As he weaved the cheap yarn, he said happily, “Hakuna Matata! What a wonderful phrase! Happy, happy, USA.” He was about to tie the finishing knot, a big smile on his face. “Now make a biiiig wish! 1! 2! 3! Say it with
me! Hakuna Matata!” I made the wish and played along, somewhat enjoying myself. Sadly though, the wish didn’t come true. He was still standing there. Suddenly, the air turned cold. I looked at my new Kenyan friend. The beaming smile vanished, replaced with a rigid stare. Hakuna Matata was long gone. In a low voice, he glared at me and sneered.
Throwing back to that time I was scammed in Paris. By the deaf and dumb. It was obviously one of my brighter moments. Check out the full adventure here. You’ve been warned…
Nina, our spiky haired pixie guide, motions to look up. Bobbing along the surface, unphased by the cold, she points to the sheer cliffs descending beneath us. “North America.” She pivots, bubbles, and points left. “Europe.” I bury my face in the frigid waters to see what she means. I’m snorkeling. In Iceland, the land of the midnight sun. In Jesus-screaming, freezing cold glacier water. My friends are back home living the summer teenage dream — food, beach, weed — and I’m wedged between America and Europe.
Having discovered this adventure in the Icelandair in-flight magazine, I knew it had to be. I wrote of the tale of pixies and troll hair and tectonic plates here. Check it out! (Don’t get bitten by a sand fly while over there. Or hypothermia).