It all began with an office game in Manhattan. Blindfolded, my finger landed on Greenland. But the journey proved unfeasible. “What about Iceland?” someone suggested. “It’s right next door.” I took chance as compass. Days later, I was stepping off a plane in Reykjavík, drawn by curiosity, Viking mythology, and the mystery of a land where the summer sun never seems to set.

I spent the first week in the capital. Reykjavík dazzled with its clean lines, daring architecture, and almost meditative calm. Museums and galleries offered a plunge into Nordic art. Strolling the quiet, spotless streets felt like walking through a well-kept secret. The Icelanders’ kindness was discreet, but steady. In the near-empty hotel pub one quiet Sunday night, I met a frustrated American researcher: he’d come to study Iceland’s prison system, only to find the jails literally open the previous weekend—most inmates were home with their families. The waiter cut in: “Alcohol? Only until 10 p.m.—except Fridays and Saturdays.” It was Sunday.

On Friday, everything changed. I began the day in the city’s geothermal pools—water at 40ªC. Next to me, soaking up the sun, was the president of the republic. No bodyguards, no fanfare. Just another citizen. Lunch followed: fresh cod and glasses of chilled Chablis. Later, with a list of clubs and bars—courtesy of the American—I dove into the night.

I never made it past the first bar. Frantic rock. Tall, animated youths danced awkwardly as if every beat were the last of the world. Drinks flowed with end-of-the-world abandon. I met Sigdur, we danced till closing. I offered her a ride. She declined, gently: “We don’t drive when we drink.” Cars sat idle, keys in the ignition. We walked five kilometers to her home, past singing groups, cheerful clusters, and an unyielding sun high in the sky. Someone requested a Brazilian song. I sang “You think cachaça is just water?”—an instant hit. (Cachaça, for the uninitiated, is a fiery Brazilian spirit distilled from sugarcane juice — definitely not water.)

But Iceland offers more than its charmingly odd nightlife. It’s also home to one of the world’s oldest democratic institutions: the Alþingi, the Viking Parliament, founded in 930 AD in Þingvellir National Park. Set in an open field between tectonic rifts, it was here that clan leaders and poet-orators gathered to deliberate and settle disputes—outdoors, in view of the people. It’s the same soil that gave birth to the Icelandic sagas, medieval masterpieces of love, exile, battle, and revenge, reflecting the raw and lyrical spirit of a people shaped by volcanic fire and winter silence.

In Iceland, I discovered a country where summer has no night, freedom walks hand-in-hand with responsibility, and even prisons trust their inmates. A small place with mighty lessons—where elves are taken seriously, presidents soak in public pools, and democracy has endured for over a thousand years, through lava flows, legends, and the dancing lights of the sky. For if the midnight sun stuns the senses, Iceland saves its most hypnotic wonder for winter: the aurora borealis, a green and violet curtain gliding silently over the mountains, reminding us that even the deepest cold holds beauty.

If you seek surreal landscapes and stories that time can’t erase—go. And go ready to question your certainties—or lose them joyfully beneath a sky that shines twice.

By Palmarí H. de Lucena

*This text first appeared in my book Nem Aqui, Nem Ali, Nem Acolá, published by Editora Bagaço.