I want to get away. I want to check out of life for a few months and hike the Appalachian trail. (Not that I’m capable of a hike of that magnitude, it just appeals to my romanticized notion of escape.) Or I want to use my passport and disappear somewhere I’ve never been before. Getting on an airplane can fix all kinds of things. At least for a little while.
So I’m going to Iceland. Because, it’s gorgeous. And there are mountains. There aren’t any trees blocking the view of the sky. It’s Europe, so that’s fun, and it’s offseason, so it’s cheap. It’s an adventure. And no one knows me there. And because Jeremy put his foot down when I started wish-gazing at trips to Antartica.
I’m traveling with a friend (a generous, kind, and wise friend). Jeremy is quite happy to stay home and take care of the kids for a few days while we’re gone. He doesn’t feel the appeal of Iceland, and is relieved that he doesn’t have to go with me. We’re staying in a remote cabin a few hours away from Reykjavik. We’ll have heated floors and a cappuccino machine. A view of the north Atlantic out the front, glacier-covered volcano out the back, in an old Viking fishing village, with only 10 permanent residents. Time to hike, explore, or watch bad weather while warm inside with lots of coffee and chocolate and cheese and soup. I can’t wait.
I hope it’s as barren and windswept and isolated as I imagine.