A few months ago I had the super-bright idea that it would be cool to snorkel between the Eurasian and North American tectonic plates, having two continents within arms’ reach.  Cool, I thought.  I’m going to do that.  Because I do all the things.

So off I went to Iceland, where I did all sorts of other things.  I went zip-lining upside down.  I went hiking in the mountains.  I bathed in the Blue Lagoon.  I paid 35,000 Icelandic króna for a pair of rain pants that I didn’t end up using (that’s okay — it’s just money.  Sometimes it goes away like that).  I photographed geysers and waterfalls, soaked in hot springs, and ate rye bread that had been baked for 24 hours underground, where the water is at a constant volcanic boil.  I wandered the streets of Reykjavik, went to the flea market, and ate an incomparable fish dinner.  I bumped my head on the top of a cave and marvelled at the almost-midnight sun.  All the things.