Fine Dining Debacle

The mere mention of France conjures up vivid images in people’s minds: the lofty spire of the Eiffel Tower sparkling at night, the palatial Louvre museum housing some of the world’s most famous artwork, and the magnificent chateaux of the Loire region showcasing the wealth and power of their original owners. But one particular image is so synonymous with France that it isn’t confined to a single location and is ubiquitously found in every corner of the country – the fine dining of French cuisine. French haute-cuisine is world-renowned as high-quality gourmet dishes created by master chefs, and evokes an air of arrogance served by haughty waiters. But underneath this pompous façade lies a plethora of amazingly delicious food that is an essential indulgence when visiting the country.

It is into this culinary world that I enter one evening, stepping into a fancy restaurant to experience a traditional multi-course dinner and being immediately greeted by waitstaff wearing specially tailored suits. I feel conspicuously under-dressed in my wrinkled khakis and polo shirt, but am politely ushered to an empty table and handed a menu written entirely in French. Fortunately, I took several years of French language classes in high school and college, so I have a rudimentary understanding of basic phrases that allows me to stumble through ordering dinner. After browsing through the menu and hearing his recommendations, I place my order with the waiter in broken French, and he leaves to inform the kitchen.

A basket of freshly baked bread rolls is swiftly placed on the table, which is a welcome sight to my grumbling stomach. I immediately swoop in and place a roll on my plate, eagerly anticipating the taste of fresh bread smothered in melting butter to whet my appetite. Rather than tear the bread apart with my fingers like an American barbarian, I assume an air of elegance in this fancy restaurant and pick up my knife to slice the roll in half. Without explanation, my hand slips and the bread roll flies off my plate and lives up to its name by continuing to roll halfway across the restaurant, nearly tripping a passing waiter. To add injury to insult, I notice that my hand is the same color as the red flush of utter embarrassment washing across my face. Despite using a dull butter knife to cut the bread, I had somehow managed to slice open my finger with the blunt blade, and a stream of blood was draining from my flesh. Grabbing the closest object I could find to stanch the bleeding, I wrapped my finger with the elegant white cloth napkin from my lap, forever staining the napkin with my ineptitude. Despite wanting to run out of the restaurant in humiliation, I kept my composure and anxiously waited for the appetizer to arrive to distract my nerves.

My first dish finally arrived, and I could smell the comingling scents of butter and garlic emanating from my escargot platter. Keen to redeem my prior blunder, I carefully reached for my fork and cautiously ate each delicious morsel of escargot one methodical bite at a time. Despite the unappealing impression that eating snails can evoke in people, I truly found them to be delicious, and I savored each one with delight. Having eaten the final escargot without any further mishaps, I was regaining my confidence and ready to take on the next course of the meal.

The meal fortunately progressed without any more troubles, and I devoured the remaining dishes of the dinner which included some braised chicken in wine sauce (coq au vin) and a little bit of duck liver (foie gras) as a side. After the main courses were completed, I opted for the cheese tray to accompany dessert. The French truly prize their diverse cheeses, and I wanted to partake in this experience. Not realizing that a cheese course was such a production, I was startled when the waiter rolled over a large cart filled with twenty types of cheeses underneath a plastic lid. My mouth began to salivate at the thought of tasting new flavors of cheese that I’d never heard of before.

With a quick motion of his arm, the waiter lifted the lid off the tray, exposing the prized contents… and that’s when it happened. The olfactory overload of the combination of intense cheese odors hit my nose with a fierce uppercut, causing me to reflexively cringe in repulsion before I could regain my composure. Smirking in victory at having conquered yet another boorish American, the waiter proceeded to describe each particular cheese in lengthy detail, starting with the hard cheeses and gradually concluding with the soft and moldy goat cheeses that literally melted on the plate from decay. Throughout the entire demonstration, the scents of atrociously smelly cheeses enveloped the entire table, settling like a cloud upon my being and soaking into my clothes. Holding my breath and starting to go faint at this point, I quickly pointed at a couple of the less repellant cheeses and made my selection in the hopes that the lid of death would soon be lowered back onto the tray. After a dramatic display of slicing the cheeses and delicately placing them onto my plate, the waiter obliged my silent pleas and finally sealed up the rancid dairy display and rolled it onward to the next unwitting victim.

Recovering from the attack on my senses as the air slowly cleared, I began to taste my cheese selections with trepidation, and they were surprisingly delicious! Turns out you can’t necessarily judge a cheese by its pungency, because I savored each bite with honest delight and cleaned the entire plate. At the end of a nearly three hour dinner, my stomach was stuffed and my eyelids were starting to droop from exhaustion. Emptying out the rest of my bank account, I paid the waiter and thanked him for a wonderful dinner despite appearances to the contrary, and I began the short walk back to the hotel. For many reasons, this would be a traditional French meal I would never forget, as it had pushed all of my senses to the limit. And in the process, I apparently found the trick to clearing out a wide path on a busy sidewalk as well, as all the pedestrians avoided the cloud of cheese funk that wafted around me the entire solitary stroll home.

The infamous cheese tray on full display

Some foie gras delicately prepared

Thyroid Cancer

This post will be a significant divergence from my typical anecdotes about my travel experiences, but I felt like it was time to open up and tell the story of my diagnosis of thyroid cancer and the journey to recovery. But before I begin, I just want to give a spoiler and say that I’m healthy and doing well, so there is no cause for concern!

The saga begins in 2017 when I had decided that it was time to finally start adulting and find a primary care physician to inevitably tell me that I was healthy and invincible. During my physical I was poked and prodded and had my personal space violated, and everything initially seemed normal. But when the physician was palpating my neck and throat, her expression slightly changed and I could sense that something was abnormal. She discussed that she felt a lump on my thyroid and recommended that I get a routine ultrasound prior to my next visit. I wasn’t overly concerned, but obliged her wishes and scheduled my ultrasound for a few weeks later.

Drawing of the location and appearance of the thyroid gland

I’d not been on the receiving end of medical care much during my life, so I was actually interested in undergoing the ultrasound procedure to experience it firsthand and understand what patients endure. The process was entirely painless as I laid on the table while a gelled-up wand was pressed into my neck and throat from every angle in order to visualize the thyroid gland and any possible lymph nodes in the area. After the procedure, I went back to work for the remainder of the day and waited for my results to be analyzed and posted on the patient portal within the next couple days.

The official ultrasound results were disconcerting because they distinctly recommended a biopsy and further nuclear imaging to be performed, shattering my illusion of invincibility. My next step was to personally review the American Thyroid Association (ATA) guidelines to decipher the ultrasound results, and every descriptive detail of my thyroid nodule checked the box for “cancer”: hypoechoic, internal vascularity, microcalcifications, and larger than 4 centimeters in size, with a borderline prominent left lymph node. With the more research I did, the more I realized that I was facing a threatening situation to my health, so I promptly scheduled a follow-up with my physician to determine the next step.

Within several days, I was laying back on an examination table and preparing for my thyroid nodule to get biopsied. I was initially injected with several stinging shots of lidocaine to numb the area, and then the interventional radiologist performed two fine needle aspirations to obtain different core samples of the nodule. After the procedure, a Band-aid was placed on the injection site, and I returned to finish up the rest of my shift. Despite having multiple needles inserted into my thyroid, I only experienced a very mild, dull pain at the site, which was a pleasant surprise. The samples were sent to pathology to be analyzed, and the final results came back as a “benign follicular nodule” indicating the absence of cancer. To say I was relieved was an understatement, but I still had this nagging feeling that the histological results weren’t entirely accurate because of the damning description of the ultrasound findings in conjunction with the ATA guidelines.

Several days later I was scheduled for my nuclear medicine thyroid imaging scan, in which I swallowed some radioactive Iodine-123 capsules in the morning and returned in the afternoon for images to be done. The thyroid takes up any circulating iodine in your body, and the capsule’s iodine was radiolabeled allowing the scanner to detect how much iodine was being taken up by the thyroid. The following day I returned yet again for additional scans to compare with the first set. Both scans showed normal uptake of my thyroid, with a corresponding lack of uptake within the nodule, which is typical.

Representation of part of the thyroid uptake scan

Throughout this process I had selected an endocrinologist and set myself up as a new patient. With all of this welcome news, we made the joint decision to do a follow-up ultrasound in 6 months and then reevaluate the situation at that time. The second thyroid ultrasound showed no change in the size of the nodule, but there was increased vascularity compared to the previous study. While this was a negligible change, the nagging feeling about my biopsy results led me to request that my endocrinologist refer me to an oncology surgeon for a more professional evaluation.

After meeting with the surgeon, he strongly felt that the left half of my thyroid should be surgically excised, leaving me with half of a thyroid that should still produce an adequate amount of hormone. While I preferred to remove the whole thyroid based upon the ultrasound results, I accepted his decision because the biopsy had been negative, and it would be better to conserve a partial thyroid and maintain normal functioning if possible. The elective surgery was scheduled, and I apprehensively waited for the date to eventually arrive.

In April 2018, I arrived at the surgical center feeling nervous, but ready to proceed. After being disinfected and pre-medicated, I was wheeled into the operating room and drifted off to a drug-induced sleep. What seemed like seconds later, I was groggily waking up in the post-operative area as the anesthesia wore off before being transferred to a hospital room for an uneventful overnight stay. Because there are four small parathyroid glands embedded directly behind the thyroid gland, they can sometimes get damaged during the surgery, so I was admitted in order to keep a close eye on my calcium levels which would indicate parathyroid damage, of which there was fortunately none. A couple days after discharge, the surgeon personally called me to let me know that the pathology results of the nodule were back. Despite the prior negative biopsy, he discussed that the pathology clearly showed papillary thyroid cancer, and I needed to urgently go back for a second surgery. And that’s when my world came crashing down as the big C-word finally materialized into a reality for me. Cancer… yes, it was the "best" kind of thyroid cancer to get if you had to choose because it has the best outcomes, but it was still cancer nonetheless.

All prepped up for my first hemithyroidectomy surgery

Recovering after the left lobe of my thyroid was removed

Being discharged from the surgical oncology unit

Exactly a week after my initial surgery, I was back at the surgical center having the remainder of my thyroid completely removed, followed by another overnight hospital stay for observation. It was a complete sense of déjà vu as I was taken care of by the same nursing staff on the same floor while recovering from the same surgery, just as my initial incision had begun to heal. With my throat sealed up with glue for a second time, I was discharged and allowed to recuperate at home for a week. I began experiencing an inordinate amount of swelling at the surgical site, and was told to immediately make a follow-up appointment to evaluate the wound. They determined that I was developing a post-operative seroma, which was aspirated and drained, and temporarily helped alleviate the swelling. As the days passed, the bruising and swelling continued to dissipate, and eventually even the surgical glue came off, which allowed me to look somewhat normal again.

Recuperating at home with my caring nurse

Here we go again -- surgery #2

The bruising and developing seroma post-operatively

Having the seroma drained under ultrasound-guided aspiration

With my thyroid completely removed, I now had no ability to create thyroid hormone, which is in charge of the body’s metabolism. This causes you to feel sluggish and gain weight among other symptoms, so the body requires a daily replenishment of synthesized thyroid hormone as a replacement. However, before you begin a thyroid hormone replacement regimen after surgery, it is necessary to force your body into a hypothyroid state, causing you to exhibit these symptoms and experience incessant tiredness that cannot be cured by sleep. Once the thyroid hormone is sufficiently suppressed, the next step is to visit a radiation oncologist for further radiologic testing, to make sure that all of the thyroid has been removed. And this is where it begins to get interesting.

In the radiation oncologist’s office, the physician retrieves a highly secured radiation-filled capsule enclosed in a portable Fort Knox contraption to prevent accidental exposure. I swallow the capsule of radioactive Iodine-131 with the purpose of destroying any residual thyroid tissue that remained post-operatively. This time around, the radioactivity of the iodine is significant enough to pose a danger to others in my vicinity. A Geiger counter is waved over me to ensure that there is indeed an adequate amount of radioactivity emanating from my body, and then I am promptly ushered out the back door and told to self-quarantine for 3-4 full days. This involves being isolated in a guest bedroom in the house, completely avoiding all contact with humans or animals, and refraining from getting within 6 feet of any living thing, even if separated by a wall since the radiation will easily pass through. All of my bodily fluids were considered to be contaminated, so I had to use disposable dishes/plasticware to eat, wash all of my clothes separately, and ensure that no one came into contact with my bedsheets or towels. I felt like an ostracized leper who was shunned from society, but I at least had the company of my books and music to occupy my time. All in all, I actually enjoyed my relaxing isolation time, and it allowed me to mentally process my circumstances and begin to feel at peace with everything that was occurring. Once my quarantine was completed, I was free to join society again, disappointed that I hadn't gained any special superpowers from my radiation exposure. I was even given a document stating that I’d received radiation for oncologic purposes, should I set off any radiation detectors at the airport, in an effort to prove that I wasn’t a dangerous terrorist.

The Geiger counter which confirmed that I truly was radioactive

The next step in my recovery process was the whole body scan, where I was placed inside a gamma scan device similar to a CT machine, and my entire body was slowly scanned to detect where I was emitting radiation. This can detect for residual thyroid tissue, as well as the metastatic spread of any cancerous thyroid tissue throughout the body. My results showed uptake in the thyroid bed indicating remnant thyroid tissue, but absolutely no evidence of any lymph node involvement or metastatic disease. Some residual thyroid tissue is expected post-operatively, and is nothing to be concerned about. This was the best news for which I could have hoped!

Undergoing the whole body gamma scan

The final step in this process was the initiation of thyroid replacement hormone, which merely involves taking a single levothyroxine (Synthroid) pill once daily in the morning as soon as I wake up. I have my thyroid labs checked on a semi-regular basis, and have been regulated back to a normal level with no ill side effects. I have essentially been completely cured of my thyroid cancer, and despite having an unsightly scar on the front of my throat for everyone to see, I live my life as if nothing happened, which is the best result that one could imagine. I am truly blessed to have a good core group of friends, and excellent physicians to have gotten me through this ordeal, and I look forward to continuing to live the rest of my life cancer-free!

Raise awareness and get your neck checked!

My First Military Tattoo

Eight full months before I was scheduled to depart for my vacation, I set my alarm clock for a very important date with destiny. Hours before daylight even had a notion of appearing on the eastern edge of the United States, tickets for the Royal Edinburgh Military Tattoo were going on sale to the general public in the United Kingdom, and it was my intention to snag the best seat that I could. I was only going to be in Edinburgh for a single night as a stopover between the Orkney and Ireland legs of my trip, so this was my one opportunity to score a highly coveted ticket. With the feverishness of a Hamilton fanatic on opening day, I knew I was not going to throw away my shot to see this show, so I promptly entered the online waiting room as soon as the ticketing queue opened, and I nervously awaited my turn. Time slowly dragged by until at last I was selected to proceed and book my ticket. I hastily ordered my premier seat, and felt a huge sigh of relief when the website’s processing symbol finally stopped spinning and my order confirmation appeared on the screen. My spot was secure, and I could finally rise up and seize the day…. by going promptly back to bed!

Fast forward eight months, and my airplane touched down on the Edinburgh tarmac with several hours to spare until my show was scheduled to begin. I flagged down a taxi, checked into my hotel room, and ambled down to The Royal Mile to explore the historic district. Scotland’s capital city has always been one of my favorite cities to wander around with its mix of medieval-style and Georgian architecture, culminating with the colorful buildings along the curved Victoria Street which is undeniably the most photogenic block of the whole city. Once the time approached to enter the castle esplanade, I shuffled my way through the bustling crowds and joined the throngs of excited attendees.

I passed through a series of security checkpoints and eagerly entered into the grandstands, finally setting eyes upon the dominating exterior of the impregnable castle’s stone walls. While being ushered to my seat, I pleasantly discovered that I was merely two rows beneath the top military brass with a view to die for. Turns out that my decision to buy my premier ticket the exact moment it went on sale was a worthwhile endeavor! The crowds quickly filled the temporary stadium seating, built to hold around 9000 spectators and hundreds of performers. Suddenly the overhead speakers came on, and the announcer officially opened the evening’s festivities in honor of Her Majesty The Queen’s 90^th year. The royal show had begun!

What followed next was a dazzling production of military pageantry accompanied by music and dancing. Regiments of kilted soldiers marched in formation and played a rousing melody on the bagpipes to get the audience amped up. Various regiments from distant countries all around the world took their turns on the performance grounds and demonstrated displays of military prowess and precision. From weapons inspections to gun tossing to horsemanship to falconry, each routine was more fantastic than the previous. In a break from the military flourishes, there was a lively interval of highland dancing, as women exhibited their highland fling jumps while men leaped in synchrony over their swords, all to the backdrop of flames shooting up from the ground. Upon the imposing castle fortifications were projections of the waving Union Jack flag and other stirring video montages to inspire pride and patriotism.

As a grand finale, members from each country’s performing regiments combined into a singular marching force and filled the entire stadium floor for a monumental end to the evening. In perfect collaboration, the bagpipes, woodwinds, brass, and percussion sections joined in a beautiful rendition of The National Anthem and Scotland the Brave, stirring tears from the audience and a vigorous round of applause. To top off this unforgettable evening, a spectacular pyrotechnic display of fireworks was unleashed overhead in a dazzling array of colors and patterns, drawing everyone’s enraptured gaze skywards. Once the finale had concluded and the thunderous booms had subsided, I stood to my feet and slowly filed out of the stands with my heart thumping in jubilation and my arms covered in goosebumps from the emotive showing of the 67^th Royal Edinburgh Military Tattoo. Despite spending just one night in Edinburgh, I felt the weight of many centuries worth of the nation’s pride and heritage filling my entire being that evening, and I will always reflect back upon that memory with admiration.

The castle dominates the military tattoo

More military pageantry on display

Highland fling dancing

The Union Jack projected onto the castle ramparts

Victoria Street

Edinburgh Castle as seen from atop the Scott Monument

Into the Heart of Darkness

This is the story of my journey into the heart of darkness, boating along the Chagres River deep into the wild jungles of Panama. From encountering local natives, observing tribal customs, trekking across waterfalls, and feasting on freshly caught fish, this was an out of the ordinary adventure not to be forgotten. Upon leaving the bustling metropolis of Panama City, we drove for several hours into the rural outskirts of the city. Life along the perimeter of civilization was extremely rustic, dotted with unfinished cement block houses amid yards littered with trash piles and scrawny chickens pecking at the detritus. The further we drove into the countryside, the more haphazard the dwellings became, ranging from shanties made from corrugated steel to huts built with wood from the surrounding forests. Despite being typical for most communities in Central and South America, the abject poverty seen in these small outlying communities is eminently heart-wrenching.

After being jostled to death for several hours by the bumpy rut-filled roads, we reached the river where we awaited our next form of transportation. Our wooden boat soon arrived, piloted by a man clad in nothing but a beaded loincloth. He was from one of the local native Embera tribes, and was ready to guide us up the river to his small village. We clambered into the canoe and drifted away from the shore, embarking on our river portion of the journey. Fortunately, some modern technology had spread to this region, and our boat was equipped with an outboard motor, sparing us from having to endlessly row upstream all day and expend our muscles in the process. Along the muddy river we passed by small groupings of wooden huts, each belonging to another village of native Embera tribespeople. Occasionally, children would run to the riverside and furiously wave to the strange passersby, excited for the brief interruption of their daily lives by these curious visitors. Cruising along the calm river was a welcome respite from the earlier bumpy car ride, and I enjoyed admiring the jungled scenery around every riverbend and watching the colorful birds flying overhead.

Several miles into the expedition, we landed at our destination, astride a swath of muddy beach. We followed our guide headlong into the jungle path, ducking past overgrown trees and climbing over vines and brambles. There was a break in the path as it led to a smaller river, which we carefully crossed by gingerly tip-toeing over wooden planks laid across the span, each board sagging into the river with every footstep. Upon successful crossing of the river without any casualties, we progressed along the path until we reached a spectacular waterfall hidden amidst the jungle brush. This was such a serene spot that we all stopped and stared, entranced by the view. After ample time, the guide notified us that we must continue onward, and abruptly broken from our spells we trudged forward through the underbrush.

A short while later we approached a clearing in the woods and were soon greeted by smiling tribespeople who welcomed us to their humble village. They ushered us past sturdily-built wooden buildings on stilts, built to protect the inhabitants from flooding and from unwelcome wildlife. There were many houses scattered about, and within the center of the village was a school and an adjacent large building for community gatherings. We climbed up into this broad central room and sat down to a table laid with plates signaling the advent of our lunch. The scents of freshly fried fish and plantains wafted through the air, and set my mouth watering. The meal was quickly devoured, not out of respect to the hosts, but as a true testament to the deliciousness of the proffered food that was freshly and locally sourced. The plentiful food was the perfect antidote to a growling stomach that was ravenous from a long and draining trek through the jungle. Contentedly sitting back with a full belly, I listened as the tribe leaders explained the story of the indigenous Embera people and how they continued to eke out an existence in the tropical regions of Panama. They explained their customs and daily routines, and then called out for the rest of the tribe members to display their native music and dancing while dressed in their colorful and traditionally handmade clothing. They sang and exuberantly danced in a circle, expressing the joy that can only be found from living contentedly despite their meager means.

After this immersion into the Embera lifestyle, we were invited to follow the tribe’s medicine man into his jungle domain and look at the different plants that are used to heal various ailments. Through an interpreter, he described each of the native plants within his garden, and how specific parts of each plant can be either curative or deadly, demonstrating the skill needed to differentiate each plant. Stomach pains, headaches, infections, diarrhea, and impotence were all some of the minor conditions which were touted to be cured by any number of these native plants, and this information was fascinating for the pharmacist-centered curiosity which always dwells within my core. While I don’t intend to add these latest treatments to my armament of medications, there is extensive science behind the curative properties of certain plants, leading to the creation of drugs used today – aspirin, belladonna, opioids, cannabis, etc.

Armed with this new knowledge and rejuvenated from an afternoon spent with the local tribespeople, I said my reluctant farewells as our time together came to a close. I had learned some valuable lessons from these pleasant people, proving that you don’t need material wealth to be content. Always wear a smile and treat everyone you meet like a welcome guest, and your outlook on the world can remarkably shift. This is a much-needed mantra in today’s divisive environment, and exemplifies that only through kindness and unity can we hope to achieve a better society for all. If only we could all strive to be more accommodating like the Embera tribespeople, we could leave the world a better place for those who follow in our footsteps.

Typical dugout canoes used by the Embera people today

Passing by another Embera village along the route

Traditional wooden houses on stilts

Exhibiting their native music and dancing

The village chief is playing the flute

Following the medicine man into the woods

The medicine man is explaining the curative properties of his plants

Land of Fire and Ice

Florida’s winters are envied by much of the world, and throngs of snowbirds flock to the state during the winter months to escape the frigid temperatures of the northern United States. It would seem illogical for a native Floridian to abandon the state during its most ideal weather, squandering the rare opportunity to venture outside without instantly succumbing to heat stroke. But that is exactly what I chose to do one December day. But rather than leaving for an even more tropical destination like a sane person, I ventured to the extreme opposite climate by flying to the northernmost capital city in the entire world – Reykjavik, Iceland – during the middle of the winter solstice. This meant that I was greeted by two unfamiliar hosts upon my arrival – freezing temperatures and daytime darkness.

Iceland in the winter has several perks that make it worthwhile, including the opportunity to see frozen waterfalls, witness spurting geysers, hike across glaciers, and explore prismatic ice caves, all of which I was fortunate to experience. Each of these are worthy of their own post, but they are not the focus of today. This particular adventure starts with climbing into a different type of cave – a lava tube. Iceland is known as the land of fire and ice, and that is a well-deserved moniker. Beneath all of the snowfields and glaciers lies one of the most active volcanic regions in the world, which came to the forefront of everyone’s attention in 2010 when Eyjafjallajökull erupted and disrupted travel plans for millions.

Another similar volcano erupted over 5000 years ago, creating a slow-moving lava flow that formed an outer crust upon exposure to the cold temperatures. This caused the external crust layer to harden while the internal lava flow continued to stream through, eventually leaving an empty shell. Today this shell remains as an explorable volcanic tunnel that stretches for nearly a mile in length. Donning my hard hat and headlamp, I descend into the Raufarhólshellir lava tunnel. The cave is a reddish hue due to the mineral-laden volcanic rocks, and this bloody tint lends an eerie atmosphere to the experience. Because I am visiting in winter, the floor is slippery with ice, and there are frozen stalagmites and stalactites scattered about, formed by water dripping from the ceiling. The area within the cavern is quite expansive in some locations, which is impressive when you consider the entire tube had been filled with a river of molten lava at one point. Overall, the lava tunnel was relatively similar to other caves I’d been in before, but knowing it was created from a completely different process made it an intriguing visit.

The true highlight of the evening was the hunt for the fleeting lights of the aurora borealis, visible near the Arctic Circle during the dark winter months. In the middle of the night, you could find our small band of travelers venturing along empty backroads of the Icelandic wilderness searching for the perfect spot. After an uneventful evening, a faint glow started to develop in the distant sky, igniting a spark of hope deep within my soul. Could this be the elusive light of the Valkyries’ reflective armor, leading deceased Viking warriors toward Odin in Valhalla? This mythological aura was slowly coming to life in front of my eyes as the floating green hue began to grow in size. It twisted and contorted across the sky, building in intensity as the minutes passed. Staring at the sky, I was mesmerized by these northern lights that swirled and danced overhead, capturing the gaze of everyone below. My heart soared in rhythm with the piercing glow above, and I willed for this moment to last for eternity. Alas, the ephemerality of these mystical lights meant that the experience lasted long enough to appreciate this wonder of nature while wondering if it was all a dream. I count myself lucky to have been able to view the lights during one cold night in Iceland, and yearn to encounter them again one day in the future.

Having achieved this major bucket list item during my sojourn into the land of fire and ice, my short stay in Iceland was quickly coming to a close. On my final day, I had booked a late afternoon flight back home with the sole intention of spending the entire day relaxing in the geothermal waters of the Blue Lagoon. I caught the first bus of the day to the lagoon, and shortly after stowing my luggage and hitting the requisite showers, I donned my bathing suit and stepped outside. You’ve never experienced bitter cold until you are standing outside half-naked on a dark wintery morning in Iceland, fully exposed to the frigid temperatures and gusty breezes. Covered in goosebumps and beset by rigidly tense muscles, I managed to defy my shivering body and head toward the beckoning waters… and what an instant relief it was to immerse myself! The lagoon is a magical byproduct of superheated water from a nearby lava flow that is harnessed for thermal energy prior to filling the lagoon with a comfortable 100 degree temperature bath. This heat instantly soothed my muscles and brought me to a blissful nirvana in a matter of seconds.

The Blue Lagoon deservedly earns the honor of being the most-visited tourist site in the entire country, and it is essential to arrive early. As daylight does not dawn until around 11am in the winter, the first couple hours of my visit were spent in a serene dark fog that helped to create the illusion of being the sole inhabitant in a foreign land. I floated around for hours in the curious pastel blue waters, trying out the various amenities such as silica mud masks applied to my face, beverages sipped beside a swim up bar, and a steam sauna hot enough to melt away any muscle pains. So much relaxation in which to partake, surely I must have discovered paradise! Suddenly, as if to quell any notions that this was a tamed paradise, Iceland decided to remind me that this is the land of fire AND ice, and subsequently released a barrage of sleet onto its unwitting victims below. The stinging of this frozen rain felt like ice needles were being hurled from the heavens, and everyone flocked to the covered regions of the pool, eager to escape Odin’s fury. But the blitz was short-lived, and soon it dissipated into oblivion, leaving no trace of its existence aside from pelt marks on wary swimmers. Soon we had all returned to the task of relaxation and quickly picked up where we had left off.

All in all, I experienced a wide range of weather phenomena during my visit, and glimpsed firsthand at some of the struggles that early settlers much have endured. Iceland holds a vast wealth of natural wonders for such a small island, and dares all visitors to experience its untamed beauty. Despite abandoning the tepid winters of my hometown for the bracing and at times unbearable arctic cold, I felt like I made the winning choice. This trip focused on the beauty of nature and the wild forces that it controls, and I will always look back with fondness on my time spent here, and long for the day I can return yet again… although this time hopefully in the pleasant summer months!

Frozen waterfall beside Kirkjufell mountain

Traversing through the lava tunnel

Encountering the northern lights

Swimming in the geothermal water of the Blue Lagoon