I'd read that in Iceland that they'd had one murder in 35 years. I also thought that I could work six months packing fish to earn enough to write six months without the worry of a day job.
They rejected me but I never stopped wanting to see Iceland.
Then earlier in this decade afraid the dream would be the proverbial dried raisin in the sun, I decided to go.
My housemate asked if she could come. Yes, yes and more yes.
Tour or on our own?
I never really liked the idea of tours, but why not--it would guarantee that we would learn things we might miss otherwise. And if we didn't like the others on the tour, we could make fun of them when we were alone at night. As it turned out all the other people on the bus-- from the Swiss postmaster, the widow, the father and son, the newlyweds -- were all good company.
Language of the tour guide? The English trips were not convenient. French was fine with me. I'd given up learning Icelandic years ago.
From the bubbling mud flats, the geysers, the waterfalls, the puffins, a historic village, a black sand beach, the penis factory, the rock factory each day was an adventure. Our guide of the almost fall over large bust was a linguist whose knowledge of the history, language and literature added a depth we would have missed had we been on our own.
Why am I writing about this now?
Rick told me that Icelandic airlines is now offering a one day stop over in the capital on its flights from Europe to the US. Although I've no plans to go to the States in the near future, the idea of another stop is a new dream.
A COUPLE MORE PHOTOS
An old farming village half under ground to protect residents from the brutal winters.
A modern village in a country with only 315,000 residents, a 99% literacy rate and where they try the politicians who do harm to their economy.
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