It’ll be like this: You’ll sit in a hot tub under the starry sky that night and talk about the months and years and dreams to come before cuddling up in that wooden room in the attic. That night someone will wake you up just before midnight and say, “Err, Northern Lights!” two hours before you leave for the airport, and you’ll throw a scarf and jacket over your pyjamas, clumsily walk down the stairs and maybe swear a little.
You’ll step outside on the snow and your eyes will take some time getting used to the dark. That’s strange, isn’t it? Light is so much easier on the eye. And then there they are, performing their own dance just for you and that blur between sleep and wake will make you cry later but not now. Aurora borealis. There they are, growing stronger and fading out, turning green, orange, grey. That Cohen quote on the cracks and the light? Yeah. That’s when you, for a split second, won’t mind the hot mess and cracked hearts south of the Arctic because as long as there’s, “Err, Northern Lights!”, every scar has a dancing counterpart that looks its Sunday best when all you have is baggy pyjamas and tired eyes.
More Iceland pictures.