate me, whatever, I’ve accepted it. Everyone was giving me shit for choosing the carrier WOWAir. I was actually REALLY impressed with them. Everything was purple and their staff was both knowledgeable and polite. They all dressed like they were from the 50s which was kind of weird, but ultimately the plane didn’t crash so do you WOWAir. Do you.

I collect my bag (THANK GOD IT MADE IT). Now what? First things first: buy alcohol. Check. Then what? Buy a bus ticket to Reykjavík because this airport is giving me the creeps and also literally everyone else on my flight is gone already because they aren’t alcoholics like me (at least not out loud). Fine. I can do this. The bus ticket dude spoke better English than I do, so that was a good sign. I paid him this silly amount of currency and escape (To note: 1 ISK is equivalent to 0.0076 US dollars so LOL). Even though it’s cloudy and raining, the scenic drive to Reykjavik is absolutely breathtaking. I noticed a guy on the bus was wearing a Dartmouth Rowing hat. Dartmouth and I have bad blood, and he was cute, so I kept my mouth shut and instead spoke briefly to this couple from New Zealand. We all discussed where we were from, where we were going and parted ways. So much for new friends.

I’m the last to be dropped off and arrive at my hostel at 6am. The sleepy little side streets are completely empty. Not one soul to be found. The door to get inside was locked, so I wandered around like a lost puppy for a minute before one of the staff peeped his head through the door and called me back. He explained absolutely nothing would be open until around 10, but I was more than welcome to set up camp in the lobby bar, Bunk. I can’t check into my room for about 8 hours, so I agree and he brings me some coffee (he was a sweet little bear). I haven’t slept in nearly 24 hours. He must’ve noticed. After a few minutes, an older woman joins us and explains she is due to be picked up for a day tour. Ann was from Vancouver (EVERYONE in Iceland is from Vancouver, by the way) and recently retired. She’s in Iceland for a week, alone like me, while her husband was on some biker tour (How do I sign up for a marriage like this). She offered a lot of encouraging advice about her multiple solo excursions over the years and about her trip thus far and I’m instantaneously a lot more at ease. She leaves and I decide it’s time to see some Icelandic shit. I store my suitcase in the tiniest, jankiest excuse for a closet I’ve ever seen and take off down the street. I quickly find myself at the harbor. I die inside a little bit, because holy shit the Atlantic is so beautiful. Mountains were in the background and it was perfectly picturesque. To my left I can’t help but notice the most beautiful and dramatic building I’d seen yet and one I’d been anticipating– the Harpa.

Let me get serious on you for one second: at this moment in time it hits me what the fuck I’ve done and realize my eyes are welling up with tears. I start in the direction of this marvelous concert hall, with the sun finally shining, and the colorful city of Reykjavik at my feet. I’m in fucking Iceland. Alone. And while there have been MANY moments over the past few months of me thinking to myself, “what have I DONE,” this is exactly what I never knew I wanted. I seriously cried, and I’m not saying that for effect. I’m so happy with myself that I’m realizing I’ve never smiled that hard in my life either. I smiled and sighed and until it hurt. I’m here.

The Harpa is right on the bay, open to the public during the day and then they have different shows and concerts at night. I was happy to have stumbled upon it so quickly. After lots of ooo’s and ahh’s I set back out to explore. I spent the rest of the morning stopping into different shops and cafes. I settled back at Bunk for some more coffee and finally got into my room at 2. As I’m settling in, my dude Kyle (from Vancouver) makes his entrance into my co-ed hostel. He’s young and friendly and eager. His hair is crazy. I love him instantly. We talk for a few minutes and agree to meet back up later that evening to partake in a traditional Icelandic Saturday night drunk fest. He had met a girl earlier during his stay (Courtney, FROM VANCOUVER, can you fucking believe it) and plans to meet up with her. Reykjavik is very well known for its nightlife. I’m finally understanding why nothing opens until 10am, because they were all out drinking until 6am.

I need food and Kyle needs a nap. I head downstairs to Bunk for something to eat and a beer. I sit down by a couple guys at the bar and no sooner I order, I found myself discussing American versus Icelandic politics with these guys and laughing about Donald Trump’s hair. The first native Icelandic people I’ve actually really spoken to other than “hey what’s up hello.” We talk and they’re lovely. We say our goodbyes, add each other on Facebook, and I head back to my room. After a little (a LOT) of wine, a shower and a nervous breakdown over my hairdryer and adapter, I wander down the street to Bar7 to meet Kyle, Courtney and our other bunk mate, Pierre (Ok, he’s from Paris not Vancouver). Honestly, the rest of the night is less than clear. There was a lot of alcohol and a lot of rain and bar hopping. Shout out to Pierre for being the bomb and ensuring I kept track of all my belongings. I think we got in around 4.

I woke up in the morning hungover but happy to have survived and not lost anything. What an epic first day. I win.

Day 2

I didn’t plan much in advance of my stay, I was advised to stay pretty flexible, so I have the whole day free. All I could think about was finding aspirin, coffee and food, so I set out for just that. Café Loki offers traditional Icelandic fare and Kyle wouldn’t shut up about the lamb soup in some bread bowl, so I decided to check it out. No bread bowl, but the “meat soup” was absolutely delicious. It was accompanied by traditional grilled flat bread with smoked lamb and some type of aioli-like spread. Talk about a hangover cure. So. Fucking. Good.

I finish and immediately notice the big ass church right behind me. The Hallgrimskirkja. The architecture is so dramatic around this city. There are people everywhere. I walk the inside of the church and quickly find the gift shop so I can purchase a ticket to get to the top. Which now I realize, no one even collected my damn ticket. Weird. Anyway, I get to the top and die. Wow. You can see the entire city. I take several pictures, try out my selfie stick and just marvel. I’m still trying to fathom that I’m actually here.

I make my way back down and for the first time I find myself feeling a little lonely. I’ve made it around to see multiple of the “must-see” landmarks, but I’m dying to SEE Iceland. I need to meet locals. So before you get all judgey on me, fuck off. I find the nearest café with wifi and take to Tinder. I learned that since Iceland’s population is so small, they keep a freakin’ book of family history and heritage to prevent incest-type of shit. That’s insanity. You can literally go to a website and look up a person you’re dating and see if you’re somehow related. Very strange. But I guess that’s a good thing. Tinder and dating websites are very popular among Icelanders I’m told, so I’m confident I’ll be able to meet SOMEBODY. Almost instantly I’m bombarded with curious natives and other solo travelers. I should’ve done this earlier. One guy particularly stands out. His name is Oskar and he’s Swedish and seems like he wouldn’t be the type to kill or rape me. We discuss the purpose of our trips and plan to meet at the popular bar Hurra at 1030. That’s hours from now, so I have plenty of time to peruse the rest of these streets I can’t pronounce. After some shopping (by shopping I mean picking things up, looking at the price, setting it down carefully and exiting the store before I break anything), I find myself back at the hostel. I need to shower. Shit, I was drunk when I did this last time. Public showers freak me out. I gather my things, put on my water shoes, man-up and go for it. Wasn’t so bad. I’m such a brat sometimes.

I get back to the room and Pierre is back from his day tour to the golden circle. He shows me his pictures from the day and I’m floored. I’m not a touristy person. I’d rather explore on my own, talk to people, see where I end up. But this…..this I gotta see. I jump on my computer and find the tour he’s talking about. There were several, but I picked the Michael Jordan of day trips that included multiple stops in addition to the golden circle, including a popular geothermal spa. It’s going to take the entire day, so I ensure alcohol will be available to me during the trip and fork over my credit card information. Done. Now I need food. I somehow had to remind myself about this several times throughout the trip.

I start in the way of the bar I’m going to be meeting Oskar at later. I also know that the flat I’m moving into the next day is close by, so I aim to familiarize myself with that area of town. I find a super chic restaurant called Uno. I step inside and it’s filled with people. The host informs me they’re out of tables, but I can eat in the lounge if I’d prefer. The lounge appears to be way better and less crowded, so I agree. I browse the menu and don’t recognize any of the beers on draft, so I ask the waiter for a suggestion. IPAs are impossible to find here and when you order one, the Icelandic server/bartender stares at you like you’ve just eaten their first born. You people are missing out, but whatever, you also eat fermented (rotten) shark and LIKE it, so we’re square.

I settle for a local lager from Borg and an Americano. Every night around 9 I’d hunker down at some pub and order both. Old age is no freakin’ joke. Everything on the menu is horribly expensive, but I’m not out of money yet (it’s only night 2) so I select a house specialty: liver pâté with bacon. I don’t know, maybe it’ll be like a burger? I’m not a picky eater and I guess I was feelin’ myself that night. It comes and it tastes exactly how it sounds. I don’t hate it, but I’m not loving it. So I stick with my beer and find the waiter to pay. Gratuity is always included in your tab in Iceland, so that made life easier a lot of the time. Also, wait-staff isn’t DOWN YOUR FUCKING THROAT the entire meal or asking if you need anything every 4 seconds. I get it, you want a good tip, but take a breath. Jesus. We should adopt this concept of including tip. Like, math is hard.

Anyway, I pay and head to Hurra. Multiple people have mentioned this bar is THE place, so I’m excited to finally make it in. It’s perfection. It’s Alley bar but bigger and with a stage. And beers are 850kr. (about 6.50), which is the cheapest I’ve found so far, so I’m into it. It’s a little early for my meeting, so I grab a beer and hope there’s wifi so I can somehow take a few minutes to combat all the texts/WhatsApp messages from my dad asking if I’m still alive and why am I not answering him. There is, and I discover a new message on Tinder from a guy named Svirrir. What in the hell? Why? None of those letters should ever be formulated like that ever. How do you even begin to pronounce that? Anyway, he’s curious about my travels and explains he’s bartending at “American Bar” until close (like, LOL, yes, I’ll be there) and that I should stop by and check it out later. He also doesn’t give any impression that he might rape or kill me, so I tell him I’ll try and swing by on my way back to the hostel. Ok, so, making new friends is going pretty well. Yay me. Before long, Oskar appears and I recognize him immediately. He’s tall and slender and impeccably dressed. European as shit. Can you give these American guys a hand please? He explains he works at corporate headquarters at H&M (anyone else know this company is Swedish? Me either) and is stopping over in Iceland before a two-week vacation in Toronto with friends. That explains why he’s dressed so well and I’m dressed like a farm animal straight from Indiana. Neat. We engage in small talk and all the usual “get-to-know-you” questions, but before long it’s getting late and he has an early flight out of town in the morning. We say our goodbyes and I head for the hostel. Quite the “I Survived” story, I assure you. American Bar is on the way, so I step inside. It’s almost closing time and there’s only one person at the bar, and a guitar player playing some 90’s anthems; I briefly feel like I’m at home. Touché, American Bar. I spot Svirrir behind the bar and choose a stool at the end. Does he recognize me? What do I fucking say now? “Uh. Hey. I’m the chick from Tinder, so.” Also, he’s incredibly good-looking, so cue the anxious idiot inside me. The “feelin’ myself” vibe from earlier is somehow still coursing through my veins, so I bravely assume he knows it’s me and make a smart-ass comment. His Icelandic accent is thick, but his English is fabulous (as most Icelanders’ are I’ve noticed) and he knows me. Embarrassment averted for now. We talk a little bit and he says after he closes the bar, he thinks he knows a place that might still be open. Is this where I die? Who knows for sure, but I’ve had a couple beers and if it is, whatever. When in Rome, I guess.

I shift my attention to the guitar player and start making requests. John Mayer of course. He dually accepts every challenge I throw at him (even some obscure Mayer tunes) and I’m freakin’ impressed. That ‘Neon’ guitar line is nasty, but you nailed it, guitar dude. Bravo. Before I know it, the lights are out and Svirrir escorts me out the door. It’s starting to drizzle, but we head down the street. One of his friends works at Foss hotel (super nice place) and he’s sure he’ll let us in. It’s about a mile walk, but despite the drizzle it’s beautiful outside. Some small talk and a couple quick turns and we’re in the lobby. He spots his friend and makes an Icelandic exchange with him. What in the shit are you guys talking about? It pains me to even attempt to speak some of these phrases. I assume he’s saying something like, “Found this obviously psycho American, any ideas on how to get rid of her?” or something like that. The bar is closed, but Svirrir took a couple beers from his bar, so we seat ourselves in the lobby and talk for a while longer. Shit. It’s 2:30am. He starts classes in the morning, and I’ve been awake for entirely too long. We leave the hotel and he walks me back to the main street where I’m staying. We agree to try and meet up again before I leave town and say goodbye. By the time I’m back at the hostel, it’s 3 and everyone’s already asleep. They all hate me anyway, I’m American, so I’m not too worried that my coming in late is making it any worse. Another day in the books and I’m still alive.

Day 3

I’m awake surprisingly early and realize today is the day I’m moving into my private flat, back down by Uno and Hurra. I shoot a quick email to my hosts and see if it’s possible to check-in sooner than the 2pm time we agreed on. I have to check out of my hostel at 11 and that leaves me with a couple hours without bag storage. Should’ve planned for that better, but I’m fucking lazy, so why would I ever burden myself with that? Birna responds almost immediately and says it can probably be ready around 1. That’s better than 2, so I thank her and try and figure out a place to eat. I head down the street to this bakery that’s been packed every single time I’ve tried it, but force my way inside and find a table. I attempt to order but the Icelandic waitress insists I need the Danish with the “vanilla cream center” so whatever dude, just bring the goods. And the Americano. It comes really quickly and HOLY SHIT this bitch was not playin’. Best danish of my life. I’m not even a danish person, like what’s with all the flakey shit? It makes a mess and I can’t stand it when people lick food off of their hands and ugh. Just no. But this danish….it made me want to pull some Oprah type shit. I had to have downed it in record time. I wanted to sit around and lick the plate clean, but it was almost time to casually walk all my shit a mile down the road. Time to suit up. I find the God-waitress, pay her, and weep as I exit.

The hostel I was staying at was dope AF and let me store my bag in that janky, tea cup size closet while I went to breakfast. Sweet bears. I collect my bag and start walking toward my new place. I’m panicky because there is like LITERALLY four pages of instructions on how to get the hell into this place. I find it, no problem. It’s cute already. There’s an easy keypad to open the first door. Obstacle one complete. The flat is on the top floor (because life hates me) so I drag my 44lb bag up 5 flights of stairs and find the door with the 5 on it. Yay. Obstacle two complete. After about 3 minutes of staring at, 5 minutes of feeling around, and a solid minute of fighting back tears, I finally open the contraption that holds my keys. SCORE. Obstacle three complete. Mission accomplished. I open the door and DIE INSIDE. It’s amazing. The cutest little apartment you ever did see. Seriously. So, I proceed to take 68 snapchats and 97 pictures and send it to all my closest friends and then quickly unpack. The window is open and it’s a perfect day. High 50s and sunny as can be. Is this really my life? I’m stoked to take a shower that doesn’t require Mission Impossible style procedure, so I indulge in that luxury immediately. Public showers remind me of the summer camp I never went to because ew.

I spend the tail-end of the afternoon knocking out the rest of my in-town sightseeing and try to do some shopping. This was a mistake. Everything in Reykjavik IS SO EXPENSIVE. Hilariously expensive. As if 9-11$ beers aren’t sassy enough, these boutiques have around 4 items under $100 and they’re all the employees laughing you out of the store. Small fee. I decide to bail and head back toward my flat and figure out some sort of food situation. I get back home into wifi land and find a Tinder message from Piero. Piero is from New York and American, but also his name is Piero, so that’s somewhat questionable. He’s cute and seems harmless (as they all do, go figure) in spite of some tacky, cheap comments he makes along the way and asks me to meet him at a popular bar called Prikkid. I agree against my better judgement. Now, let me preface what’s about to happen with this: I get it. I get it, world. I get why you all hate, loathe and despise Americans. This could also be why I’ve seriously considered batting for the other team multiple times. Self-important douche lords like Piero are why.

I walk into Prikkid and I can spot him from across the room and he isn’t alone. Am I in a fucking frat house? Chill OUT with your tweed sweater, cocky half-smile and head nod in my direction. I’m already so over you I could puke. I order a beer to get myself through what I know is about to happen. “Maybe I’m being judgey,” I think to myself. No. How can one person suck so bad? First words out of his mouth: “Sooo, you didn’t bring a friend with you?” No, asshole, remember that time I said I was doing a solo trip for the first time and was looking to meet some people since I’ll be around all week? Oh yeah, you forgot because you’re too busy calculating how you can get me into your bed. I hate you. ANYWAY. We discuss our week so far and compare stories. We talk about the weekend and how these Icelandic folk don’t mess around when they party. He starts telling me about their Saturday and proceeds to explain how he was “so ready to fuck this faggot up” for bumping into him or something, I’m not sure, I drank like 2 more beers to assuage the pain of this nightmare and stopped listening. I find myself engaging his friend more; he’s actually a regular human being that can have a conversation without constant sexual innuendos, you know, the hard stuff. Piero grows annoyed and “needs a cigarette, man” so he excuses himself. Can this be over now? When he returns, his mood has totally changed. He’s bored by me. I welcome the opportunity to escape, pay for my beer and head home. My day tour is in the morning and I’m dying to sleep in privacy.

Day 4

I wake up extremely early (almost with the sun, around 4:30am) and pack a bag for my day tour of the Golden Circle. As I’m leaving, I go to close my door and the HANDLE FALLS OFF. Why is this happening to me now? I mess around with it for a while and quickly fumble it back together. It’s locked, so it’s going to have to work for now, and I head out the door. Out of sight out of mind. So The Golden Circle includes Geysir and Strokkur geysers, Gullfoss waterfall, and Þingveiller National Park and rift valley. None of these words you can’t pronounce (all of which I had to look up on Wikipedia) actually matter because, yeah, I saw all this shit and it was magical and breathtaking and “wow, ooo-ahh,” but this day was a day I’ll never forget for as long as I freakin’ live for another reason. Don’t you love moments like that? Certain smells or people or frames of memories just burned in your brain for good? It’s fucking fantastic. ANYWAY. My tour also included a stop at a secluded, famous geothermal spa and sauna to finish up the day. This I was stoked about because I figured I could hit this spa and avoid dropping cash on the Blue Lagoon and still not miss anything. While also not giving all my new Icelandic friends anymore reason to roll their eyes at my touristy American-ness. My entire day was blocked out until 8pm. I stopped to get some coffee and found the bus stop for my tour’s pick-up. A quick bus ride, and I was taken to the “headquarters” where multiple day tours are minutes from departure. I fumble around with my ticket and see several buses are for the Golden Circle, but have the tour guides speaking different languages. I debated whether or not to get on the German bus, but figured it wouldn’t be as fun without alcohol, so I found the English bus and boarded.

I find a seat (two seats because I’m American and need all the space) and await departure. People are pouring into the bus and I notice a lady sits down with a dude behind me, gets settled and then gets up and picks a different seat. I hear the guy behind me mumble “ok, well I guess I smell.” Of course I laugh because I’m 9, and turn to him and offer my appreciation for his sense of humor. We chat for a bit and I find out he’s here with his whole family from New York. The bus continues to fill, so I move back into the recently vacated seat next to him and quickly we’re on our way. The tour guide’s voice is what nightmares are made of, so I didn’t pay much attention to the commentary and instead learned about this new friend to my left. We discussed the tour and looked through the pamphlet of others and mentioned a few things he was excited about seeing on our tour, but none of them rang a bell, so I just smiled and nodded like an asshole. After about an hour drive of beautiful scenery and more places I can’t pronounce, the guide explains we’ve arrived at our first destination. A tomato farm.

Now wait. We’re where? But where are the glaciers? Where are the waterfalls? Why the fuck did I spend $90 to see a tomato farm? Because I didn’t. I got on the wrong FUCKING bus. That’s why ol’ boy was rattling off all these things he’s excited about and I had no idea what he was talking about. Joy. Fortunately this tomato farm is serving cocktails at 9am, so I find my way to the bar. As I’m ordering, I notice this super attractive guy laugh under his breath as I confirm with the waitress that I DO in fact want the alcoholic version of their FRESH Bloody Mary, not the virgin, at the ripe hour of 9am. He had one too, I noticed. So it’s not just me. I sit down with my $13 cocktail (worth every penny) and start noticeably and loudly laughing at myself, while snapping selfies and confirming my Americanism to all around me. Two minutes hadn’t passed and I hear a male voice call to me, “I couldn’t help but overhear on the bus you said…” and he finishes with something, but I can’t even remember the words because the super attractive male specimen from before was ACKNOWLEDGING ME. Why? Why didn’t I wear make-up today? I sort of stumble through a laugh and collect myself. We exchange a couple more questions and I invite him to sit with me. I explain my “wrong bus” situation and soon we’re laughing loudly, ignoring the tour guide and everything around us, forming an instantaneous bond. Adam is in his final year at Brooklyn Law School. An NYC native, he was at the tail end of his 3-week long trip visiting a unique collection of cities and countries, most recently coming from Morocco and Portugal. He too was traveling alone and is in Reykjavik for two short days. He leaves for New York tomorrow.

We board the bus and head to our next SURPRISE destination. After about 40 minutes, we arrive at Strokkur, a geothermal geyser, which actually turned out to be a part of the Golden Circle, so the whole day won’t be an entire loss. It’s cloudy and rainy, so many of my pictures aren’t worthy of how cool this shit was. The tour guide warned us to not fucking get near the shit, because it most definitely will burn you. However, by the time it actually “erupts” and hits the ground, it’s safe. We get off the bus and start the trek up a small mountain (a hill really, probably, but fuck you this is my story). At first, not sure what we’re looking for, we just move in the direction of everyone else. There is a monstrous crowd of people staring at this hole in the ground. Bet that’s it. We opt to stand on the opposite side of everyone else and await this eruption, which happens every 6-8 minutes. As basic as I could possibly be, I whip out my iPhone and begin recording a series of nothingness with a short blast of this natural phenomenon. Call me crazy, but I’m not insanely impressed. The scenery is what is to be adored here. And also Adam’s perfect counters to my obnoxious commentary the entire time. They LEAVE us at this place for nearly two hours. So after spending an entire 5 minutes with this geyser, we head back down the MOUNTAIN (see?) to the gift shop/restaurant area for some food.

We get into the place and decide we’re going to need alcohol to get through this day. Adam explains there is this traditional shark dish he’s been wanting to try since he arrived. It’s quite literally rotten shark. It’s served with Iceland’s signature liquor, Brennivin. It’s an unflavored schnapps. Who thought this was a good idea? I still think it’s a sick joke they’re playing on Americans, but whatever. It sounds insane, so of course I’m into it. We see Brennivin happens to be available for purchase, so naturally, we buy some shooters and settle in for the next 1.5 hours.

After what feels like merely minutes, it’s time to board the bus to head to the next place. Gullfoss, another piece of the Golden Circle I quickly learn. It’s a shorter trip, but it’s starting to rain even harder and feels like it’s dropped a good 15 degrees. Yay, Iceland. With a little buzz, we head about a quarter mile down this rickety ass staircase. As I contemplate how *at one* with death I am, I finally notice where walking through the wind, rain, and Death Valley staircase has lead me. The most beautiful landscape I’ve seen since I arrived. We quickly travel down the narrow walkway, through the misty rain and Asian tourists, to the “top” of the waterfall. This is where I’m for sure Adam and I are going to probably fall in love and somehow run away together and like, some other classic love movie shit. We don’t. It’s too cold and wet and I’m a complainer, so we take some pictures (again, none will do this -ish justice) and we make our way back through the crowd to the bus. *Romance*.

We board the bus and soon arrive at our final destination for the day. The rain has cleared up (typical of Iceland weather; they tell you to plan for literally anything and it’s the truth) and the sun starts peeking out over a beautiful body of a water encompassing Þingveiller National Park (shout out to Google on that one). It’s here that I’m so glad I decided to go on this tour (even though it was the wrong one) and do something I told myself I wouldn’t.

On the bus ride home, I’m a little sad knowing that after a day full epic sightseeing and continuous laughter I’m going to have to tell this amazing human specimen that I’ve found goodbye. Ugh. Carbs. But to my surprise, Adam asks where I’m having the bus drop me and we both idiotically try to play it cool. Somehow coffee is discussed and of COURSE I know a place, so we exit the bus tour and walk to my nearby joint. The coffee hits us like a freight train and we’re anxious to plan the rest of our evening. I’d been dying to catch a show at the Harpa all week, but hadn’t made it over yet. They’ve had a comedy show happening, “How to Become Icelandic in 60 Minutes” so…duh. We make the short walk over to the building I’ve been admiring all week from afar and settle into one of the theatres. Like, omg, is this a date? The show actually turns out to be hilarious and I’m glad I waited until I’d experienced some of Iceland first before seeing it—a lot of the jokes actually made sense and holy shit the stereotypes are SO true (Sorry, Svirrir). Although it’s nearing 9pm, it’s still awesomely light outside.

Adam won’t shut up about this “Icelandic traditional” rotten shark situation, and of course he’s done his research so we end up at one of the nicest restaurants in town. Also, anything 4 U Adam. It’s off the beaten path and it’s starting to rain again, but we endure. They’re booked initially, so we put in our names for a reservation in an hour and find a spot nearby to drink away our apprehension.

We talk and laugh and surely we’re in love and stuff, and the alcohol is definitely helping. We play the whole “so do you ACTUALLY like what you do for a living or nah” game and quickly we’re exploring the depths of each other’s true passions. Like I said, L O V E. I realize it’s been nearly an hour, so let’s get this shark-fest show on the road. We’re seated at a table for 4 and we’re stoked because we both have our enormous backpacks with us. And of course as we’ve established already, we’re American, give us all the space. Hi waiter, bring us all the alcohol. He does and Adam makes his inquiry about the shark: “So, how is it prepared?” The waiter shifts his attention to me and then back to Adam and simply says, “It’s hung in a warehouse for a year. And then we bring it to you on a plate.” Bravo. We’ll take 11, thanks. Additionally, we browse the menu and select an order of the puffin, the whale sashimi, and another Icelandic staple ‘hashed fish’. The waiter describes it as Icelandic mac + cheese. Judge me all you want about eating the whale and puffin. They’re overpopulated, so it’s neither illegal nor absurd and WHEN IN ROME, FUCK OFF. Everything comes out together and we find that the entire room is watching us in anticipation as we try the shark. It’s absolutely terrible. Like, so bad we don’t even finish half of it and make the waiter take it away from the table. We drink the Brennivin as fast as we can to make it stop. The puffin and whale, however, are delicious and the hashed fish is totally how the waiter described it. We’re beyond fat and happy with the rest of our meal. We finish with Irish coffees and then quickly remember we have to pay for all this shit. The bill comes and we can’t read any of it, so we hand over our cards and hope for the best.

Now where?

Adam has another idea about a swanky little bar he heard was the –ish. How does he know about all these obscure places? How did he know I need someone in my life to make all the executive decisions? How does he feel about a fall wedding, but nothing flashy? We walk in and I’m so sad that I hadn’t been in sooner. It’s perfect. The upstairs is closed off, but it’s surprisingly packed for this late on a weeknight. It’s dark and there’s a DJ, but not a terrible American DJ, like a legit dude playing music that’s actually relevant and not “chopped and screwed.” We have a couple drinks (shots, Jameson, straight per Adam’s request) and the place is quickly BUMPIN’ with people. We close out and make our move to another bar before closing time. We decide on Hurra, the go-to of the week. It’s a bit of a walk, but the rain finally stopped and the sun has finally sunk into the sky. No complaints from me. It’s Tuesday and everything closes around 1am, so we’re running short on time. They don’t have any bands playing, but it’s a lot less crowded. We stay until we realize we’re the last ones left in the bar. Ok, so, remember my janky ass door handle? In my drunken attempt to flirt, I turn on my damsel in distress game face (I honestly can’t even imagine how annoying this must’ve looked to innocent bystanders–kill me) and explain how it broke on my way out the door this morning. I live around the corner and close to a liquor store, and he’s still in the 99 percentile of non-serial killer, so we concoct a plan to move the party to my flat so he can “take a look,” aka prolong our goodbyes even further. Ugh. We get upstairs and Adam immediately gets to work on fixing my door handle with what might’ve as well been paper clips and construction paper and somehow it works! Bonus points. Before we know it it’s close to 3am and he REALLY has to go. He grabs my face in his hands and makes me promise to ride the Icelandic horses before I leave the city and ensures that I know he had one of the best days of his life (<3!!!~!~!~ *same* !~!~!~!!!<3). And with the close of my now fully functioning door, he’s gone. No last name. No contact exchange. Just…..gone. Like its 1975 or something.

Day 5

I wake up the next morning a lot more sad than the alcohol had allowed for the night before. It’s my last full day in Reykjavik, but I’m confused as to how I’m supposed to get through it without Adam from Brooklyn Law (how he will now forever be remembered as/referred to) there to counter my every asshole remark. I immediately remember my promise and jump on my computer to reserve a spot for the Icelandic horses later in the day. I have a couple hours, so I shower, get ready and fumble through my phone since I haven’t peeked at it since before yesterday’s events and HOLY SHIT. Both my dad and sister think I’m dead and somehow the world is ending. SORRY FAMILY I WAS JUST IN LOVE ALL DAY, LET ME LIVE. I continue to ignore them and catch up on current events (pregnancy, engagement, *blessed* announcements I’ve missed) and head to the pick-up location for my horsey-ride tour. There aren’t many others on my bus, so we show up to the facility a good hour before the tour starts. Naturally, I find the bar. I’ve barely gotten it open when Olga the Mayor of Buzzkill City comes over to me and frantically asks if I’m scheduled to do a tour today. Well, Olga, I certainly didn’t come here for the rickety-ass architecture (horse shit infused barn) or for the thrill of the bus ride, so yes, I’m going to be taking a tour today. Apparently they don’t NORMALLY allow for guests to consume alcohol before riding the horses, but Olga made an exception for me after I explained that I drink beers like my father in the sense that “now you see it, *3 minutes pass*, now you don’t” and I’d be fine. I’m a professional. Anyone else ever been reprimanded by a jumbo jockey in stirrup pants? It was a first for me too.

The hour passes (and looky! I’m not wasted!) and after some routine safety instruction, they assign us to our noble steeds. A little fun fact: Icelandic horses are of the purest descent. If any horse leaves the island for any particular reason, it is never allowed back in. Likewise, no other horse of any kind is permitted into the country, because like, she doesn’t even go here. It’s to my understanding there are nearly 100,000 pure bred Icelandic horses on the island total and they take this super seriously. If anyone had been near or around any livestock in like, ever in their life, they have a separate showering facility they make you use beforehand to prevent contaminating the horses. This is not a drill. They cray. Also, it’s THE most beautiful day: high 50s and the sunshine is outstanding, the best it’s been so far this whole trip. Wishing I could’ve been more intoxicated for this, I reluctantly mount this beautiful…..thing (they told me her name, but LOL at me trying to remember or spell it). I haven’t ridden a horse since Vietnam, so it surely was a sight to be unseen for many. I purchased the hour-long tour, because no way in hell would I have survived the 4-hour excursion. By the time we had finished, my knees were numb from bending in ways they shouldn’t ever bend and my ass hadn’t felt so violated since….well, we won’t go there. I’m the only one returning back to the inner city, so after a quick trip, I’m back on the strip.

There are a couple things I’m still wanting to knock out before the day’s over and before I have to go back home (*TEARS*) tomorrow, but first I want to spite Olga, Head Bitch so I find the closest place with both beer and wifi and settle in. I check my phone and my favorite little monkey Pierre (from my hostel) peaks my interest with an invitation to explore a local tattoo parlor. Am I really that predictable? Apparently. He had something in mind already and I’m pretty good at coming up with shit on the spot, so I inherently agree to meet him at Chuck Norris bar (yeah, that was a thing, go America). A couple streets over, we find the best place in town via 2 minutes of google searching (ha ha ha) and they’re completely booked. Neat. So we decide to traipse the city and burn some daylight instead. Pierre is lovely: well-spoken, intelligent, handsomely French and he also hates Americans and everything we stand for. It’s fascinating, really. However, over the week we’ve formed this bond and I have a good feeling I’ll see him again one day. Probably in Paris when I go there to visit and have to stalk him to make him hang out with me……

…….Anyway, we do some window shopping and indulge in multiple desserts (#fitfam) and finally end up at Lebowski bar for a nightcap of ELEVEN DOLLAR FUCKING GUINESS. Like, GTFO with these prices. When I get home, before I do anything else, I’m marching my ass to Alley bar and buying a $2.50 Coors just to reinstate my sanity. I’m so poor now.

I check my phone inside the bar before I leave and I have a message from Admir (Ado), this beautiful male specimen I’ve been messaging back and forth throughout the week, but our schedules conflicted so we never got a chance to meet. Ado is Spanish transplant. He’s a professional triathlete and moved to Reykjavik to, put it lightly, “change it up.” Cool, can I have your life? It’s nearly 11pm, but he’s finally free from work and offers to meet me at the church. I agree, because YOLO. I’m about 4-5 blocks away, so I say my final goodbye to Pierre and make my way up the colorful street. It’s dark, but I can see the lights of the church and there isn’t one soul around to accompany me. One of my favorite things about Reykjavik is how safe I felt at all times. I’d be walking home close to 4am some nights and felt safer than some parts of Bloomington in broad daylight. I arrive first and find myself completely entranced by this beautiful piece of architecture before me. Everything is dark except for the few spotlights illuminating the face of the building. I’ve already been here, but something about seeing it empty is humbling. Soon Ado arrives wearing a red jacket as promised, and we’re quickly making our way down a street I hadn’t explored yet. It’s pretty late, and it’s a weeknight so there aren’t many other people out. We’re talking and each learning about the other, but we’re careful to keep to a whisper. We’ve been walking a few minutes and in the distance I notice the Harpa is dancing with neon lights. I hadn’t noticed this all week. It’s beautiful. Ado is surely jaded by this event, but I’m dying to catch it in motion so we linger long enough so I can get a couple videos because ‘Merica. We continue our walk through the city, always taking the backstreets. Ado knows his way around and knows how to avoid the hustle and bustle. Why did it take us all week to meet? He talks about his family and his reasons for coming to Iceland, of all places. He’s marvelously deep, which I absolutely adore. His English is outstanding, although often a little broken, which I find to be endearing, but we somehow are able to easily connect. In Spain, like many other European countries, they learn a lot of English via the television and subtitles, so it’s still fascinating to me how fluidly we’re able to communicate and relate. He doesn’t drink (athletes actually take this wild phenomenon seriously) and nothing’s really open at this hour. We realized we’ve made a loop and we’re near Ado’s studio and I HAVE TO PEE so we stop into his place. He insists on my privacy and waits literally outside until I’m finished taking a piss. This is why women love European men, FYI (okay, the accent also definitely fucking helps). And while I’m actually having a wonderful time and conversation with this complete stranger, the adult in me is yelling for me to get home. I have a date with the Blue Lagoon on my way out of town in the morning (yeah, I caved, remember how I fucked up my first tour) and I need to be competent enough to pack and make it to the airport afterward. Ado leans in to kiss me goodbye and hark, he gets a nosebleed (I cannot make this shit up). I can’t tell whether I should be feelin’ myself or mortified at this occurrence, but it’s happening. What a story for the kids, right? After a lot of laughter and a darling explanation about how this happens to him often, I try my best to alleviate his embarrassment/frustration (I pick my nose frequently in front of people without giving any shits, so I’m unfamiliar with this feeling). He’s definitely going to kill me for telling that story (Sorry, Ado!!!! Xoxo).

After a very long goodbye and mildly planning a tentative trip to Granada, I’m headed back to my flat. It’s very late and the streets are completely empty. I’m about ¾ mile from home, but I’m actually sort of bummed it isn’t farther. I’ve learned to love and look forward to my solo walks around the city at this hour. Knowing I’m leaving for good in a matter of hours, I walk slow and take the long way around. There’s no doubt about it, this place has changed me and I haven’t even figured out all the ways yet.

Day who cares

I wake up more sad than the day before and the rain outside matches my mood. I finish packing and use the few minutes I have to just glare out the window. I came here over packed, stressed and anxious and I’m leaving with 10 page-long list of new friends, memories, mistakes, and resfeber. I don’t think I’ll travel with anyone else ever again. I was crafted to do things like this and I had no idea. Racking my brain, trying to conjure up excuses for how I can explain working abroad to my dad, I cross the street with my things and wait for my bus. It’s right on time and soon we’re making the 40-ish minute trip to the Blue Lagoon. This was the second attraction that caught my eye when planning (drunkenly buying a plane ticket) this trip. Most blogs I read said it was a “must-see”, but after getting into the city and talking to locals, I found out that it’s wildly touristy and overpriced. Yet here I am. Honestly, it just worked out well with my departure schedule, so I opted for the cheapest package and at the absolute worst, I could at least say I’d been there. As we’re pulling up to this secluded factory-looking facility, I’m confused AF. Where are we? Did I fuck this up AGAIN? No. It just looks like a freaking manufacturing plant from hell on the outside. We form a line to check our travel bags and finally make our way into the lobby. I’m already annoyed at this—I hate touristy shit as it is, but this is like Disneyland on crack. Somehow my entrance voucher is a VIP of sorts, so I skip the line and buy a towel for like 15 bucks, cringe, and head to the locker room. They’re SUPER serious about cleanliness so they make you strip down and take a shower before getting into the lagoon area, and don’t skip out because they’ve got freakin’ security happening for this shit. I get it, but can I shower without you watching me? I’ve done this once or twice before, I don’t necessarily need your help, m’am. Seriously, “when ur scared….” Has never felt more applicable than in this moment.

At this point it’s reaaaallly raining, so I check out the bar (I’m out of jokes for why I need alcohol). Drinks are even more obscenely priced than usual, so I decided to do something sober for once. I walk outside and there are probably close to 100 people already in this thing. I want to tell them all to get some chill, because we are NOT in Mexico. It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. There are swim-up bars, but there’s nothing tropical about this place. I officially don’t get it—the Blue Lagoon isn’t even a natural hot spring, contrary to popular belief. It’s the “result of runoff from the plant next door.” Like WTF are we all doing here!?!?!? Who the hell knows what kind of chemicals we’re subjecting our insanely clean bodies to, but fuck it, it’s pretty right!? God, humans are assholes. Anyway, so I get in. I found a secluded place on the backside where I could avoid others at all costs. It felt like a giant Jacuzzi that I was sharing with other people. I’m totally not impressed by this. Laughing at myself for not going with my gut to skip out on this place, I head back to the locker room to abandon ship ASAP. Buses to Keflavík leave every hour, on the hour, so I quickly try and make the next ride out. There’s still a few hours before my flight, and I have the disease where I have to be 11 hours early to everything.

I make it to the airport and the excitement comes to an end. I have to get on a plane and go home and I’m shitty about it. The end.