After falling for Iceland just over a year ago, whilst at the same time falling for an Icelander- in a safe, real-life friend of a friend of a friend situation. I soon realise that human interaction at whatever distance and whichever country one occupies; the same confusions, angst and asshole behavior can apply.

Upon my return home and a year of (admittedly patchy) Facebook flirtation I thought we’d eventually established a mutual fancying of one another. Long distance love always seemed the ultimate romance, absence only made my heart grow fonder. Be realistic, he said. For fear of bunny boiler-esque assumption I was not brave enough to say I’d book my one-way ticket to Reykjavik and make it a reality in a compounding heartbeat.

I’d thought of our children: would they get his deep-set eyes and coloring? What beauty we’d produce and raise in our cozy cabin in the middle of nowhere, making love in the hot stream under a green sky in our lava field garden while our four angelic children slumber securely resting their cherub cheeks on our pet blue-eyed huskies. Maybe I didn’t really want anything for choosing this remote subarctic island man zillions of miles away or maybe this dude could never live up to the Icy warrior I’d created in my daydreams from afar.

I construct an academic research trip to Iceland, though in my head he is at the core of my plans. Finally I arrive in my magical wonderland high on thoughts of said Viking. His distinct ennui on arrival makes my heart sink. I do not fit into his plans, other than after 10pm. Sweet utterances once typed were libidinous empty words. I try to dismiss his rudeness for misunderstood Icelandic-ness: tonal/ cultural/language/attitude confusions. But hey, I know love vibes only speak one language and booty calls are a universal diction.

We have a good time. We drink

Bullshit and weirdness aside. Icelandic men are the best endowed of the Euros averaging 6.5 inches supposedly. I must at least snag some of his metage while I’m here. Back to my sweet hotel room: against the backdrop of snowy mountains and a no-show aurora, intrigued I see something my eyes had never spied–not in real life, not on pornhub. Tipsy on his tip I’m not sure I could hide my curiosity. Slender, but thick cupped on top – I want to sit on this toadstool. I played, captivated, familiarising my hands, body and mouth to this new structure. Glad to feel he fits the Icelandic average.

Seemingly evolution created the mushroom apex penis to clear previous exploits sperm; this alongside some serious pounding ensures paternity. It’s not hard to envisage a dragon-ship full of mushroom topped Vikings fucking around emptying out vaginas of a previous mans load. I came in a land of gushing geysers, my experience matched natures. I was sad for no ice cream drives or samband, but I am brave, at least I know, I discovered that tip. He was not ready for this wannabe Norse Queen.

No Saga here. In the mean time I’ll eat skyr from a distance, read ‘Names For The Sea’ and idealsie my return to Iceland in November to see my original Icelandic love: Bjork.

What a dramatic account of mushroom hunting in Iceland! He sounds like a real fun-gi, but we’re glad you learned the morel to
the story: when you travel, make sure you’re traveling for YOU, or else you might end up feeling like shiitake. That said, I’m glad the mind-blowing spore-nification made it all worth it.

It will probably be a bit too cold to find any prime shroomers during your return in November, but we wish you well in your expedition!

The Grapevine