And on the back of her neck. Out of my mouth came the words: "I am a daughter of Sedna." I have never, ever said that before. She nodded in absolute confirmation. Out of her mouth came the words, "I am a sister white witch." We stayed like that for a minute or two, giant tears rolling down our faces. Then off we went, never to see each other again. O, Iceland.
We also met a wonderful older German dude named Norbert who had been travelling Iceland for 5 months in a totally-kitted-out retro 4x4 truck and camper. All Tilly hat and tear-away beige pants and Dubbinned up pliable leather hiking boots and retractable walking poles. We shared space at a campground in a snowstorm, like, a week-long snowstorm. In August. He literally bounded aheadof us up those greasy green cliffs and over glaciers and then down the skree.
In a purely physical way, he was in perfect harmony with his own feminine power, and that of the Earth underfoot.
Yet, in social situations, he was stuck on the Viking channel: too many facts to relay too authoritatively; too much enthusiasm for the DIY narrative, which sounded distinctly 20th century and a bit, you know, Anglo Saxxon. His evening tales of his social encounters with the local Icelanders invariably involved him making a sour face to try to relay to us his experience of their sour-unfriendly-unhelpfulness. I silently smiled: Liebe, you are just not on the right channel!
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