Dear Mom, Hi! I keep wanting to call you, but this is easier. I’m writing from Laugarvatn, Iceland. The wind has been shaking my wooden, low-gabled room with its many windows for three non-consecutive days. Yesterday it took a break and let me catch up on sleep. It...
Most of the houses have beendug out from the ash, but the shapeof the mountain will neverbe the same in this lifetime: a jagged mouthwhere the peak blew off. The optical illusionis that the mountains never get closer or fartheruntil suddenly they rise up, icy...
We stopped at a hot pot called Guðrúnarlaug in Dalabyggð in Western Iceland. I can’t remember the time of day. In the summer months there were twenty-four hours of sunlight. The hot pot was a burning pool on a hilltop circled by stone. A tiny house for changing rested...
