In Hot Water

When I told friends that my wife, Louise, and I were planning a January vacation in Reykjavík, I got looks that conveyed neither horror nor curiosity—simply an inability to fully process the information. Iceland, I could see them thinking: lively, hip, Björk. But January: cold, bitter, dark.

I recognized their expressions as the look of a computer about to crash. I learned I could reboot them merely by adding, “For the outdoor thermal pools and the northern lights.” Then you could hear the hard drive start humming again, and they’d say, “Nice!” By the time we left for our overnight flight from Boston, on a frigid and blustery afternoon, I thought I could even detect hints of envy. We arrived at Keflavik airport early the next morning and caught a shuttle bus into Reykjavík. Through the window we saw a lot of darkness and, where sodium-orange streetlights illuminated the landscape ...