THE BRUTAL SERENITY OF ICELAND
f you’ve ever researched I Iceland, you’ll have come across an abundance of praise of the place, but also a pretty sizable bucketload of complaints. Car hire pickup at the airport is ridiculously slow; one beer costs $14; the national delicacy of rotten shark is unpalatable; and liquor stores are closed on Sundays.
I did that research, too. My husband, Kane, and I were headed to Iceland for a road-trip getaway to clear the city out of our brains. I came across these warnings online, and thought, “Oh no, what if we lose a few hours waiting for our car? What if we can’t find sensibly priced provisions—or, worse still, wine?” Thinking back on those concerns, they seem ridiculous. Such complaints are nothing more than trivialities when the reality of Iceland hits you.
All that matters in Iceland is the raw, desolate beauty of a land vastly untouched by dumb humans and their dumb developments. Iceland is a place that doesn’t give a rat’s if you can’t find a cheap beer; it doesn’t care if your car breaks down and strands you in the middle of a snow storm. Eat its national food or don’t; Iceland couldn’t care less—it’s too busy being the most kick-ass, brain-shatteringly beautiful country in the
