In Icelandic, it's called the island, like it considers itself better than all of the rest—and it may be right. There's something special, something enchanting about that place. There are 15 Westland islands off of Iceland's western coast, only one is inhabitable by people, one by puffins. There are roughly 319,000 people, 80,000 horses, and somewhere near 400,000 sheep. The weather in Iceland is like a small child with A.D.D. In can be perfectly sunny, then rain, then snow, then be sunny again, then hail...all before you've eaten your lunch. The people do not wear ponchos, raincoats, or use umbrellas. They go out around midnight and stay out until five. There seems to be no day drinking to speak of and at 4 a.m. a hot dog will cost you somewhere near $15 (1550 krona).
Iceland is magical. Icelanders do not believe in ghosts but believe in trolls and elves, and after being there, I can understand why. Most of the country is not developed and the landscape is composed of dark rock covered in green moss, kind of like a mountain threw up, but the perfect terrain for trolls. The water is a cloudy light blue, a color that calmed me in a way that I didn't expect.
Iceland has water closets and volcanos, glaciers and waterfalls, tree sweaters and graffiti. It has a language that endlessly entertained me—one that I fell in love with almost instantly. Who doesn't love a good umlaut? Being there somehow made the days feel longer, like I was gone for two weeks, and at the same time, they went by really fast. They love music and art and apply it to everything—the land itself is art.
It was a place I had talked about going to for no particular reason other than it seemed to be drawing me to it, and one that seemed to make perfect sense for me to be in. So, takk Iceland. Takk.