scratching fanny of cock lane

December 25: The sun barely breached the mountain top that hunched over the Blue Lagoon before it started sinking into sunset again. It was defenseless against the fog that would make Nick disappear every time he swam more than five feet away from me.

December 26: Various similes that came to mind while watching the Northern Lights:
Like water coloring painting with the inside of a green glow stick.
Like god playing a galactic keyboard.
Like the flickering steam that bubbled up when my dad threw an ice cube on the still hot teppan table at Shogun.

December 27: It was a 45-minute walk to the plane wreck on Black Sand Beach, which might explain why on our trek back to the car, we saw a family flying a drone out to view it instead.

December 28: The cabins had a three hot tubs stationed nearby. Nick and I ran to them, barefoot through the snow and only marginally wrapped in the tiny bathroom towels they provided. The sensor for the light above the hot tub was too cold to register movement and continued to flicker on and off while we mapped out our plan to get back to the cabin without slipping on the ice-coated steps.

December 29: The Friðheimar restaurant is built inside of the greenhouse that produces 18% of Iceland’s tomatoes. Inside the building, you can find hundreds of bees and tomato ice cream.

December 30: I will forever be indebted to The Ghost Bus Tours for teaching me about the ghost story that ran in the newspapers with the headline: Scratching Fanny of Cock Lane.

December 31: I’m a little disappointed at how dignified the souvenirs are in London. I was hoping to find a ridiculous magnet of Mr. Bean or a dolled up corgi, but everything I could find was frustratingly tasteful and refined.




much love,
hedgie