ME, people! Me and my husband. The morale of this story is: never give up on your dreams. Or, alternately: don't let a little emergency appendectomy stop your fun.
We were supposed to go in early June but instead, had a staycation in the hospital. I can now definitively say that I prefer Iceland.
I got the whole Iceland idea in my head a few months ago, when I realized, suddenly, that David and I haven't been on a real, plane-ride-involved, romantic getaway since Seconda was a baby and I pumped my breasts all over Mexico. I realized that since I'm not lactating now, it might be considerably more enjoyable to have an international escapade. Then I realized that my sister is having her third baby in a few months. This gave me the kick in the pants I needed.
"We need to book a vacation immediately, "I told David, "Before my sister has her baby and uses up the family's babysitting reserve. My parents won't be able to watch our kids when they have to help her. This is ON."
Our requirements were:
Overseas.
Cheap airfare.
A place where we'd see something seriously fucking amazing.
All of which added up to Iceland.
The kids were jazzed because I read them bit of our travel book, about how Icelandic people tend to believe in supernatural creatures like trolls, gnomes, fairies, and how they eat puffin and rotten shark meat and horse steak.
"What's a puffin?" Sec asked.
"Like a penguin," I repiled.
"AHHHH! MOMMY"S GOING TO EAT A PENGUIN!" she shrieked. And then: "Bring back one for me to eat, too, OK Mommy?"
Sec was also very taken by the photo of a man and a woman standing in the steaming geothermal spas near Reykjavik called the Blue Lagoon.
"Is that going to be you and Daddy?"
"Yes," I said, "Daddy and I are going to go to the Blue Lagoon and kiss, just like that."
"But aren't you going to be scared to go inside the Black Lagoon?" she asked, "What if there's a crocodile in there?"
"I think we'll skip the Black Lagoon and just go to the Blue one" I said, "I don't think the swamp creature likes that one."
The funniest part about the trip is that my grandmother can't figure out where the hell we went since neither of us knows the Italian word for Iceland.
"Where you going?" she asked, "Irlandia?"
"No, that's Ireland," I said, "We are going to Iceland."
"Island? What kinda island?"
"No, not an island. ICE-land. La terra di ghiaccio."
"Oh my God -- you going to ALASKA?"
So there you have it, folks. We came, we saw, we did not eat rotten shark meat. More details to come when I've recuperated from my terribly thrilling, oh-so-jetsetter-y intercontinental travel.
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