The Grand Magnificence of it All

Imagine yourself in an Ikea-like world where everything is glossy and crisp, words appear to be the product of a flu-induced alphabet and your childhood games of elves and fairies, hiding beneath mossy tree branches, are nothing but a true sanctity. You are in Iceland. I am in Iceland; confused and in awe at the geographical magnificence. I’m trying to get to Paris from NYC as cheap as possible and I find myself in one of the world’s most wanted and unlikely travel destinations, for its convenience. A low budget leaves me with minimal exploration opportunities, forcing me to stroll Reykjavik’s dense, pastel streets and observe what I discovered to be one of the most interesting groups of people. Assuming they would be bitter from the six-degree summers and the salmon-scented air, how surprised I was by their warm smiles and gracious hospitality. Perched on a bar stool located in the hostel, slowly sipping a cider, I turn my head towards the crowd filling in behind me and realise the place is congested with Icelandic’s rather than fellow nomads. A traveller’s greatest achievement is making friends with someone foreign to you, but not your location. Enter Helga, a dark haired, curvy twenty-two year old with sapphire, almond eyes and wide set brows. Her staggering speech proves more endearing then necessary and as she grabs my hand, pulling me to the bar, vows to be my eyes and ears whilst staying in Reykjavik; regardless that this is my final night.
Discussing my intentions for being here, she gives me a warm, but frazzled smile, as if to say, “why on earth have you come to Iceland?” In fact, in a not-so-cavalier way, she did ask that. Helga provides me with the courage to step through the heavy doors and into the frigid atmosphere, completely exposed on this narrow strip.
My left hand clasped tight in her right, clammy with anticipation. Her arm steadily moves between her mouth and the rhythm of her hips, exhaling thick cigarette smog from her nostrils. She looks at me; teeth bared in a grin and quietly asks if she can show me something. Her pace quickens and we begin to run, hand in hand. I struggle beneath my thermal layers and woollen coat, sweat prickling across my hairline. She stops suddenly and lifts her feet upon a stone ledge. Confused, my eyes follow her extended arm. Before me is a glassy lake, reflecting a tall green mountain covered in dusty snow. The view pushes me back, taking hold of me, and then I realise, this is why I am in Iceland.