The government of Iceland fell the week we were in the country.

It wasn’t apparent in the shops, streets or bars.  Life went on as normal.  The tour buses on the Golden Circle continued their rounds. Thousands of cameras continued to document where the earth splits, west moves west and east east where, one day, perhaps, one land will become two, an ocean between.  Out of the buses and cars the thunderous double water-fall named Gullfoss was swarmed.  Everyone was amazed.  Rainbows appeared and disappeared in the rising mists.

Down the road awhile another waterfall, Seljalandsfoss, invited the intrepid to come around behind, new boots and waterproof hoodies doing their best to grip the mud and stone and protect the spray smacked faces as mist turned to icy horizontal rain, whipped up and off the cascades. Chinese tourists stopped for selfies. Catalans exclaimed in amazement. The wind tore up Englishes of every kind.

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