In 2018 my mother booked a trip for herself, my sister and myself to the mysterious country of Iceland. Going in winter, we were unsure if the conditions would be tolerable. But we had grown up skiing, and my sister and I had tons of winter layers to pack. Packing all of our warmest gear, which took up half of our suitcases, we headed to the Chicago O’Hare International airport.
Here we hauled through different terminals, gates, trains and security before finally getting to a part that seemed isolated, just like the country we were aspiring to go to.
Everyone around us spoke a language that sounded exuberantly half German, half something I couldn’t place my finger on.
After the flight, we took a shuttle to the capital city of Iceland, Reykjavík, which until the 20th century, was a small fishing and trading town.
We exited the shuttle and started making the walk across endless cobblestone streets. There was a briskness in the air. The sky was a deep gray: it was mid afternoon, but there was no sun in the sky.
Despite the gray sky, the houses and buildings were warm shades of yellow, pink, blue and beige. We got to our air bed-and-breakfast and found it to be run by a really friendly older lady who seemed straight out of a cartoon. She so swiftly cooked breakfast, brought items to guests and managed the phone all at once.
As the day went on we took a walk down a long street that led to Hallgrímskirkja, a massive Lutheran church spanning 73 meters – about 240 feet – tall.
Throughout the trip we saw a unique farming style out of geothermal greenhouses, native icelandic horses, the inside of massive icecaps, natural hot springs and more beautiful nature.
On the third night we got on a bus that led us to a dark field. Here we were supposed to catch a glimpse of what for most is a bucket list item: the aurora borealis.
Thousands of visitors chase the northern lights after seeing pictures of the wonder online, so you could imagine our disappointment when after an hour in the cold, dark, snowy field, there were no northern lights.
We even decided to climb some nearby rocks in hopes of a better sight, but even on elevated ground the lights never came.
Some frostbite sure did.
And so we left Iceland with unforgettable memories but not a sight of the lights.
Five years later I was sitting at my desk in DeKalb, working through math problems, when I received a text from a friend. She had sent me pictures of the DeKalb sky outside her house. It was green and purple and illuminated with the northern lights.
I ran to her house to take a look, and the sky was dark purple and pink. The lights seemed to paint our familiar corner of DeKalb in a bright new way.
A natural beauty as brilliant as the northern lights made me feel excited to be in this small corn town where things are pretty consistent.
If anything the lights were more special and brilliant to see here.
It was stunning looking at the trees and sky, with which I’d become familiar, shining with a purple reflection. I’ll never forget the sense of wonder I felt knowing I was looking at the same northern lights I had chased unsuccessfully in Iceland right here in DeKalb.
It’s something I’ll think about for the rest of my life.
It reminded me that even though DeKalb is not as fancy or intriguing as a tourist destination, it is still a part of our natural world and capable of mesmerizing us all.
