Cool American Doritos under the Midnight Sun

Midnight. It's 12 AM. The sun is shining. Shining so much that a rainbow forms onto the base of Liefur Ericsson cathedral.

I look for a shovel, a hoe, anything to dig up the Leprechaun's Lucky Charms.

Near the cathedral is one of those smart toilets that after each use, disinfects and cleans itself. I promised Tim I would have befouled it so much that it would put the automated system at its limits, but I was thwarted by the simply fact that neither of us possessed the necessary 10 Icelandic Kronurs for it to open its inviting doors. I peed into the coin receptacle in retaliation.

That last part didn't really happen the way I wrote it. I put a piece of dog doo into the coin return slot instead.

The 24 hours of sun does a number to ones body. We didn't know when to eat, when to drink, and when to sleep. The hours just merge into one long day. Whereas I usually like to being my alcohol consumption near 9PM, we often find ourselves hoisting the first beer long after 11.

One particular evening Tim got might peckish. So off we go to the nearest 10/11 (yes, like the 7/11 state-side, Iceland's is 3 more) to score some water and chips. And there we found Cool Americans. That's right, Cooool Americans. Being Cool Americans ourselves, we bought a bag and hungrily tore into it. To our sloppy disappointment, the Icelandic representation of Cool Americans is a less salty, and thoroughly unflavorful ranch.

Next up... Whale meat and sulfuric tap water.