October 2018 · Golden Circle + South Coast · 9 Days
The first thing you see when you clear customs at Keflavik is a floor-to-ceiling comic book mural — massive, chaotic, superhero panels stacked on top of each other like the whole wall is about to explode off the building. I stopped mid-stride with my carry-on still rolling and just stood there with my mouth open.
Not exactly what I expected from a country made entirely of volcanoes and ice. But that’s Iceland. It will refuse to be what you assumed at every single turn and it will do it with zero apology.
I had just flown across the Atlantic with ten women I barely knew. My bag was overpacked. I had no idea if nine days with strangers was brilliant or the worst idea I’d ever said yes to. Iceland had me at hello.
Iceland does something to you fast. Like, embarrassingly fast.
First, a confession about what kind of trip this was
People ask me if Iceland was a solo trip. The honest answer is: sort of. And also not at all.
I found the group through a Facebook community — one of those want to travel but don’t know anyone? spaces where strangers compare bucket lists and someone eventually says fine, let’s just go. I’d actually met two of the women briefly on a last-minute Cuba trip earlier that year. The rest were complete strangers when we landed at Keflavik on October 1st, 2018.
Eleven women. Nine days. A country that has absolutely no business being this beautiful.
There was no Chris waiting at home yet. No Emilia — she was still six years away. This was me, completely untethered, saying yes to a group chat with people I didn’t know because the alternative was staying home and I have never — not once — been able to make peace with that.
We rented a house in Kjósarhreppur, a municipality just outside Reykjavík, and split it eleven ways. I got the attic room: sloped ceiling, a bed piled in gray linen, a tiny window letting in that flat pale Icelandic light. Best room in the house. I will not apologize. By day two the kitchen table downstairs looked like a convenience store exploded on it — Sriracha, chip bags, water bottles, someone’s gloves, a Patrón bottle with shot glasses marked in Sharpie. This is how you do Iceland on a real budget: not a hotel, a house, and everyone contributes to the beautiful chaos on the counter.
This was the solo-era version of brave: not going alone, but going anyway.
What Iceland actually smells like
Cold. Sulfur — faintly, mostly near anything geothermal, like the earth reminding you it’s still cooking underneath your feet. Wet rock. Grass that has been rained on for six thousand years straight. And when the wind comes off the glaciers, it doesn’t smell like anything at all — it’s just the complete absence of warmth, which turns out to be its own sensory experience entirely.
The sky was doing four things at once all week: raining, threatening to rain, clearing so dramatically you gasped, and then pulling off these lighting situations I genuinely do not have words for. October in Iceland is peak autumn — birch trees going yellow-gold, grass that saturated brown-green, everything else either lava field or waterfall or both somehow.
It’s not pretty the way Italy is pretty. There’s nothing soft about it. It’s more like standing on a planet that hasn’t decided yet whether it wants you there — and you’re so stunned by it you don’t even care.
The Golden Circle
We started where everyone starts: Þingvellir, Gullfoss, Kerið. Yes, it’s the tourist route. Yes, every Iceland blog covers it. No, I do not care even a little bit.
Þingvellir is where the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates meet — meaning you are literally standing in the gap between two continents. The rift walls rise up on either side of you and there’s a waterfall called Öxaráfoss that crashes down into glacial-blue water and the whole thing should feel cheesy and over-hyped and it absolutely does not. I sat cross-legged on the wooden viewing deck with the falls thundering right behind me and I just… sat there. Didn’t touch my phone for a full five minutes. For me, that’s basically a silent retreat.
Gullfoss drops into a canyon so deep the mist rises back up like the earth is exhaling — two tiers of waterfall disappearing into this roaring gorge and the whole thing is so loud you feel it in your chest before you hear it. I leaned over the railing and looked straight down and my body did that involuntary thing where your knees go soft and your brain says back up and you lean further in anyway because you did not fly across an ocean to be sensible about this. The wind was fast enough to rip my headband right off my head. I held it down with one hand and kept leaning.
And then I noticed something. From that angle, with the two tiers dropping into the canyon and the water fanning out below — Gullfoss looks exactly like a slice of pizza. I’m not even kidding. Look at the photo. It’s a slice of pizza. So naturally I leaned in like I was about to take a bite, because if I could just internalize what this place tastes like, maybe I could hold onto it a little longer. Also I love pizza. Especially Little Caesars. Because again — bougie on a budget. We contain multitudes.
Kerið is a volcanic crater lake and I need you to actually stop and look it up right now because I cannot do justice to what that water looks like. It’s teal. Not normal teal — impossible teal, sitting inside a bowl of deep red volcanic rock and lime-green moss like Iceland got bored and decided to paint something. It looks photoshopped. I promise you it is not photoshopped. I stood at the rim in the drizzle, mittens clasped, staring at it like a complete tourist. Zero regrets.
We pulled over for the horses. Obviously.
Icelandic horses are a specific breed — stocky, thick-maned, deeply unbothered by everything. We spotted them roadside from the van and someone said stop the car and the driver stopped the car immediately because we were eleven women and that was simply never going to be a debate.
I fed one through the wire fence with a gloved hand. He took the grass and looked at me with the total indifference of a creature who has been in Iceland since the Vikings brought him here and has seen absolutely everything since. I related to him on a spiritual level.
The South Coast, where Iceland stops playing around
If the Golden Circle is Iceland’s greatest hits, the South Coast is the deep cuts — the ones that hit harder than you expected because you didn’t see them coming.
Seljalandsfoss you can walk behind. There’s a path cut into the rock and you go around the back of the waterfall and suddenly you are standing inside a curtain of falling water with the entire Icelandic plain stretched out in front of you through the mist. I’m not even kidding — the sky opens up, you can see for miles, the water is roaring six inches from your face and your jacket is soaked and it is so loud you can’t hear the person next to you and it is one of the most alive I have ever felt in my life.
We went back in the afternoon. The mist coming off the water is so thick, so constant, that the light gets swallowed whole — the photo looks like dawn, like something cinematic and staged, but that’s just what Seljalandsfoss does to whatever light it gets. Someone got the silhouette shot of me pointing up at it with the whole valley behind me. That photo is the one. That is the whole trip in one frame.
Skógafoss is bigger, louder, and completely indiscriminate about who it soaks. We stood in front of it for the group shot and the mist hit all of us simultaneously and someone screamed and someone laughed so hard she couldn’t stand up straight and someone’s hat actually blew into the field. One of the girls walked all the way to the base alone and stood there with her arms out like she was asking it a question. I understood completely.
Jökulsárlón and the glacier ice I absolutely licked
Let me set the scene.
We were supposed to go to the most popular glacier lagoon — the one everybody goes to, the one on every Iceland itinerary ever written. Because we are tourists. Unapologetic tourists who also happen to be trying to be bougie on a budget because we thought we were going to be broke in Iceland. Spoiler: we were not broke. But we didn’t know that yet.
So we drove a little further out from the main spot to a quieter stretch, got out of the van, and immediately said some version of holy crap it is cold in unison. And it was. It was deeply, aggressively, personally cold. But we came this far. We are not getting back in the van without pictures. Because if there are no pictures, there is no proof. And if there is no proof, you weren’t there. That is the rule and it applies everywhere including the edge of a glacier in Iceland in October.
So I picked up the ice.
Now here’s my logic, and I stand behind it completely. The tap water in Iceland is some of the cleanest water on the planet — crisp, cold, you can drink it straight from the faucet, probably from the shower too, not that I tested that. Point being: if the water coming out of the pipes is that clean, then glacier water — water that has been frozen solid for thousands of years — is presumably even cleaner. Which means licking the glacier ice is basically just drinking water in a more adventurous format.
What is the worst thing that could happen? I eat a fossilized dinosaur? Oh well.
The plane wreck at golden hour
First of all, whose idea was this.
I’m being dramatic. But also — walking forty-five minutes across flat black volcanic sand in October wind with absolutely nothing to break it is not for the faint of heart. There are no trees. No landmarks. No shelter of any kind. Just you and the black earth and the wind coming straight at your face and the outline of a broken airplane somewhere in the distance that does not appear to be getting any closer.
It’s giving Are We There Yet. It is giving that movie in its entirety. No. We were not there yet. We still had another twenty minutes. We were freezing. We were walking in a single file line like penguins. Someone said something about whose idea this was and I will not be naming names.
But here’s the thing. The rule applies here too. No pictures, no proof. You weren’t there. And we were there — so we kept walking.
We arrived at golden hour. The sun going horizontal across the black sand, painting everything amber and bronze, the fuselage of a 1973 DC-3 lit up like a film set against a sky that had absolutely no business being that dramatic. I climbed up and sat on the engine housing. The horizon was on fire. Someone took the silhouette photo.
I’ve seen a lot of things in a lot of places. That sunset at the plane wreck is in the top five of my life. Top three on a good day.
And yes — it looks photoshopped. It is not photoshopped. We were there. We walked forty-five minutes in the wind to prove it. The haters can think what they want.
The Northern Lights we almost missed
Before the trip, we did our research. And the research was not encouraging.
The aurora wasn’t pointing our direction that week — it was active, but somewhere over Alaska or Russia, not Iceland. We’d made peace with it. Nine days of waterfalls and glaciers and geothermal water and no Northern Lights — still Iceland, still a win, still more than most people get in a lifetime.
We were leaving the Blue Lagoon on our last night. Warm, loose, a little tired in the best way. Someone glanced out the van window and said — wait. Is that—?
Dead silence.
No way.
Where?
Right there, look—
That’s just a cloud.
…is it though?
It was dark. It was subtle enough to talk yourself out of. And then it wasn’t subtle anymore.
The van pulled over. We piled out one by one onto the shoulder of the road with Reykjavík glowing on the horizon and the sky above us going green — slow, rolling waves of it, moving like something breathing, like it was alive and it knew we were watching.
We had been told we were going to miss them. We almost believed it.
Disappointment turned to amazement in about forty-five seconds flat. That’s Iceland. It will humble you and then turn right around and give you everything.
Reykjavík, honestly
The capital runs on fish, geothermal energy, and a very specific kind of Nordic confidence that I found deeply inspiring. Hallgrímskirkja — the enormous concrete church that looks like a pipe organ designed by God on a very ambitious day — towers over everything. Monica got on the ground to shoot it from below with me standing in front. We were fully committed to the angle and I have no notes.
We tried on Viking helmets in a souvenir shop. There is a photo. My face in it is not dignified. Moving on.
October 8th was Donna’s birthday. And Donna had opinions about how birthdays should be celebrated. Let’s just say she wanted champagne on a sparkling cider budget — which, look, I respect the vision entirely, neither here nor there — so we decided to walk around downtown Reykjavík and see what we could find.
We were wandering. Just walking, looking around, taking in the city at night. And then we heard it.
Music. Loud. Like, really loud. The kind of beat that you feel in your chest before your brain catches up.
We all looked at each other. Is that a club?
And then the natural assumption — we’re in Iceland, we’re on a random street in downtown Reykjavík, surely whatever is playing in there is going to be in Icelandic, or Nordic, or some very sophisticated European genre none of us would recognize.
It was Daddy Yankee.
Of course it was Daddy Yankee.
Of course we went in.
And what did eleven women drink at a club in Reykjavík, Iceland, on Donna’s birthday? A Modelo. Because why not. We chased it with Icelandic vodka because we were already there and it felt like the right thing to do and it absolutely was.
Someone in the van pulled out their phone and did fake GPS navigation in a full dramatic accent and I cannot explain why this was the funniest thing that happened on the entire trip. You had to be there. By day four we were collectively delirious.
On Laugavegur — Reykjavík’s main shopping street, spotless and lined with red tulip-shaped lamps — the hearts are painted right on the pavement. Pink and orange and red, scattered across the dark street under those glowing tulips with the whole city moving around them. I lay completely flat on the ground to get the shot while one of the girls stood over me taking my picture. People were stepping around me. I did not care even slightly. The streets in Reykjavík are immaculate, by the way. You could genuinely eat off them. I know this because I was on them.
We stopped at a Goodburger parking lot and someone got an ice cream cone. In the parking lot. In 45-degree weather. Standing next to a van. This is the exact kind of trip it was and I mean that as the highest possible compliment.
We ate hot dogs at Bæjarins Beztu Pylsur — the little red stand that’s been there since 1937 and has been voted the best hot dog in Europe. You order it með öllu, meaning with everything: fried onion, raw onion, ketchup, sweet mustard, remoulade. And I need you to understand that when I took the first bite I genuinely stopped and thought — wait. Are we back in LA? Are we coming out of the Callejones, walking through Santee Alley, leaving a concert? Because that is the level we are talking about. That hot dog hit like street food from home and I was not prepared for it. The mustard alone. The mustard is freaking amazing. Eat the hot dog. I cannot say it any more clearly than that.
One night we did a proper dinner — Japanese-Icelandic fusion, cod miso and tempura shrimp and Brussels sprouts that were somehow the best thing on the table, which I did not see coming. We also spent twenty solid minutes posing on a cargo bike outside a design shop called Tulipop. Iceland is full of these small perfect moments tucked between the waterfalls and you should let yourself have all of them.
The Blue Lagoon
Last day. We ended exactly where you’re supposed to end: submerged in 102-degree geothermal water the color of diluted turquoise, lava fields all around, a Gull beer in hand.
I floated on my back and stared at the sky. Steam curled off the surface in slow spirals. The October sun was dropping fast and sideways, painting everything gold and amber, and there is a photo from this exact moment where I am in silhouette with my beer raised toward the sun and I look like someone who has figured out the meaning of something important.
I had not figured out anything. I was just warm for the first time in nine days. But honestly? Close enough.
We stayed in that water for three hours. We didn’t want to get out because getting out meant it was over, and none of us were ready for it to be over.
What I’d tell you before you go
Split your home base. This is the thing I’d go back and tell myself first. We had one house near Reykjavík for the whole trip, which meant two and three hour drives to the South Coast and back every single day. By the time we arrived somewhere, explored, and turned around, we were always fighting the clock. If I did this again I’d book two Airbnbs — one in the south, one further north — and divide the nine days between them. Less van time, more time standing in front of the thing you actually came to see. Driving in a foreign country on unfamiliar roads is its own special kind of exhausting. Give yourself the gift of proximity.
Go in October. The summer crowds are gone, the Northern Lights start showing up, and the autumn color on the birch trees against all that black lava is something I did not expect to love as much as I did. The light is also doing something extraordinary at that time of year — low, sideways, golden in a way that makes every photo look intentional. Go in October.
Pack layers. Then pack more layers. And then add two more on top of that. Iceland cold is not regular cold. It’s wet and windy and it gets inside your jacket and finds you no matter what you’re wearing. Your regular rain jacket will not cut it. A fleece under a waterproof shell is the minimum. Wool socks. Gloves you won’t hate yourself for losing. I’m telling you this as someone who thought she was prepared and was humbled repeatedly.
Rent a car or book a driver for the South Coast. The Golden Circle you can do on a bus tour if you have to. The South Coast — Seljalandsfoss, Skógafoss, the glacier lagoon, the plane wreck — you need to be able to stay as long as you want. You cannot put a time limit on standing behind a waterfall.
Book the Blue Lagoon in advance. They cap capacity. We booked weeks ahead. Do not show up and hope for the best.
Eat the hot dog. Bæjarins Beztu Pylsur. Með öllu. You’ll thank me.
About the cost. Every blog, every Reddit thread, every person who’s never been will tell you Iceland is brutally expensive. And yes — it’s not cheap. But when we were actually there, it felt pretty comparable to what we’d spend on a trip anywhere in the US. Meals, excursions, drinks — nothing destroyed us. Just don’t go in expecting to save money on a vacation and you’ll be completely fine. Stop letting the price tag be the reason you don’t go.
Eat the chocolate. Drink the beer. Have the vodka. Non-negotiable. The chocolate in Iceland is unfairly, almost offensively good — buy it at gas stations, at the grocery store, at the airport on your way out. Budget for an extra bag home. The Gull beer at the Blue Lagoon in 102-degree water is a spiritual experience I cannot recommend highly enough. And the vodka? Also genuinely excellent. You are on a volcanic island in the North Atlantic. This is not the time to be shy.
Check in 24 hours in advance if you’re flying budget. I cannot stress this enough. Budget airlines — and there are several flying in and out of Iceland — are not playing with you about this rule. They will not make an exception. They will not feel bad. You will miss your flight and you will spend the next several hours on the floor of Keflavik airport looking like you are either very committed to budget travel or have genuinely lost everything. We were not the only ones on that floor. There was a whole community of us. We looked like we were balling on a budget, homeless travelers, international floor dwellers — whatever you want to call it, it was not cute and it was entirely preventable. Check in 24 hours in advance. Set an alarm. Do it now.
The Northern Lights are not guaranteed — and we are living proof that you can check every app, read every forecast, and still spend most of the trip thinking you’re going to miss them. Download the Veðurstofa app (Iceland’s Met Office — most accurate aurora forecast available), keep your eyes open even after you’ve given up, and do not assume the sky has made its final decision until you are physically at the airport. Ours showed up on the last night. On the way home from the Blue Lagoon. Out a van window. On a road we were just driving down.
Iceland will give you what it wants to give you. Your job is to just keep showing up.
P.S. Two of us also snuck off to London mid-trip. That’s a whole separate story. Coming soon.
The part I think about most
Nine days is a long time to spend with strangers. By day three they weren’t strangers. By day five I knew who snored and who was always cold and who would absolutely still be awake at midnight talking about everything and nothing and I loved all of them for it.
This is what group travel with people you’ve just met does when it actually works: it strips the scaffolding. You can’t perform the version of yourself you perform for people who knew you before. You just have to show up as whoever you are that week — standing at the edge of a tectonic rift, licking glacier ice, lying flat on a Reykjavík street to get a photo of painted hearts, watching green light move across a dark sky from the shoulder of a road on the last night of a trip you didn’t want to end.
I went as the version of me who was thirty-two, unmarried, unencumbered, and said yes to things in Facebook group chats. That version of me licked glacier ice and sat on a crashed airplane at golden hour and floated in geothermal water until the sun went all the way down.
Each version was different. None of them were less.
October 2018 · Iceland · 9 days · 11 women · 0 regrets
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