Last week, I flew 1895 kilometres and landed in a rainstorm, drove through lava fields and past plastic houses, drank Brennivin and Viking beer, bought a shot and a record with an ant on the cover from an art rock band, dipped my hands into Snorri Sturlussons hot pool, visited a waterfall that was named after dead children, swam in murky blue water and smeared my face with white mud, had my car almost blown off the gravel road by a squall and flew another 1895 kilometres against Atlantic headwinds that almost made me puke. Takk fyrir.