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.
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