Island Life
I didn’t know it then but there couldn’t have been a better song blasting from the bus’s speakers on the ride from Keflavík International Airport to Reykjavík.
The song in question? The Foo Fighters’ “The Pretender,” which, if you haven’t heard it, has a rather aggressive chorus that features Dave Grohl shouting “WHAT IF I SAID I’M NOT LIKE THE OTHERS?”
In other words, a pretty unhinged tune for the bus driver to choose to serenade her weary passengers. The tune was accompanied by scenes of the southwestern Icelandic countryside, which featured a whole lot of … nothing.
It was the most nothing I’ve ever seen.
No trees swaying in the wind, no grass to lie on, no mountains in the distance, no city skylines. No color. Just flat white ice contrasted with black volcanic rock. Starkness, defined.
I learned in that moment that Iceland, like Dave Grohl’s question, is certainly not like the others. Not like the others one bit.
Why Iceland?
My only knowledge of the country before arriving was that it had that blue-tinted thermal waters I’d seen face mask–clad travel influencers and friends post on Instagram about. I knew Laufey was from there. And I knew it’d be cold.
So why did I come? In short, for northern lights and a free flight.
And would you believe I got what I came for?
Let’s start with the flight.
Icelandair
Back when I was planning my trip, I got lunch with a well-traveled friend I knew from choir (the same friend who lent me her flat in Paris!). She mentioned that she’d heard of an airline that offered free stops to Iceland for transatlantic flights to support the country’s tourism. And that airline is Icelandair.
Indeed, they cover your Icelandic “stopover” — think of it as a multi-day pit stop — but here’s the catch. They only cover one way, and of course, that means the less expensive one. So for my flight from Dublin to Miami with a stopover in Iceland, my Dublin to Iceland flight was covered but the Iceland to Miami one was not.
And while I’m sure I paid well over the amount I “saved” with the stopover deal during my three days in the country, life’s short and I knew this was my chance to see this otherworldly arctic island, so I took it.
And Now for Northern Lights
Seeing the northern lights has been on my bucket list for a while. And so I booked my “Northern Lights Tour” through Reykjavik Excursions, a tour agency that partners with Icelandair.
I had done some research beforehand that said it’s better to rent a car and “hunt” for the lights yourself, but I wasn’t about to drive through blizzards and arctic winds by myself. For that reason I felt the $47.80 ticket was well worth it.
What’s included:
coach bus ride to outside of Reykjavík where there’s no light pollution
Local tour guide who shares Icelandic facts and stories (including fables of elves and trolls)
Unlimited tours to see the lights if there weren’t visible on your first try (for up to two years)
For an extra fee, you can pay for the bus to pick you up at your accommodation, which really means at the bus stop closest to your accommodation. At first I wish I had done this, but by the end of the day I was relieved I didn’t. But more on that later.
Since I didn’t have a pickup point, I had to find a way to BSÍ Bus Station, which is where all of the busses met and convoyed together to the northern lights viewing point: a parking lot in the middle of nowhere. And since Uber doesn’t exist in Iceland and taxis are criminally expensive, my options were between taking the city bus or trekking the mile and a half walk through the elements. I decided to try my luck with the bus, downloaded the city bus app, and figured out what time I needed to be at the stop, Lækjargata 3. A girl at my hostel named Indy booked the same tour as me and we decided to take the bus together.
We grabbed our seats and continued the introductions we started at the hostel. Indy’s studying to be a nurse and is from outside of Nottingham — the same English city I studied abroad in for a month and a half before COVID-19 struck in 2020. It turns out she’s frequented Indianapolis, my college town I’m moving to in a few months. She shared her favorite American food — Jack in a Box — and I laughed because I’ve never tried it. I shared my hatred for British sinks — what was the point of the two faucet heads: one hot, one cold?
And then I glanced at the map on my phone. And realized that since we didn’t hit the “STOP” button, the bus driver never stopped at the bus station and was already en route to the next stop, a 20-minute walk away from the bus station. Fuck.
Flustered and full of regret for not paying closer attention to my phone, I pressed “STOP” for the next stop. And soon enough Indy and I were walking on the side of the highway replaying the scene. “I had one job and I screwed it up,” I lamented. A teenage girl drove by and I tried to wave her down to ask for a lift. (I’d seen a TikTok that said Iceland was the safest country to hitch hike in.) She avoided my gaze. Fair.
As we traversed the tall plowed snow banks, the sprinkles of snow reflected the deep-yellow highway lights. I kept wishing we could go back in time so I could prevent us missing the stop but Indy assured me that we’d be fine. “We were already going to get there 30 minutes early, and now we’ll get there 10 minutes early instead” she offered. I didn’t believe her, convinced the buses would leave and we’d miss our chance to see the lights. I walked as fast as I could without slipping.
Seventeen minutes later, the station — and fleet of Reykjavik Excursion busses — was in sight. No walkway in sight, we cut through snow banks, boots sinking into the 4-foot-tall mounds. We made it and our worries melted away faster than the chunks of snow our hiking boots tracked inside.
At least a hundred tourists were lined up and ready to board the coaches. We checked in at the help desk, received a card that we were to give to our guide once we made it on the bus, found our place at the very end of the line, then boarded the penultimate bus in the convoy: number nine.
Embracing the Possibility of Seeing Something Phenomenal
Once you arrive at the parking lot in the middle of nowhere, you point your head to the sky and wait. And wait. And buy some hot chocolate. And wait some more. Until the lights make their magical appearance.
I’ll admit, the waiting-for-the-lights process wasn’t fun. But being huddled up and hearing a cacophony of languages and laughter, sharing one commonality of embracing the possibility of witnessing something phenomenal? That was an attraction in and of itself, and an experience that happens so infrequently at home. I didn’t see the recent eclipse but this experience felt reminiscent of that.
In Indy’s and my case, we did not see anything other than a dark navy sky dotted with stars. And after standing in the frosty wind for an hour and a half, we fled to the bus to warm up. A few minutes later we were joined by the rest of the group and the guides, who announced we’d head home now. Since we didn’t see them, we had unlimited chances for up to 2 years to try to spot them again. I was disappointed but mostly exhausted, as it was already 12:30 a.m. “I’ve got two more chances,” I told myself as I began to shut my eyes.
I fell in and out of sleep on the 45 minute drive back, the same shade of yellow highway lights streaming over my closed eyes every few yards. And then, our tour guide turned the bus mic back on.
“I see a glimpse of them, everyone, look out your left window,” she exclaimed.
Faint paintbrush strokes of green light gleamed in the distance. The bus pulled over and we piled out. The wind had intensified now that I didn’t have the huddle of 200 tourists protecting me, and the moment I stepped off the final bus step, the wind pushed me forward, forcing me to engage my core in order to walk against its powerful blow. Little flurries of ice whipped my face and reddened my numb fingers that attempted to snap photos of the wonder to no avail.
Welp, I tried.
The green streams of light intensified and danced across the night sky, above the short pine trees shaking in the wind. Us tourists took turns smiling in front of them, red cheeks frozen in time by phones slowly capturing the moment. They were cold too.
We laughed, all 50 of us, never colder before in our lives, witnessing this phenomenon together, all crowded behind the bus as cars drove past in the opposite lane. And after 10 minutes of the green watercolor strokes blending around the black palette of night, we were instructed to board the bus again.
Our guide said that Icelandic people have a belief that the lights are our passed loved ones’ way of communicating with us, saying ‘hello, here we are, safe and sound in the skies.’ Whatever message the lights tried to send, I was happy to receive them. I was also happy to receive northern lights photos from Indy (thanks again!).
On the drive home, our guide gushed about how pleased she was that we got to see the lights. “The earlier buses went straight home and missed them!” she shared.
And in that moment my anger for my earlier self dissipated, and I began believing the old axiom that everything happens for a reason.
During the remaining days I spent at the hostel, I chatted with other travelers who had come to Iceland to see the lights. William from Ireland had been on bus 1 and missed out on them. Inke from Brisbane was in town for the following four days. She went on four northern lights excursions — all unsuccessful.
That Monday night was my one chance, and I have my mistakes to thank for my seeing them.
***
Day 2: (Stay) Golden, Circle
My first full day in Iceland commenced with a coffee from Reykjavik Roasters, right when they opened at 8. The coffee culture here is no joke — I learned that Iceland imports the fifth-most coffee in the world. Which is no small thing for a country with a population of less than half a million.
I sipped my coffee in the cottage-like shop blasting jazz music, full of Scandinavian furniture pieces coated in primary colored–paint and a long dining table. It was still dark outside, and would be until 10:30 a.m. Like the few Icelandic people I met, the shop was unpretentious but welcoming; the flat white unassuming but delicious.
Afterward, I wandered the still sleepy Rainbow Road then headed to the bus stop to meet at the same pickup point as the night prior, the BSÍ Bus Station. And this bus ride went a lot smoother.
I arrived at the station with plenty of time, so I grabbed an Iceland tourism magazine and an open seat. The magazine was filled with quality photos, in-depth storytelling, and a level of artistry that I find lacking from many U.S. tourist publications (which I can say since I got laid off from one). I learned about a famous Icelandic luthier and how the wage gap doesn’t really exist here. The “should I move here” bells went off in my mind.
The bus left at 11, but at 10:30 I didn’t see any long lines like I did the evening prior. I leaned over and asked the man next to me if he knew if the bus was here or not. “No, I’m not sure,” he answered in an gruff English accent.
An accent I’m quite familiar with.
Nottingham.
We got to chatting and I found out he’s actually from Derby, the town over from the post-industrial city I studied abroad in.
Malcom’s a landscaper who’d been saving for the trip for years. He’d never left England before.
We spent the day exiting the bus, walking around natural wonders for 20 minutes, and returning to the bus. At one point I opened my water bottle and it sprayed all over us — I had unknowingly purchased sparkling. And while I probably would’ve preferred driving myself over the touristy tour so I had unlimited time at each sight, the landmarks were so stunning I can’t complain and I didn’t then.
The first stop was Thingvellir National Park. Back in the 10th century, the parliament — the oldest parliament in the world — would meet here around booths built from turf and stone to decide on legislation, verdicts, and the punishment of criminals or wrongdoers. Think: drownings, exile, torture. Unusual for the time, women were allowed to divorce their husbands. But if they were thought to be witches or had children out of wedlock, they were burned alive. How fun. Nowadays people visit to see where the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates meet and walk through the valley where mountains once touched.
Malcolm and I wandered as far as we could with our 20 minutes of exploration time. We were each other’s photographer. I felt bad asking for too many pictures because he has Raynaud’s disease and his hands went numb whenever he took his gloves off. But he obliged my every request and unthawed his pale hands when we got back on the bus.
The next stop was Geysir Hot Spring, whose namesake erupts every 10 minutes. We waddled over to it — the ground was extra slippery here — passing puddles of bubbling water. My nose was assaulted by the strong sulfur smell.
I took out my phone to record the eruption and waited. And waited. And said “was that it?” to the mini-eruption that preceded the actual one that erupted a few seconds later and scared the shit out of me. The water burst out of the ground, immediately turning to steam as it hit the cold air. Site number 2, check.
We had extra time on this stop to get lunch stop since there was a cafe and souvenir shop across the street from the geyser. I was smart and packed a lunch: two packs of prosciutto-wrapped cheese sticks and a box of granola bars. I traded a prosciutto-cheese stick for a cafe tea from Malcolm.
The prosciutto packs came with three cheese sticks but after eating one, Malcolm was done. He had never tried prosciutto before and was not a fan. He got the short end of the stick in our arrangement, I thought as I sipped my $8 Twinings tea (everything in Iceland is outrageously expensive). And when I went to the bathroom and a cafe employee yelled at him for bringing in outside food. Oops.
The last stop was Gullfoss Falls, which was my favorite. So much so that Malcolm and I were late to return to the bus at this stop; entranced by the vastness of the waterfall and ravine. In winter it was somehow stark and lush at the same time, the frozen water a brilliant shade of teal that contrasted the icicles and sparkling snow. I’ll never forget it.
When you get off the bus, there’s a viewing area full of tourists waiting in line to take the vistas in for a few seconds before feeling pressured to give the next tourist in line their turn. There was a fleet of girls around my age wearing skirts and fur shawls — no coats or tights protecting them from the bitter winds. I was concerned for them, but they smiled away with their selfie sticks and pastel outfits.
And so we waited in line behind them until it was our turn to enjoy the view. And at that point I thought I had gotten the gist of the waterfall, cold and ready to go back to the bus. But since we had 15 more minutes to kill, Malcom and I ventured on to see the waterfalls from different viewpoints. “I mean, we’re here, we might as well” served as our rallying justification. And I’m so glad we did. Fifty yards away from the tourists, the perspective of the waterfall was so much more vast and impressive. We took in a closer look at the top of the falls: thick streams of frozen water resembling ginormous gemstones cascading into the partially frozen river.
It was then that I learned another facet of Malcolm’s personality: that one of his favorite things to do is to sit on cliff ledges. And before I knew what was happening, he was halfway under the railing and approaching the 50-foot-tall snow-covered ledge atop jagged ice formations. And his phone was in my hands.
My new friend peered over the ledge, risking his life for the shot. And so I put my overprotective worries away and snapped 50 pictures of him breaking the rules, praying the ledge wouldn’t avalanche down the icicle-covered overhang, suffocating my friend and his Reynaud’s diseased extremities. It turns out he has a bit of a wild hare and regularly sky dives and wing walks, which I learned is the action of standing on top of a small plane as it flutters through the sky.
On the drive back we passed packs of Icelandic horses, which look like real-life My Little Ponys, minus the purple and pink manes. On another Golden Circle tour that my hostel friend Melissa went on, they pulled over and let the tourists pet the horsies. Color me jealous, I thought as she told me the details of their soft, thick fur. Something to add to the itinerary for my next Icelandic jaunt …
FOMO intensifies
After an hour’s drive, we arrived at Malcolm’s hotel. As he gathered his things he shared that he’s really glad to have met me and he thanked me for making his trip to Iceland less daunting. It broke my heart a little, reminding me of my younger self, alone in a foreign country. I wished him a good rest of his trip. He messaged me on Facebook a few times.
I made my way home and after some phone time, met up with Indy to get famous Icelandic hot dogs.
Well, they were famous to me after reading John Green’s essay “Icelandic Hot Dog Stand and Signing Your Name 250,000 Times.” And they tasted even better than he described. The lamb-based sausage was topped with Icelandic mustard, Rémoulade, and fried and raw onions. For only $5, it was the cheapest meal I had in the country too. I got another one at the airport before I flew home, but minus the bun since I didn’t want to upset my gluten-intolerant stomach before traveling. I had to walk around with my bun-less hot dog in a paper cup since the stand didn’t have plates. I brought it over to a table, placed it on a pile of napkins, and ate it with a fork and knife. Oh yeah, and it was 6:30 a.m.
Day 3: An Attempt at Relaxation
On my penultimate day in Iceland, I went to the famed Blue Lagoon. Iceland is home to more than 45 hot springs and 200 thermal heated-pools, but there are two major (and touristy) ones near Reykjavík: Blue Lagoon and Sky Lagoon. Sky Lagoon is more luxurious and offers a 7-step relaxation package, but is manmade. Blue Lagoon is cheaper and not manmade. The least expensive package includes a silica and algae face mask, which is luxuriously doled out by an employee walking around the pool with a bucket and spoon.
I checked in at noon and received my wristband and a word of caution from the receptionist: “the nearby volcano is supposed to erupt soon, so take heed and listen to the lifeguards’ warnings if it does erupt.” Fantastic words to hear before three dedicated to relaxation.
There isn’t much to do at the pools. You sip your complimentary drink, wait for your white-mud face mask to dry, sip water from an in-pool fountain, and wade around. You step out of the water and feel the cold air overtake your bare skin. You take a look at the menu and gasp at the prices — $37 for 8 pieces of sushi? And if you’re like me, you meet a clingy Frenchman.
My entire time in Iceland (and Ireland too for that matter) I realized how much I love spending time with myself. Of course I would’ve preferred to have my boyfriend or best friend by my side, but compared to making new friends or acquaintances, for the most part, I preferred being a lone wolf. But lone wolves can’t get photos of themselves to post on their wolf Instagrams.
I saw another lone wolf, one with a selfie stick and iPhone 13, near the bar and swam up to him, asking if he spoke English. Yes but not well, he said. (Why do Europeans always say this before proceeding to have in-depth conversations in their “not-so-good” English?) I asked if he could take a photo of me on his phone and WhatsApp it to me, since my phone was in the locker inside. He obliged, and snapped a few both with my mask on and after I washed it off (thank God I got some after I washed it off). He typed in my number and sent me my photos.
And as I was about to swim away to find eternal bliss or whatever they advertised about the thermal waters, he said “wait, the photos didn’t send.”
His phone was at 10 percent and this data was janky. And so I braved the cold air to grab MY phone from the locker so I could have photos to look back on. We met back up and he took some photos of me squinting in the sun. I made my way back to the lockers and crossed my fingers that I lost him, but of course he was waiting for me by the pool entrance.
The problem with the pools is there’s no good excuse to get rid of someone. No “okay, this was fun but I’m going to go explore this area/landmark/site” because it’s pretty much all the same. And I had until 3 p.m. before the bus would drive me back to Reykjavík.
He really wasn’t a bad guy. He was Algerian and lived in Paris. He made trap music. His name was Aladdin. He thought I had a nose piercing but it was just an acne scar. He laughed when I said that. I think he thought he was out of my league, even after I said I had a boyfriend and we’d been together 5 years. I don’t think he cared.
The worst part about my day with Aladdin was when we were sitting next to each other in a hot tub-shaped thermal pool. He had grazed part of my body a few times throughout the afternoon but I figured it was accidental. But after what he did in the hot tub I’m not so sure. Nonchalantly, he put his hand on my inner thigh. I brushed it off and asked him to back it up — “I’d like some more personal space, please.” (Why is it so second-nature for me offer politeness in times like this?) He granted me this for a split second, before he moved from beside me to in front of me, in between my legs. And at that point I decided it was time to get cleaned up before boarding the bus. Peace out, Frenchy.
Except Frenchy was waiting for me again in the lobby area of the spa, decked out in a neon fur coat and matching hat, with rings on each finger. Because of course he was. He didn’t have a pre-booked ticket for the bus but figured he could just join me onboard (do consequences exist for people like this?). Luckily the bus driver rejected him (thank you, universe), and minutes later we were driving back to the city, my spa “friend” waving in the distance.
He later texted me about what a pleasure it was to meet me and how much he admired my “bon vivant” attitude (*eye roll*). And then he asked me to send him photos from when I saw the northern lights since he didn’t get to see them — I’m sure just so he could post on his Instagram about his amazing Iceland trip. It brought me a lot of joy to leave him on read.
I’m including this story not because I’ve thought about it much since I left Iceland but because this happened to me in front of plenty of witnesses. In a country where sexism almost doesn’t exist (on paper). In one of the safest countries for solo female travelers. I’m including this story to prove that this kind of bullshit can happen anywhere, and as a reminder to any readers that women don’t owe anyone politeness and a smile. And to remind myself for next time.
Next time I solo travel to a place with thermal hot springs, I won’t sacrifice my peace for a handful of okay-at-best photos. Or maybe I’ll just muster up the courage to just swim away
Unlimited Soup for One
After I got home and cleaned up, it was dinner time and I was at the tail-end of my two weeks in Europe. And not wanting to spend much money. And so I found myself at Icelandic Street Food, a block away from my hostel.
The casual joint was full of tourists, students typing on laptops, and lively conversation between the owners and travelers sitting at the bar. I ordered the fish stew and was delighted to find out it was unlimited. Also unlimited were the waffles displayed on a platter. If I wasn’t gluten free I would’ve devoured a good three or four.
I overheard the owners’, a blonde Millennial Icelandic guy and a tall dark-haired German, discussing Iceland’s history of incest issues as well as fish jerky. They offered me a piece dipped in butter. It was the saltiest, driest thing I’ve ever eaten, and tough as tree roots. Not bad.
My next bowl of soup was traditional lamb soup and even though I’m not a huge lamb person — they’re just so cute and gentle :( — I decided to try the delicacy. And it was worth feeling morally dubious. Tangy, savory, bright, this soup nourished my body and soul, which was certainly needed after my Blue Lagoon experience.
I wandered the Rainbow Road one last time before packing up my things in my hostel and saying goodbye to my new friends Indy, Melissa, and Inke. The bus to the airport was picking me up at 4:15 the next morning so I headed to bed early.
A Proper Icelandic Send-Off
At 4 a.m., I arrived at the Lækjargata 4 stop in preparation of my 4:30 pickup. It was 25 degrees as I sat on my carryon suitcase.
The van that transported me to a pickup point where I boarded a coach bus picked me up at 4:15. (Thank God I got to the stop early). We arrived at the airport at 5:15 and I was ordering my bun-less hot dog by 6:15. I checked my phone as I enjoyed my breakfast and saw scenes of glowing orange billows of flames and smoke from my hostel friends’ Instagram stories. My phone buzzed with notifications from Icelandair — my flight was on-time despite the eruption.
An hour and a half later I boarded the plane and took my window seat next to an American lady in her 70s who seemed to have traveled with a tour group full of like-aged people. Based on their conversations, it was many of their first times out of the States. And based on their enthusiasm at 8 in the morning, they had a lovely time. I kept looking over her to the empty row that was caddy corner to us. Once the boarding doors closed, I’d ask a flight attendant to move there. I don’t do transatlantic flights sitting next to strangers if I can help it.
She leaned over to me and said “if you need to get up at any time, don’t worry about bothering me,” to which I responded “thanks, but I’m probably going to move over there.” I pointed to the empty row. “Oh! Are you allowed to do that?” she asked. “Yup.” was my response. I was tired.
My wish was granted and I moved to a row all to myself. And minutes later we took off. The pilot announced we’d fly over the volcano and that it’d be visible to the right side of the plane. But lucky for the left side, we got a close view of the eruption too. It was less like a fifth-grade diorama and more like a scalding dimple in the ground, red hot and smoking.
Another moment of dumb luck added to my trove of European memories. From northern lights to eruption-less soaks in thermal waters, the universe seemed to be on my side this trip, save for that idiot Aladdin. Whether because of the positive energy I put out, a bout of good karma, or truly dumb luck, I don’t know. But what I do know is how grateful I am to have had the time and ability to explore this unusual corner of the world so different from my own. And what started as a “might as well” trip turned into an “I must return” destination.
