Iceland’s Blue Lagoon was Shit
We may have got our travel timing a little wrong on our last day in Iceland, which meant we had a meagre two hours to spend at this internationally-acclaimed spa. Let me tell you, two hours was more than enough for me.
We arrived at the so-called-paradise around midday on a dreary, grey afternoon in the middle of winter. Having braved the mile-long volcanic trek from the car park to the entrance, the last thing we expected to see was a queue akin to one of Beliebers outside an HMV album signing. Overweight tourists galore, this place was something out of a Little Britain Abroad episode, just more expensive. The air was so sulfuric I thought I might pass out (or be pregnant) and the “breathtaking landscape” reminded me of chalky street art after it’s rained.
Thirty minutes of moshing later, we finally made it inside the bland entrance hall where we were swiftly targeted by a sales rep offering the ultimate in indulgence (general admission, a stale sandwich lunch and a sachet of mousewhale shit which you’re encouraged to smear all over your body – all for under USD$180!). I passed. After handing over something like $50 for a crusty towel and a locker key, I made my way into the overly chlorinated changing rooms (more nausea). It took me about 30 minutes to find an empty locker and I’m sure the loo seats were the culprit of my friend’s sudden genital wart outbreak. Overall, the facilities didn’t quite meet the country club standards I was expecting.
Once outside, I braved the Arctic temperatures for precisely six seconds before launching myself (shortly behind my swollen nipples) into the stinky, piss-warm water. Flanked by my pals, we navigated around the thousands of pale and hairy limbs, empty beer bottles and the odd tampon to find ourselves a pretty aspect. After posing for the obligatory photo shoot, the group soon dispersed when an iPhone became the lagoon’s first victim.
Half the wolf pack ventured off to rub free milky slush into their pores, while we went to explore the authentic man-made caves. This little adventure opened my eyes to mating rituals of several origins, most notably Thai lesbians. I also learned that no matter how serene the setting, adolescent American males can host a frat party (plastic red cups and all) anytime, anywhere.
Needless to say, I would not return or recommend it.
Do: Consider bathing in a roadside puddle instead
Don’t: Waste your money