Reykjavik: Dritter Tag.

There were several Important Matters to be tackled on our final day in the Great Green North. The first was breakfast, which the guesthouse was happy to take care of. The second was the National Museum of Iceland, which we visited via all the silly birds at the lake. Duck butts. They are so hilarious. I just can't get over them.

This is one of my favorite pictures from this three-day adventure. (See below.)

The museum was pretty enjoyable. We thought that it focused too heavily on the Christian side of Icelandic (I wrote Islamic at first) history instead of the Viking history and country's original traditions, but it was interesting nonetheless. One of my favorite facts was that out of the 24 people convicted and executed for sorcery during their personal period of witch hunting, 23 were men. The other was a duck. (Just kidding.)

Next on our list of Icelandic goodness to be experienced was swimming in a geothermally heated pool. All the locals I'd spoken to on the matter had said to avoid the touristy Blue Lagoon at all cost, or rather - to avoid cost, and go for a dip in one of the equally-wonderful and dirt cheap local pools instead. We found the one nearest to our guesthouse and walked over in the chilly grayness. The set-up of the place looked just like most other public pool establishments in the world. There was an indoor pool for diving, swimming, and other such pooling shenanigans, and then outside on the balcony were two steam pools, called "hot pots." Each pool was set to a particular temperature, one at 39 degrees Celsius and the other at 42 degrees, which is about 108 degrees Fahrenheit. We popped ourselves into the latter and let the steaming hot natural mineral soak do its business. I could immediately feel the heat and the... I'll call it "thickness" for lack of a better word, the thickness of the water pressing down on my body from all angles. My arms nestled themselves straight out in front of me in the water when I let them float. It was quite a feeling, but not one that my body could handle for long. After about ten minutes I felt like I was going to pass out, so we hopped back out and sat on deck chairs for a while in the gray chilliness, which suddenly didn't feel chilly anymore.

Considering the adventures still to come, we decided to treat the insides of our bodies to hot chocolate in a cafe rather than numb the outsides any longer in geothermal deliciousness. The next scene change brought us to a ranch outside the city, where we mounted Icelandic horses and toured the surrounding lava fields around a sleepy volcano for about an hour.

I hadn't ridden a horse for many a year, but thankfully my host, a handsome red creature named Guster (pronounced Goo-stuh-tongue trill), was pretty mellow and used to the trails. We rode in a caravan of about 20 horses. I stayed at the end of the line to catch photos, which, as it turns out, is rather difficult to do while one is holding the reins of a bouncing beast. I couldn't really capture the feel and wild beauty of the miles and miles of lava fields, all blooming with purple, yellow, and white flowers, as well as the incredible clouds and sun on the mountains in the distance. I also couldn't really believe I was riding an Icelandic horse through Icelandic lava fields in Iceland.

Here's a photo that Sarah took of me riding back onto the ranch, dust jacket awry.

National Muesum: check. Geothermal steam pools: check. Icelandic horseback riding: check. Sampling traditional Icelandic cuisine: let's do this business.

Sarah was brave enough to try the combo plate with items such as "fish mash" and "sheep's head jelly," while I stuck with smoked trout on homemade rye bread. Ladies and Gentlemen, I am here to inform you that the most delicious rye bread in the world is found in Iceland. It was incredible - much like gingerbread without the ginger. For a moment I debated leaving half of my suitcase possessions in the guesthouse in favor of a suitcase full of loaves, but decided otherwise thanks to the wise deliberation help of my travel buddy, and went for the rye bread ice cream instead. I hoped the deliciousness would never end, but then it did.

Once that had been accomplished, we wandered back downtown to check out a couple last things before delightfully diving into sleep, but were distracted once again by majestic mountains peeking out from the periphery.


Once the clouds rolled over and covered the distance in shadow, we slowly made our way home via the city center, where I spent the rest of my Icelandic Kroner on chocolate for the trip home.

Natural steam from the ground under a city square, complemented by a storm trooper motorcyclist in the background.

(No photographic travel accounting would be complete without a photo of a native feline.)

I had to catch the shuttle to the airport around eight the next morning, so my dear Sarah helped lug my stuff back to the bus station and saw me off on my way. The bus ride back to the airport was just as entrancing going the other way and I sped through the check-in business without delay. The next thing I knew, I was on a plane surrounded by people speaking English with American accents flying thirty-something thousand feet about the earth, direction southwest. My window seat didn't show me too much until we reached the southern tip of Greenland, which was not, in fact, green. At all. However, it did look completely glorious. (Ironically, the song that just started playing on my computer was Andrew Bird's "Dear Old Greenland.")

After Greenland came what looked like endless Canadian wilderness, which eventually turned into Maine, beautiful Maine. My nose was glued to the window the whole time as my eyes searched out familiar landmarks, landscapes. I didn't recognize any in particular, but it was just as pure and pristine and I had remembered it. Melancholy ensued, which was soon followed by Boston.

We landed at Logan after only five hours in the air. The airport was relatively quiet at noon on a Monday. I was immediately struck by the "Welcome to the United States" video that was played at all the people waiting in line at passport control, displaying happy smiling faces and homes of idealized and ethnically diverse Americans. It was schmultzed up to a degree of patriotism that made me feel uncomfortable. This feeling was somewhat alleviated by the friendly guard that stamped my passport and welcomed me back to the States, which felt to me more genuine than the welcome video had been.

I retrieved my suitcase (the one not full of delicious Icelandic rye bread) and made my way through the arrivals gate without pomp or circumstance. A taxi took me to the home of some very fine friends in Watertown, who weren't actually home but had generously lent me their most hospitable residence for my 18-hour layover. Once the key had been located, my luggage lugged, and the door closed once again to keep me from the great American outdoors a little longer, I lay on the floor amongst my things, feeling completely exhausted and completely grateful for being where I was. Danke, takk, thank you, thank you, thank you.

More reflectioning to come.