The Italian Spring Night

I had the great fortune of spending a couple of weeks by the enchanting Lake Como in the region of Lombardy, a region that I never expected to visit, yet upon my first visit landed itself on the top of my list of beautiful destinations in Europe.

On a warm night in the steep hills of Molina, a village that belongs to the community of Faggeto Lario, same as the nearby villages of Lemna and Palanzo, I learnt something new and unexpected. 

My sister's boyfriend, Andrea, told me to my great surprise that most of June belongs to spring, not summer, as I had previously thought, and my holiday to Italy was in fact a gentle spring break.   

The truth is that the Italian spring's rendezvous with the Italian summer is not until June 2, and

seeing that he is local to the area, I take his word for it. 

This cultural interpretation of the seasons speaks volume of the Italian way of life. In Italy, life runs on a pace of its own, not too slow and not too fast. Everything has its time and place and the moment is not only seized but lived and loved to the fullest.

In the bursting flavors of Italian cuisine, the consumer is simply invited to consume with care. I bathed in the succulent sweetness of the grilled bell pepper on my vegetarian pizza; I almost cried from joy as the juicy t-bone steak watered my veins with love and affection; the flawless rage of the angry pasta lingered in my memory long after consumption; the perfect mix of sweet and creamy homemade Amarena sorbet was the perfect finish to a lush lunch on a hot day.  

…and the coffee… the coffee is full-flavoured, rich and creamy. Coffee is forever ruined even to the most devoted addict after a visit to Italy.

The patience to enjoy and seize the pleasure in the moment it arrives is an art form perfected by the Italians. 

Everything about my time in Italy this June had an air of spring about it. I discovered Italy through the eyes of the traveler and understood why my sister radiates happiness in her new life.

For me, the simple visit to my sister was an awakening as powerful as the bursting spring itself.  

This spring became a time of discovery and an awakening of gentle beauty that all of a sudden bursts to life. 

An evening walk with my partner rendered me helpless to the magic of Italy's finest region.

The wild scent of ravishing plantation seemed to invade the dense night after a sizzling summer day, and the night sky was lit up by the glow of the waning moon and never-ending stars glittered in the sky from joy.

A quiet descent down a narrow and uneven pathway - as old as the departing ages of the past – was carefully treaded to seek a nocturnal view of a chapel hidden by tall trees, tall trees exquisitely green and tender in the late spring night.

Two gates separated the curious travelers from a world where the dead are honored by an array of candles from which a red glow lights up the night. A dim but magical world that is hidden behind the black gate that is neatly tucked away from sight in the darkness by an impressive doorway to the chapel’s mysterious interior decor.

On the journey down to the chapel, fire flies flew in the air, sometimes moving swiftly from one side to another. Every now and then, they stopped in the air to ever-so-gently explore the curious strangers coming down the dark pathway lit up with a bright, bright moonlight.

The pathway was rough and cobbled so long ago, the very hands who lay them in these steep hills, passed into the veiled world a long time ago.

Upon return to the concealed tulip villa, it the strong scent of an incense that is a  mosquito repellent, a scent that awakens the senses to memories of a distant home on the tip of the African continent and the thick and dry bushland of the infamous state of Goiás, that pulls me out of the deep spring night.

All that I needed on this perfect night, a night when the crickets sang to me as in previous destinations, was my Emma. How much her hound senses and vivacious spirit would have enjoyed the music of the night; how she would have tried to run down to the gate off our pathway just to run free alongside the shepherding donkey with his herd of sheep and goats, and play with the equally vivacious lambs and the young and curious goat kids.

She would have jumped up as she'd discover the bells around their neck in an attempt to understand from where rang the soothing sound of the Italian spring. 

The Italian spring night is truly bursting from life's elixir!       

The mysterious black gate. Photo by JB.

The old chapel and the cemetery during the day. Photo by JB.

The Tulip Villa. Photo by JB.

In the hills of Molina. Photo by JB.

Donkey on care duty. Photo by JB.

Casa of a donkey, goats and sheep. Photo by JB.

Life's beautiful ways...

Life is a series of days, weeks, months and years.

With each year, the bubble of life experience expands in all directions and with it comes maturity. Maturity is a bewildering concept and our society has a tendency to complicate the natural order of life. 

We make expectations for ourselves that we feel obliged to live up to, social expectations that are decided by someone other than us, the very people who are supposed to live in accordance to these so-called rules. 

Career-building, finding a mate, deciding whether to have children or pets or both, and deciding whether to rent or buy a place a of your own; these are all decisions we are supposed to make by a certain age.

I turned 34 this past week and I feel no different than I did when I turned 30 or when I turned 27. I am the same person I was ten years ago. What has changed is that I have learnt to embrace who I am and I feel no need to live up to anyone's standards.

There is no doubt about it that with age comes the freedom to just be and live by one's own set of rules. It's a liberating sensation to discover that all that is expected of us is to find happiness in whatever form makes each and every one of us happy.

If I have learnt anything on my travels, then it is that the only person I need to please is myself. If I fail to make myself happy then how can I expect to be happy in the company of others? I need to embrace who I am and follow my heart where it comes making decisions that affect my future. 

In Icelandic society expectations are sky-high. As a woman, I am expected to be educated, partnered-up, fit and healthy, and preferably use my uterus in the name of preserving the myth of motherhood-for-all.

To defy this way of life is an untraditional approach to life in a small society where procreation is the only way to populate this little island with the next generation of inhabitants. But some of us do anyway.

We all have a passion that we want to pursue and dreams that we long to see come true; age and these so-called obligations should not stand in our way of following them through. In my case, my passion and dreams are emerged in the curious worlds of travel, writing and literature. 

And I take pride in my life choices.

My philosophy in life is feminism and I have strong beliefs in the importance of individual freedom for us all, a freedom to be the person we are in our heart of hearts. 

Therefore, turning 34 without having fulfilled all the aspects of my societal duties was not a sharp stab of cold steel reminding me I am now a year older and still not a dutiful mother. It was a beautiful day that I spent with my husband and my darling dog Emma, and I loved every minute of it.

I have come far in life. I am not the shy little girl who lacked confidence in her childhood and youth to shamelessly embrace her quirks and wits. 

There were many moments during my childhood that I sat in-front of the television screen – uninterrupted by iPads, iPhones and Macs – gazing at the long list of names scrolling up the screen after watching a film or a television show from places far away from my humble small town on the western shores of Iceland.

At the mere age of eight I discovered English and from that moment on my life was forever changed. Something in the narrative vocabulary, accents of different descent and carefree creativity captured my attention and to this very day, I remain captivated by its energy.

A couple of nights ago, as the long list of crew and cast in Forrest Gump scrolled up the screen, the surname Nye caught my attention. Instinctively, with a native intuition I knew how to pronounce the name, a skill that I desired greatly at the age of 14 when I saw the film for the very first time.

At the time, I was blown away by the enchanting landscape of Greenbow, Alabama, a scene so distant from the cool streets of New York or the hip Californian coastline.

There was and still is a bohemian element in my perception, a connection with nature that is cut off from the madness of cities that never rest. I have never visited the southern states of the North American United States, but my enthusiastic interest in the fluidity of city life was changed by the soothing serenity of the wholesome green bubble that is the beautiful scenery in the sweet-natured temperature of eternal spring and summer.

The illusion of the idyllic is a beautiful illusion. People are always at fault where it comes to bursting the bubble but there is nonetheless a peaceful comfort to life inside the bubble.

We live in a world that is rapidly changing and with each year something changes, something new comes along and we bid farewell to the old. Life has a way to make sense of everything in time, although most of the time - especially when times are hard - we curse its unpredictability. Then one day everything just makes sense and the pain and hardships of the past are validated by the existence of this better place.

I learnt at a young age that life is precious. My grandfather had a stroke and from that day onwards, he was bound to a wheelchair. He was in his early seventies at the time and spent the last fourteen years of his life in the chair. 

My grandmother looked after him with love and compassion and toward the end of her life, some years after he passed away, she was tired in body and soul after a long and often a difficult life.

They never got to enjoy their retirement years. They had a happy life together and I doubt they regretted their choices in life. But I wish the last decade and half they spent together had been a happier time.

They got to see their descendants mature into adulthood, had grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and to me, always looked like theirs was a beautiful partnership.

But how I wish they'd had the chance to explore the world and finally embrace the beauty of a peaceful life in their retirement years. 

And so, for that reason, I am dedicated to embrace each year on my own terms, to make decisions and take risks that are rewarding to me personally and that I can share with my partner.

I hope my partner and I will be in good health when we enter our retirement years, that we will have lived a full life and have the opportunity to continue our travels together until we can do no more.

For some a box of fine handmade Swiss chocolate pieces is the ultimate dream while for me the combination of licorice and creamy chocolate is a delicate treat for the finer moments in life. 

Life is a box of chocolate and assorted sweets… and it can be enjoyed at any age.

Feb Fun

Winter is a spellbinding time of year in Iceland. 

It's the time when the forces of nature strike a blow at one another, leaving the local population and visitors bound to the comforts of their home. 

This past January was dim and dreadful. Streets and grassy fields were clad in nature's very ice rink and human paws fell prey to its slippery ways.

Waking up in the pitch black morning was a torturous exercise with the light of day only appearing as noon approached. Then, as professionals and students finished their day of dutiful diligence, they walked into the dimly lit afternoon that is already blackened well before the early evening settles in its place.

We lived in the shadow of daylight, treading carefully across the ice rink as the cold wind blew us in all direction.

But then, all of a sudden, the enchanting month of February came and swept away the shivering creeps of January blues with its orange companion by its side, sending rays of sunlight to our pale faces and giving us hope for a brighter and better season after our time in the darkness.

In February, the world is truly veiled with magical and wondrous beauty.

The grim navy blue skies transform to an exquisite shade of animated royal blue. The air is still in the crisp night, and the stars spark like glitter drifted in no particular order across the already animated canvas. 

When the moon is out in all its glory, the night is a wonderland where nature's magic thrive and just about anything can happen. A slow walk in the night is a journey through an enchanted highland and a mysterious city where the hopeful fall in love and aspirations for a beautiful life are born.    

The hard cemented city rues are nearly deserted of life, and the crisp air of the distant highlands gives reason to indulge in an intimate cuddle to make this magical moment in time last a little longer, or until the cold has finally settled in our very bones and the inevitable escape to the warm comfort of bed is upon us.

February is truly the time to take late night walks, travel to Iceland's secret destinations that are beautiful beyond belief in the company of seasoned guides whose knowledge and enthusiasm for the land they inhabit give a deeper understanding of this strange terrain.

The Northern Lights seem never more alive than on those exquisite nights when all the elements come together and a rare moment in time is temporarily upon us. The Aurora bathes in the glory of this real-life animation and dances from joy across the canvas far above the sleepy sea, a sea that is already gleaming with joy on this perfect night. 

It is the parisian spring, a glorious African dawn to a flawless summer day and the kaleidoscopic New England autumn. No time of year brings out Iceland's true magic as the month of February.

It is the month of hope and glory for locals, and an adventure to an animated world on the very edge of the inhabitable world for the visitors who come for an out-of-this-world experience.

It is the time of year when the magic of animation comes to life and life is simply beautiful.

February is truly fabulous.

Passage to the Past

A new year - a new start.

But while it is important to look towards the future, the past must be remembered and allowed to pass into our memory, both the good and the bad, to make the future a better place.

To travel wide and far teaches a person tolerance, a sense of humility and understanding of concepts previously foreign to one's spectrum of worldview. 

Growing up on an island is in some ways a wonderful experience. The island landscape is naked in the face of vile winds blowing across the seas to the vulnerable and barren landmarks, and is an oasis in the midst of a watery world where violent gray waves crash onto the shore in the darkest and vilest of days. But sometimes, in more gentler times, the blue and subtle waves stroke the surface of the sea, hypnotizing the islanders in their isolated world as the sun lends her rays to light up the world.

Desolation and isolation is in many ways an enchanting environment. It allows a culture to grow and mature colloquial quirks and amusing twists and tangles in traditions and beliefs.

So much of Iceland's charms stems from the isolation in the desolate landscape that prevails, and the imagination gives birth to tales of strange creatures living outside the human realms. Its thirteen yule lands, the hidden elf people and grim tales of trolls petrified at dawn are just among few.

The tales of Icelandic vikings and their violent but intellectual ways are an interesting account of man's response to the isolation in a landscape that is truly desolate.

A peculiar cultural heritage is the strange approach Icelanders adapted in the cultural view of our so-called yule lads, lads that were once upon a time a far cry from skinny and somewhat loud lads who visit children who still believe in their existence. These lads, and the tales of misdemeanor told to young children once upon a time evoked fear in them, and no child would celebrate Christmas Eve without a new item of clothing on their back and gratitude for but humble provisions. Tales of the lads' grim mother, Grýla, who according to legends had a taste for children and her foul husband, Leppalúði, with his miniature and frail stature, evoked an ever greater fear in the young.

These days, the yule lads are but friendly mischievous lads, forever young in body and spirit. They obey their vixen-like mother  and return to their highland inhabitation when the holiday season is over, but their mother no longer threatens to eat them or offer them as snack to her black cat.

In the place of my birth, Akranes, the most prominent feature is Akrafjall, a mountain that guards the small coastal town that was previously a fishing community. According to legends, it is the resting place of a petrified troll who took too long in seeking shelter from the sun. 

Few have much faith in these old tales nowadays but they are nonetheless an amusing heritage to pass on from one generation to the next. 

But the isolation of island life is not without fault, as local legends do not make a citizen of the world out of us.

Iceland's geographical location lies within the European continent, and our closest contact, a former ally and foe, was Denmark. For a long time, our island was so isolated and its inhabitants so alone in a hostile wilderness, that the peculiarity and perhaps at times ignorance of the world in the locals could be excused to some extent. 

Our introduction to the world was abrupt. As the European mainland faced the horrors of yet another catastrophic war, the WWII, the Icelandic authorities fostered a neutral position while being host to the allied armies of British and American descent. To the authorities, their presence was disruptive and young Icelandic ladies were supposedly morally mislead by their charms. The authorities listed and temporarily placed young women, aged 12 and older, to work camps in rural Iceland to prevent them from associating further with the foreign "invaders."

At the end of the war, Iceland emerged into the world as a candidate for a first world country, and grew and developed rapidly into a western country in the twentieth century. 

After I learned about the atrocities of the WWII in the early 1990s, I asked both of my grandmothers about the war in Iceland. Both of them were reluctant to communicate on the topic and there was a time I was bewildered by their responses. As an adult, I have come to understand that even without combat and bloody warfare, war is always a sore spot and its survivors and their descendants to be treated with dignity and respect.

Following a recent controversial and scandalous comment made by a young comedian and television host during a match in the European Handball Cup, I was abruptly reminded of how disconnected the generations of late, my generation even, have become to one of the ugliest and most appalling wars fought in modern history. The utter ignorance of the commentary in historical context is bad enough.

But to compare the Icelandic Handball team to a Nazi regime slaughtering its opponents in the European Championship in the sport, is beyond belief and so offensive and disrespectful, that I was surprised to see him back on the screen.

To his credit, he did apologize and seemed sincerely regretful and ashamed of his action. To refuse to accept the apology, an apology made to all those who were appalled by the ignorance and recklessness of the statement, would be wrong. 

I took an extraordinary interest in the WWII period at an early age. My innate interest in people and the incredible strength that humanity possesses, both under oppression and when raised by a spirit of hope, speaks to me and I find myself constantly in search of answers. 

It was the unspeakable cruelty humanity proved to be capable of under the extreme circumstances of Nazi-occupied Europe that at first nauseated me, and then forced me to look deeper and make it my duty to know more so that I understand my duty as human being to be an ambassador to peace - a role I believe most of us are in possession of in our own special way. 

I have read literature written about ordinary Germans who find themselves in the centre of propaganda while being punished for a sake of selected monsters of men, as well as seen films and documentaries about the many different sides of the WWII.

I have made it my mission to expand my bank of knowledge about human atrocities, and perhaps as a result of that research and peculiar interest, felt utterly disgusted, to the very core of my being, when the scandalous comment about the Icelandic Handball team was uttered. 

I simply could not believe anyone could say such a thing. From the very beginning that I came to know the history of the war years, I was immediately shattered and heartbroken by the atrocities. 

But then, after an emotional outrage, I got thinking. Could this be the fault of blissful ignorance?

In hindsight, my history book consisted of a single chapter on the topic of the World War II. It was my own initiave to see Schindler's List, and my own curiosity that has brought me to unofficially study the history of this war. This war has ignited an interest in me to explore the Great War, WWI, the source that partially ignited the Second World War in the mid-twentieth century. Somehow I feel compelled to understand the condition of men.

All the research is and was my own. So, is this the fault of the education system? And if so, what is the answer to blissful ignorance?

In my mind, to travel is a great answer.

In Europe, it is not out of the ordinary that schools organize excursions to war memorials on the mainland. Many schools choose to travel to Auschwitz, where history takes shape before their very eyes and the war is very much a part of that heritage.

So, why is it that Icelandic youngsters are not exposed to history in the same way? Historical tourism is a fundamental way to educate the generations to whom the horror are but paragraphs describing unspeakable atrocities. It is a way to come face to face with history in camaraderie and feel more a part of the European community and the world as a whole.  

After all, traveling is not always about having fun and having beautiful experiences. Sometimes, it's an opportunity to physically penetrate the past and learn about a chapter in history that is without beauty. 
In the case of Auschwitz, that is a display of beastly proportions where humanity lost all what is beautiful about humanity. 

By infusing travels into the education of adolescence and young people, the lessons become a visit to the past, as if you are knocking on the door of history, waiting to be initiated into the kind of knowledge that teaches us to be better people and preservers of peace in a world, that for some reason, is always in conflict.

Iceland is after all a member of the European continent and our shared history, yes shared, is for all of us to learn and appreciate, and it is time for Icelandic authorities to understand their role as part of the greater world, as I believe, many Icelanders already do.

To travel beyond the watery border is our way to reach out and join hands with the rest of the world.

End of an Era

London, my beloved city of London, is changing. She is maturing, distancing herself from her days of late nights in establishments that once upon a time were the very centre of Snakebites and flirtatious encounters of youth in heat.

In recent weeks and months, sudden news of unsuspecting closedowns have come as a surprise to this now-once-upon-a-time-resident-but forever-a-Londoner-at-heart. 

London is a city that brings out the nostalgia in me and as memories pour down on me my face lights up with joy. I have wonderful memories of good times with friends, solitary times with a grande latte in one hand and a wrinkled book in another, and beautiful summer days with my then boyfriend and now husband.

It's the city where I watched my first Rugby Union World Cup match in 2004, where I watched a moving performance from the cast of Les Miserables, and where I lived in a beautiful semi-attached brick house in North Finchley.

It's where I got my first real job as a professional and where I fell in love with the man who is now my partner in life.

I never feel like an outsider in the city. London is home to anyone who wants to make it a home, and who wants to lead a life full of beauty and intrigue. It is a multicultural city in the deepest sense of the word. Residency is not dependent on birthright, race, gender, sexuality, religion, and overall, cultural background. 

To be a Londoner is to live in the city and love it with a tender heart.

But despite the city's exuberant spirit and heart of a wild rose, an era is indeed coming to an end. The era I knew to be the London of my bursting youth is slowly disappearing.

In 2003 and 2004 I got to know London for a few months and I immediately felt a connection to the city. However, at the time, I wasn't quite ready to stick around for the summer as I wanted to spend the summer far away from the cityscape on a beautiful little island.

Then in 2005, I was ready to make a deeper commitment to the city and returned to find a proper professional job and proper place to live. With both goals accomplished (and while accomplishing them) I so enjoyed my life in the city that never sleeps. 

As before, I frequented my usual beverage establishments from previous years while discovering new ones along the way.

An old-time favourite remained to be the Walkabout. Yes, it could be bit cheesy at times. But maybe, just maybe, it was the slice of cheese that made a night out at the Walkie in Temple, Shaftesbury Avenue and even the one in Covent Garden, such a carnival. The Temple was my absolute favourite. The mood was light but amicable, and the nights were a mix of youthful enthusiasm and liquid happiness. 

Much to my surprise, news of the original Walkie in Shepherd Bush and the Covent Garden one, reached my ears early this year. I hope the Temple one won't be met with the same fate but who knows, perhaps the face of London is changing and a new chain of international bars will be the new hangout for the natives of the nations down under, as well as everyone else.

Even more disappointingly is the shocking news that the Slug and Lettuce in Fulham is closing its doors. The reason it is particularly upsetting is the fact that it holds a special memory of a night I'll never forget. 

After a couple of months of convincing myself I was not interested in my now husband as anything more than a friend, I had to catch my breath when an attractive female showed him the interest I had not   allowed myself to do. Thankfully, he picked up on my sudden burst of realisation and we've been together ever since. 

We have always talked about going back to the Slug and Lettuce for a snakebite or two when we are in London, but it simply never happened and I suppose it's too late now.  The memory lives on whether the Slug and Lettuce is open or not. It just would have been something special to return if only for one night.

Being a young person in London with family an airplane crossing away, it is the friends who assume the support role of a family and that is enough in a city where life is about discovering your identity and have an adventure.

The blue house (not the house with the blue door if you catch my meaning) in Notting Hill continues to be my dream house in the city. Photo by JB.

Flat sharing, Sunday sessions, weekend trips out of the city and even to the mainland, riding the night bus home, and experiencing a truly serendipitous encounter with a man who literally comes from the other side of the world are just among a few fond memories I cherish oh so much.

Granted that the last surprise turned out to be a South African richer in kindness and patience than any man I'd ever met before (despite my having frequented an Aussie bar over the years, and yes, scoping out a few native men while at it) is truly the most beautiful chapter in my London story. 

Portabello Road is as charming in autumn as it is in the height of summer. Photo by JB.

Perhaps, as we have grown into a new life together and learned a great deal since about the people we are and want to be, the city of London is changing too. Perhaps, it is time for a new chain of bars to be the place of legends for a new generation of twenty-somethings in search of adventures. 

Change is, after all, the natural rhythm of life... 

Lightning and Snow

In the wee hours of an enchanting wintery morning, the residents of my quiet borough were woken up abruptly by a rare phenomenon. A lightning struck at the rooftop of Hotel Saga, one of the more established hotels in the city, striking an aerial and causing temporary breakdown in a radiotelephone network.

The encounter caused a roaring explosion heard in several boroughs in the city and certainly caught my attention. We can see a section of the hotel and the rooftop from our bedroom window and had the blinds been up, we'd actually seen the occurrence for ourselves. At the very least, I would have seen the flicker of light in the distance.

Hotel Saga in the background. Photo by JB.

But I only heard the lightning strike from the other side of my blinds. Nonetheless, it was an extraordinary way to jumpstart the day (not that I didn't go back to sleep…).

It was simply the perfect start to a perfect winter day.

The perfect snowfall - just enough to light up the world. Photo by JB.

And as winters go, I wouldn't mind a mild but a snowy winter season like that of today. 

As is to be expected, I was reluctant to retire from the comfort of my cozy home on this cold winter day. At roughly 10 o'clock in the morning, I could no longer avoid the dreaded first toilet-break for my adorable dog Emma. It was surprisingly refreshing to step out into the bright morning and let her do her thing. There are times when the weather is not so perfect and I have rushed her to finish as quickly as she can, but this morning it was lovely to step out and feel the sun's warm rays.

It was still cold and as Sunday mornings go, it's always tempting to do as little as possible - no matter how perfect a day is, the cold always comes as a surprise.

But when I finally did leave my warm bubble, it was more than worth it.

My borough Vesturbær on this beautiful Sunday afternoon. Photo by JB.

A dog takes more pleasure from playing in the snow than us humans are ever capable of doing. My Emma's thick and fuzzy fur is warm and soft. She is not restricted to the layers that I pile on as the days grow colder and is unafraid to roll in the soft snow without feeling the cold on her paws. She so loves the cold snow and devours it every time she takes a bite from the frozen grounds.

Her fascination with the world, the way she holds her head up high no matter how strong is the wind, or how the snow flakes blow in her cute Labrador Retriever face, is illuminating and a gesture to actually look out into the world.

Life in little Reykjavík - ever-so-slightly enhanced. Photo by JB. 

Each season is magical in a unique way. Winter is always going to be cold in the northernmost capital of the European continent, and at times, exquisite beyond belief. The snow lights up the dark winter days and the mood changes. Even the fading plants glow on the snowy grounds and the whole world is a striking contrast to the grayish clouds above. It is as if the world is draped in a transcendent veil.

In the cold snowfall, all exposed flesh is unsheltered from the cold and the cheeks turn red while my Emma's fur is nearly as white as the snow. A thin set of gloves no longer suffices.  

Wool gloves with fleece interior is what it takes to survive a cold Sunday afternoon...

...and probably not a bad idea for tomorrow's -5°C as the car windscreen won't clear itself.

Emma's playground. Photo by JB.  

The month of November is never more appealing than on days like today.  Despite having to get used the early onset of darkness, the daylight hours are worth enjoying in this very first month of authentic winter.

And if it weren't for my dog, I'd probably miss out on days like these. And that would be the real shame. 

   


   

EverLasting Impressions...

Iceland is a peculiar place to visit…

The landscape is extraordinarily beautiful. On a cold day the pure crispy air strikes a sharp blow that sends vibration throughout the whole body. The willful spirit that dwells in the depth of this enigmatic land is never more striking but on such exquisite days.

A beautiful Sunday afternoon in the Reykjanes Peninsula

On such a day, greeting or bidding farewell to Iceland, is a lasting memory like no other. Journeying through the landscape at Reykjanes Peninsula is indeed a journey as vibrant as a classic Van Gogh draped in wintery array.

The orange glow of the sun spreads majestically over the horizon in the late afternoon and casts a spell on travelers passing through the lunar landscape.

The romantic in me is tempted by Lady Temptress's sensational introduction to the world of golden dawn and dusk paired with winter's silver dust drifting in the wind. I am constantly amazed how the two contrasts, the morning glow and the long night, meet halfway in the most magical of moments.

The vast space of nothingness separating the capital city and the Keflavík International airport is no wasteland despite the gloom of November rain or the wild North Atlantic wind hurling across the ancient frozen lava fields.

It's a world beyond the grasp of human existence, wild and ravishing, yet cool and dry, even soft in-between the sharp raven-black lava rock. 

All photos by Júlíana Björnsdóttir

...Iceland is truly a strange place...