It is the third day of creation, nothing in the world but light and water and bare earth around us. No plants, no animals, nothing that teems in the water or crawls on the earth, not even a sun above to warm the firmament.

I continue, marveling at the brave/idiotic souls who are attempting this terrain in mere hiking boots. They are, by turns, slipping, sliding, creeping, crouching, scrambling, and in one case lying flat on the ground in a state of bemused acquiescence.

It smells like the Fourth of July, that hazy scent of burnt out fireworks. As we climb onto the lava itself, I stare across the surface and all I can think of is merengue. The swirls and swoops, the bunched ridges, the long cracks where a swell couldn’t hold, it all looks as if someone whipped up egg whites and then inverted the image, white to black.

Stack overflow, mind blown, brain swirling with thoughts and ideas instead of taking it all in. It occurred to me: I need to restart my meditation practice. Not for the calm, but so I can hold more. So I can stay wide open to all of this. High intensity interval training for the sense of wonder.

At the eastern end of the park is the wide, flat water of Geysir itself, the source of the word “geyser” and a now mostly dormant gusher whose tallest recorded eruption of 170 meters (560 feet, observed in 1845 by Robert Bunsen of Bunsen burner fame) make Old Faithful look like a schoolyard water fountain.

We walk to the first overlook to see the wide Ölfusá river plunge down two immense steps into a crevice. The thundering falls send up a wide spray of mist that curls over the parking lot; every exposed centimeter of my skin is frigid but I don’t care. The snow and sun and churning water lift my spirits into the blue.

As we proceed, it's much more Natural History Museum than Mad Magazine, with specimens taken from animals ranging from field mice to black bears, seals to sperm whales. There is a clear prejudice in favor of mammals, so there's little insight into the reproductive organs of birds or fish.

Then I crest a hill and all at once there it is, the city. As on the day I arrived, I’m struck by its symmetry; it seems ordered in a way that’s unfamiliar but which tonight I find pleasing. I’m shocked out how strange the grid of lights seems to me after less than a week in the country.

The cold water from the kitchen tap is clean and tasteless, but the hot water is geothermal and smells like it came from a posh neighborhood in Hell. When I shower or wash the dishes, I'm simultaneously in a cabin in rural Iceland and in a 3-story house in middle-class Chimbote, chickens clucking on the roof.

Travel Dino is a great companion, although since he's an inch tall and has exceedingly short arms, he's not the best at guarding luggage. We've been to six countries together and several states.

On a clear day, mornings and evenings are ridiculous; long shadows, rich colors, the luminous gold of my favorite times of day drawn out over hours. Noon is a stranger affair, the sun weirdly low at midday.

What I thought was a cloud directly above me begins to swirl and undulate, creamer in the coffee of the sky; at first it loops and whorls directly above me, and then begins to stretch and flow.

Yesterday’s exhausted thought — I want to go home, why did I come here — is replaced by its opposite — I never want to go home, I want to stay here forever.

Did it really barrel roll? Is it really a raven? I’m used to seeing ravens in remote territory, not the middle of downtown. But then, this is Viking land.

Eagles are assholes to be sure, territorial rascals with a mean streak, but I've always loved raptors and can't help but read the unexpected presence of bald eagles in particular as an auspicious sign.