Nebulous sky, low 50’s Fahrenheit, pinpricks of rain. Clouds hung low overhead, softening the daylight like dusk. In swimsuits, we eased through the lagoon. The water was a hotbed of minerals, a luminous aquamarine substance that’s chalky, opaque. Steam rose up around us, mingling with the fog so that we could see only the silhouettes of others drifting. The warmth of the water, the hazy periphery, everything had a dreamlike quality. But this is a real place. You can go there, as we did, and unwind for hours after a transatlantic flight.
Anyone who tells you that the Blue Lagoon is touristy and to be avoided is mistaken; it might look crowded in these images, but it didn’t feel that way. Even the children were serene, bobbing along in floaties. We drank sparkling wine from the in-water bar, and lingered in every pocket of the sprawling hot spring. Inside a domed sauna, we sat in quiet darkness, humidity enveloping us like a weighted blanket. Although we eschewed massages, we dipped beneath the waterfall, wore a pair of face masks made of clay and algae indigenous to the waters, and dined among others in bathrobes for an actually-good first meal.
Later in the afternoon, the clouds parted, sunlight dazzled the water, and we decided we didn’t want another drink–this was heaven enough.