Shaken and Stirred.

Gratuitous photo of Hallgrímskirkja.

Kevlavik, Iceland – For a moment, the window frames appear to warp as though they've been sculpted by Salvador Dalí.

The airport rattles a few seconds with a clamour akin to buckets of nails being shaken.

And, as quickly, it's silent.

We look around, more than a little disconcerted. The woman managing the coffee shop shrugs. 

"It's normal."

I only felt my first earthquake last night during a great visit to RVK Brewing Company (the Pylsuendinn was an excellent splurge), but it wasn't even enough to make the server look up from his phone. 

Perhaps he was busy coming up with names for their next milkshake IPA.

(Postscript: the earthquake was determined to be a 5.2 on the Richter scale, and the Litli-Hrútur volcano erupted the next day.)

Dogged.

Bet you can't ketchup to these servers.

Reykjavik, Iceland – The line trips over itself as it curves around the corner.

At its tip, an unassuming red hot dog stand that has been in operation since 1937. In recent years, the historic Bæjarins Beztu Pylsur, whose name means “best hot dogs in town,” has become a foodie destination for locals and tourists alike.

That’s a sentence I’d never have imagined writing. Hot dogs? 

Really?

And yet, the line, awash in assorted languages, has looked the same each time I've passed. It moves quickly as buns are filled by several whips of the wrist. First, a scattering of fresh and crunchy onions. Then, an apple-based ketchup provides a soft landing spot for the lamb, beef and pork-based hotdog, which is tugged in a rapid arc from the boiling water.

Parallel lines of mustard and remoulade sauce complete the piece of culinary street art.

Each bite provides a satisfying snap from the casing, a crunch of onion and a tinge of sweetness from the ketchup. It's a surprising harmony.

The stand, which is so small it can hold only two people at a time, slings a thousand dogs a day.

It’s a good thing the servers are quick with their hands.

They get paid by the hotdog.

In my Jaws.

Somehow, managed to fin-ish.

Reykjavik, Iceland – Anthony Bourdain called it "the single worst, most disgusting and terrible tasting thing" he had ever eaten.

The quick whiff of ammonia wafting over the table does little to counter that analysis.

Even without Bourdain's ringing endorsement, however, it doesn't take much to convince me to try Iceland's national dish: Hákarl, or fermented shark. That I'm getting to share the experience with my parents is an added bonus.

Sitting at Kaffi Loki, we're presented with a small bowl of nondescript white cubes, into which toothpicks have been stuck like porcupine quills – include one topped by the country's flag.

The flavour is anything but nondescript.

Somewhat grainy and spongy, like a fishy cheese, each cube is immediately reminiscent of how I'd imagine urine tasting. The accompanying shot of Bennevin, an aquavit flavoured with caraway, helps.

Somewhat.

Is Hákarl to my tastes? Not in the slightest. But food traditions always provide interesting insight into cultures, particularly when they have been shaped by the environments in which they were forced to take root. So I'm glad I tried it.

Still, the rye ice cream that follows is better.

Surprise!

The wait. The weight.

Reykjavik, Iceland – “Excuse me, sir; would you mind taking a photo?”

He stands in the doorway, fidgeting with his wallet. His camera hangs from his neck.

I tap him on the shoulder and repeat the question when I don't get an answer.

As he turns, I see a haze pass across his face. He squints. I watch seconds pass with each blink as he begins to register. Somewhat.

“What are you doing here?” comes the expected reply.

I’ve come all this way to surprise my parents, who have been travelling the past 10 weeks. My father shakes his head and laughs. He’s giddy to tell my mom, who’s not yet ashore.

So many things could have derailed this plan: bad weather, a change of itinerary, no desire to leave the ship, a mood. And yet, as they so often do, things worked out.

On the ferry to Viðey Island, he tells anyone who will listen that his son has surprised him. He shakes his head and beams a very special smile.

In a word: success.

What a great, great morning.

Veni Viðey Vici.

Posting from Viðey Island.

Reykjavik, Iceland – The rolling green hills of Viðey Island are scarred by jagged stone foundations: the broken bones of a village that died in 1943.

It's as though tic-tac-toe boards have been set into the undergrowth, which sways in the cooling breeze exhaled by the ocean. I've found an oasis just off the shore of Reykjavik.

Evidence of human life here dates back to the tenth century, but the island has been abandoned since a fishing company on the eastern coast closed in the 1940s. The long history speaks through a few rehabilitated buildings and mounds that only whisper the stories held beneath.

Now, birds do most of the talking.

Foundational.

Their squawks break the silence as I step too closely to a nest, leading to a barrage of arrows shot into the sky. It's a scene repeated with each step.

Plovers and gulls chide me for interrupting their time on the beach, blackened by lava. Eider ducks splash past with indifference.

A more modern history is told through contemporary art pieces placed around the island, including Yoko Ono's Imagine Peace Tower and Milestones, by American sculptor, Richard Serra.

After a long travel day, there's nothing like a hike through nature to clear the head.

Especially when it looks like this.

Ice Landing.

Un-wolf-like lupines.

Reykjavik, Iceland – The North Atlantic recedes into moonscape as we descend with a bump into Keflavik.

A church, nestled neatly into the shore, blends into an outcropping of rocks, its steeple the only pin in an apparent plan for stealth. Old tombstones are scattered around like pebbles.

The ground nearby is a wrinkled camouflage shirt of muted greens and browns spattered by purple tufts of lupines.

Riding the Flybus Airport Transfer into Reykjavik, which is 45 minutes away, appears to be the most cost-effective option, unless you’re already renting a car.

It’s a smooth ride past a tight green thread tucked into black, where golfers swing through a few holes. The volcanic rock no doubt offers many more.

Winding through a town, we pass brightly painted homes clad in steel, before tracing the olive green ribs of mountains illuminated by a sun that only sets for three hours these days.

It’s hazy, not unlike me this morning.

And I’ve had even less rest.