Surreal Iceland

I’m on a guided tour with 15 strangers, and only once in eight days does anyone say, “That reminds me of,” or “That’s just like,” because there’s nothing that compares with Iceland. With its geysers and glaciers, volcanoes and waterfalls surrounded by beautifully barren icefields, Iceland is the closest you’ll get to being on another planet without leaving this one.

Hiking to the extinct volcanic crater of Eldborg we can’t help ourselves say “this reminds me of” Close Encounters of the Third Kind, where Richard Dreyfus’ character builds a mountain so the spaceship can land. Iceland is surreal.

Its otherworldliness has inspired writers, composers, poets, and photographers. The Viking sagas, Tolkien’s Middle-earth, Jules Verne’s Center of the Earth, Wagner’s Ring, Auden’s Letters from Iceland. Lurking around every bend another spectacular scene from Game of Thrones comes to mind, along with clichés like awesome and amazing, jaw­-dropping and breathtaking. Everything is Einstök—unique.

Our guide, Höskuldur Jónsson, AKA Husky is a geology buff – bonus. Like every Icelander under 50, he is fluent in English and Viking. We learn that Iceland has twice as many sheep and one horse for every four humans; definitely more puffins (adorable, shouldn’t have eaten it) than people and probably more waterfalls. And he always thinks ahead. Before driving to Glacier Lagoon, Husky checks the weather conditions. There isn’t much ice so we ditch the optional boat tour and instead stop at a lagoon just as an iceberg breaks and we’re grappling for words to describe the immense power.

Little differences set this island apart. For instance, Kevlavik airport has a duty­-free shop for arrivals where Icelanders stock up on beer and spirits; McDonalds came and went; and at thermal pools you have to shower before putting on your bathing suit.

Reykjavik is known as the hippest city in Europe. Vinyl and vintage shops line cobblestone streets and cool coúee shops abound. There are shops selling Icelandic wool sweaters, shops selling books and sweaters, and shops selling history books about sweaters. But only the tourists wear woollen sweaters—Icelanders wear layers of trendy designer gear.

On the way to the airport we stop at the Blue Lagoon (book ahead), where Valkyries—female deities in Norse mythology—turned into swans and visited hot springs for their restorative powers. We settle for a silica mud face mask, slowly swim up to the bar for cocktails and for the next few hours wallow in the milky opaque water, simmering with silica, algae and minerals.

Icelanders have a way of looking at things, as did their Viking ancestors. Like bizarre boulders created by cooled lava. Understandable how the elves and trolls came to live in these formations. I ask Husky if he’s a believer. He smiles, knowingly.