Reykjavik

The Blue Lagoon is Iceland's perpetually steamy superstar-a silty, baby-blue oasis improbably plopped into a jagged lunar landscape, as if a luxury spa had been installed on the set of a particularly bleak sci-fi flick. Sure, it's not exactly an ancient Viking secret-more like a happy accident birthed from geothermal runoff that's since turned into Iceland's best-known wellness factory-but there's something gloriously surreal about soaking your weary bones in piping hot waters while freezing gusts whip across volcanic rubble, and tourists from Omaha snap enthusiastic selfies coated in silica goo. Aim to arrive early in the morning or late evening to dodge cumbersome crowds and score Instagram glory without 340 strangers photobombing your Zen. Book weeks (or months in summer) ahead to avoid disappointment, budget at least $60-100 USD for entry (and an extra tenner for a cold beer to complete the absurdity), and don't forget sunglasses and waterproof phone cases-trust me, those silica minerals love electronics. Yes, it's touristy and borderline cliche, but surrendering yourself to geothermal decadence in a radioactive-blue cocktail of mineral magic, volcanic poetry, and international awkwardness is an Icelandic rite of passage that's deliciously worth all the hype-if only to tell the absurd tale of bathing blissfully inside a volcanic crater beside a group of half-drunk Brits on a stag weekend.

There's something brilliantly absurd yet utterly delightful about setting sail at an ungodly morning hour from Old Harbor just to spy on a bunch of seabirds in tuxedo attire. Puffin watching in summer is the local answer to safari-less lion, more clownish charm-with boats bobbing out toward islands that look suspiciously like giant muffin tops sprouting from the sea. Historically, these pint-sized avian comedians inspired folklore across the North Atlantic, revered as ocean-going jesters. Book at least two days ahead, fork over around $40 a head, and dress warmly-this is not the Mediterranean, people. Pack binoculars, coffee, and your snarkiest friend, because the puffins' antics-awkward flying, earnest waddling, relentless squabbling-are pure comedy gold. Sure, you'll snap a blurry photo or two, but you'll remember mostly just laughing out loud on a boat bobbing absurdly beneath the midnight sun. It's completely frivolous, borderline ridiculous, yet indisputably worth it-if only so at your next dinner party you can casually mention the time you went bird-watching for maritime penguin impostors.