The Iceland Detour
A storm, a skeleton snowman, and a reminder that detours are divine.
It’s officially been a full year since I’ve traveled anywhere—wild, considering my passport used to get more action than I did. I committed to this Apple TV series, and that’s basically been my whole universe since July 30. Six months sounds short in theory, but living inside that timeline? Completely different animal.
I’ve always worked like this, in these intense cycles—months on, months off. The “off” months are usually spent recovering my soul and my spine, but the beauty is I can do that from anywhere… and I usually do.
But now, as the cold settles in and I’m staring down my last 20 days on this show, I find myself drifting back to Iceland. Maybe it’s the winter settlign in here in pittsburgh or I am just feeling nostalgic. After all, it was the last international trip I took with my late husband and I have to say it did not disappoint.
I remember landing in Boston on our layover with a toothache so brutal I considered just leaving the tooth behind. I called my dentist from the airport and begged for anything to get me through the trip. While I waited, I sat at the hotel bar rubbing whiskey on my gums like some outlaw dentist, praying the prescription would come through in time.
It did. But that didn’t stop me from drinking the whiskey anyway. Obviously.
When we finally arrived in Iceland, the Meteorological Office had issued one of those dramatic warnings: strong easterly winds, heavy snowfall, decreased visibility—the whole “don’t even think about going outside” package. Travel was deteriorating fast, especially in the southwest and on the route to Keflavík airport.
We had planned to loop the entire island, but the weather had other ideas. Most of the roads were closed, so we ended up doing a little smiley-face route from Reykjavík to Höfn and back.
Iceland didn’t want to negotiate.
It also wanted to totally show off.
Do you remember your first time seeing something that made you believe in magic?
The first night we got there we witnessed the aurora borealis. I don’t know if you have ever seen them but I have beared witness to them four times now. Iceland was my first. And you never forget your first. It gave me goosebumps. I can’t even explain it. You’ll just have enjoy these photos and get on youtube and watch them. I highly recommend everyone see these in their lifetime. It will make you believe in things differently.
In movie world we have what is called “magic hour” or “golden hour”. It’s a window of time during sunrise or sunset which only lasts about 20-40 minutes depending. It’s that fleeting slice of time when the light turns cinematic and everything glows—but in Iceland in November, the sun barely lifts itself into the sky, daylight becomes this short, sideways shimmer that never quite commits to being day. It’s soft, low, golden, moody—the kind of light filmmakers would sell their souls for. In most places, you chase the magic hour. In Iceland in winter, it just follows you everywhere you go.
The sun rose around 11am and stayed in magic hour glow until around 3pm when it set. I literally could not take a bad photo. It was glorious. And also completely messed with my circadian rhythm. It was worth it though.
Tours we’d booked were canceled, and even the Airbnbs we’d reserved called to let us know the roads were closed, forcing us to reroute and improvise. Instead of rushing to make it from one stop to the next, we slowed down and decided to just enjoy whatever the island offered. One of those detours led us to an unbelievable beach scattered with ice chunks bigger than people. I swear, the photos I took there are some of my favorites I’ve ever captured—no filters, no edits, nothing. That’s exactly how it looked. Iceland doesn’t need help being dramatic.
We made our way back to the west coast of Iceland and settled into the city being bombarded with snow. We took to walking around and enjoying the sites covered in ice and snow. We stopped at a restaurant and had the best mulled wine I have ever tasted in my life. On the way home we stopped and made a skeleton snowman because, why not?
And of course, we did the Blue Lagoon—because how do you go to Iceland and not float around in a giant bowl of steaming, electric-blue geothermal soup? It’s the kind of place that looks Photoshopped in real life: milky turquoise water surrounded by black lava rock, steam rising like the earth is exhaling. Everyone waddles around covered in silica mud like glowing swamp creatures, and honestly, it’s fabulous. It was the perfect, surreal pause in the middle of all the storms and detours—a reminder that even when the weather shuts everything down, Iceland still hands you magic on a silver platter.
Maybe it’s just the Pittsburgh winter talking, or maybe it’s my wanderlust waking back up after six months of being chained to a paint cart—but Iceland reminded me who I am when I’m not sprinting from call time to wrap. Someone who slows down. Someone who follows the light. Someone who still believes in magic, even when the roads are closed. I think it’s time to plan my next somewhere.
Tell me—when’s the last time you chased a little magic? Where did you go? What did you see? Let me know in the comments.
Until next time…