The Last Great Adventure Before the World Stopped

The world, as I knew it, changed somewhere over the Atlantic.

It started as just another trip. A well-planned itinerary of snow-dusted roads, volcanic landscapes, and the eerie glow of the aurora borealis. I left Los Angeles excited, my carry-on packed with wool sweaters and an unreasonable number of notebooks, because some habits—like overpacking for inspiration—die hard.

Onboard the Connie! I was packing the Purell even before the pandemic. A great place to spend time.

By the time I was halfway through a layover at JFK, sipping a gin cocktail at the TWA Hotel (a vastly better use of time than elbowing for lounge space), the World Health Organization declared COVID-19 a global pandemic.

This is what a pandemic looks like at the airport.

It happened in real time. News notifications stacking like a game of Tetris, murmured conversations shifting from casual travel plans to hushed uncertainty.

My travel companion, set to meet me in Iceland, couldn’t make it.

I landed at Keflavík International Airport alone.

And there, under the early morning Nordic sky, I had a choice: turn back or push forward into the unknown.

I did what any explorer would do.

I pushed forward.

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01A Jimny, the Open Road, and the Art of a Great Drive

At 6 a.m., jet-lagged and running on the fumes of airport espresso, I was handed the keys to a 2020 Suzuki Jimny—a 5-speed manual, 1.5-liter four-cylinder workhorse with just enough power to get out of its own way and more than enough spirit to make up for it.

More than a rental, it was a companion.

A companion that climbed snow-covered roads with the confidence of a mountain goat.

A companion that never asked where we were going, only how fast I wanted to get there.

A companion that understood the unspoken rules of adventure:

✅ No paved roads when gravel ones exist.

✅ No speed limits when the horizon is calling.

✅ No questions asked when you suddenly pull over just to take it all in.

The first thing I did—after adjusting the seat and letting the heater exhale warm air into the frigid cabin—was just sit there, watching the dark Icelandic morning stretch before me.

The air was sharp, the kind that reminds you you’re alive. The kind that makes you grateful for every piece of good gear you packed.

Iceland is a country of extremes, and it doesn’t tolerate the unprepared. But I had come ready.

My Orvis Foul Weather Sweater (a touch oversized, but perfect for layering) sat under my Cascade Bone Dry Parka, both tested in the kind of cold that makes lesser gear beg for mercy. The wool scratched against my neck as I zipped up—an odd comfort, a reminder that good things should be felt, not just worn.

Then, finally, the Jimny rumbled to life—its 1.5L engine making the kind of humble, determined growl that suited its stature.

I set off for Reykjavik, the start of what would become one of the greatest solo drives of my life.

The Rituals of a Great Drive

There’s an art to a great drive. You don’t just hop in and go—there are rituals to be followed.

🎵 The Music

Who knew that Foreigner, Elton John, and Madonna would make for such perfect driving companions?

As I wound my way out of Keflavík and toward the golden glow of Reykjavik’s distant streetlights, Jukebox Hero hit with just the right amount of drama.

🚗 I turned the volume up.

The further I drove, the more the 80s playlist became a soundtrack to something bigger—not just the drive, but the experience of being utterly, completely present.

The crisp piano of Tiny Dancer matched the slow roll of the Jimny as I passed through a misty stretch of open road, headlights carving through the early morning haze.

And when the black volcanic fields finally stretched open on either side, the tempo kicked up. Like a Prayer pulsed through the tiny cabin.

🚗 I dropped a gear.

In that moment, Iceland belonged to me.

🥐 The Snacks

If you ever find yourself driving north past Borgarnes, do yourself a favor: stop for a pastry.

One, maybe two.

That day, I picked up a flaky cinnamon treat, the kind that melts in your mouth, chased it with hot, fresh coffee, and tossed a second pastry onto the passenger seat for later.

Never a bad view in Iceland

(There’s a special kind of security in knowing your future self has a snack waiting.)

But on days I wasn’t headed north, the strategy changed.

I’d casually snipe a few choice items from the hotel breakfast buffet, wrapping them in a napkin with the kind of precision that could only come from years of road-tripping experience.

Icelandic treats, by the way? Underrated.

Even something as simple as a slice of brown bread with butter felt richer, more satisfying—like the ingredients had earned their place rather than being mass-produced into oblivion.

There’s a saying that food tastes better outdoors. I’d argue it tastes even better when you’re sitting in a Jimny, watching the sky turn pink over the Atlantic, knowing you have nowhere to be but here.

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02Canopy by Hilton: A Basecamp, Not a Hotel

Some hotels are just places to sleep.

This was not one of them.

The Canopy by Hilton was warm, quiet, and exactly the kind of place you want to return to after a day of battling the elements.

The perfect pandemic lobby.

The lobby was perfect for reading—which I did, a lot. I spent late nights curled up with Eugene Rogan’s The Arabs: A History, with a cocktail (or mocktail) in hand, the flickering light of the bar casting long shadows across the room.

The gin and tonic at the bar? Perfect.

A proper G&T isn’t just a pour—it’s a ritual. The bartender here understood that. The aromatics mattered. The citrus was cut just right. The ice was sharp and clean, not cloudy and overworked.

G&T's eveywhere at the Canopy

This was the kind of place where you could sink into a chair, sip slow, and let the weight of the day melt away.

It was, without question, one of the very few 5/5 experiences I’ve ever given. (The only other members of this exclusive club: The Ritz Carlton in Lake Tahoe and The St. Regis in Chicago.)

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03The Golden Circle, a Walk Between Worlds, and Snorkeling in Silfra

Some places feel like postcards. Others feel like the edge of the world itself.

Iceland’s Golden Circle is neither.

It is Earth, stripped down to its raw, untamed essence—fire, ice, wind, and water, all colliding in a perfect symphony of chaos and beauty.

Day One began the way great journeys do: on an empty road, beneath a sky heavy with the promise of something extraordinary.

The Rift Between Continents

If you ever want to feel small in the best possible way, stand at Þingvellir.

This is where North America and Eurasia drift apart, inch by inch, in a slow-motion tectonic ballet that has been going on for millions of years.

Two centimeters a year doesn’t sound like much—until you realize that, over time, it becomes a canyon.

A literal divide between worlds.

I walked between them, the ground beneath my feet still making up its mind about which continent it belonged to.

There was no ceremony, no marker saying “Here. Here is where everything splits.”

Just the quiet pull of geological inevitability, reshaping the Earth with an unshakable patience.

Geysir, or When the Earth Decides to Show Off

Somewhere between the tectonic plates and my next coffee break, the Earth exploded.

Or rather, Geysir did—an ancient, bubbling reminder that Iceland is still very much alive beneath its surface.

Boiling water, hurled into the sky, collapsing into steam before it ever had the chance to become rain.

The crowd gasped. Phones snapped pictures. Someone behind me muttered “holy sh*t” under their breath.

I didn’t blame them.

There’s something surreal about watching the ground itself decide it has something to say.

Silfra: The Clearest Water on Earth

Then, there was Silfra.

There are places you visit. There are places you remember. And then, there are places that change you.

Silfra is a fissure carved by time, a sliver of water that fills the space between continents. The water here has been filtered through lava rock for decades, so pure that visibility extends over 100 meters.

Floating through it is like falling into another dimension.

The blues are so deep, so vibrant, that you wonder if your eyes are playing tricks on you.

And then, there’s the temperature.

The air outside? Colder than the water itself.

Every logical part of my brain told me not to get in.

I got in anyway.

The first breath beneath the surface was shock and silence.

Then, weightlessness.

Then, the quiet realization that I was somewhere few people will ever be—a space between continents, between realities, between everything I thought I knew about what it meant to move through the world.

I surfaced, breathless and exhilarated.

And I would do it again in a heartbeat.

Skógafoss, Vik, and the Black Sand Beaches

If Silfra was a whisper, Skógafoss was a roar.

Day Three took me south, to a waterfall so powerful that standing beneath it feels like watching the sky itself unravel.

The air is thick with mist. The sound—deafening. The sheer force of it makes you believe, for just a second, that this is how the world ends—not in fire, not in ice, but in a relentless, unstoppable cascade of water.

From there, Vik.

Where the sand is black, the ocean white-capped and wild, and the waves roll in like they have something to say and no intention of being interrupted.

Then, further.

Onto a glacier, onto a snowmobile, onto a moment of absolute, indescribable silence.

Nothing but ice in every direction.

The engine growling beneath me.

The world stripped down to its most basic elements—wind, ice, motion, speed.

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04Alone, but never lonely.

That was Iceland.The Solitude of a Pandemic and the Gift of Empty Roads

For a week, I had Iceland almost entirely to myself—a privilege I could never replicate, even if I tried.

The waterfalls roared just for me.

The snow-covered roads stretched endlessly, uninterrupted.

The Northern Lights danced across a sky with no city lights to steal their glory.

And when I finally returned to LAX—to a world that had changed in my absence—I carried with me the memory of an island, empty and infinite, a Jimny on the open road, and the silence of Iceland before the storm.

Would I write about travel again?

No promises.

I like to stay in my lane. But sometimes, when something is this good, you have to break your own rules.

Let me know if you want more—or if I should shut up and get back to talking about cars.

Dr. Chicane

(Glaciers over gridlock. Every time.)