ICELAND
A land small on the map yet, endless once you step inside it. There, even the existence of time feels uncertain. The youngest land on Earth: Iceland.
Constantly evolving, transforming, never static. Vibrantly alive. Here, maps are always a step behind. In some regions, they are redrawn every few years, while in the remote wilderness there are still lakes, trails and nameless places waiting to be discovered. To know Iceland is not to study a map, but to be present; to watch and to listen to the story the land tells.
A boutique island of civilization where words like “preserve, protect, and equality” are not abstractions but truths practiced every day.
The descendants of Vikings and Celts, guardians of the Elves; the Icelanders. Roads and buildings are built with care so that the homes of the Elves remain untouched. At times, I cannot tell who feels more otherworldly, the Elves or the people themselves.
With my son Ada (whose name means “island” in Turkish), we spent nine days among fire and ice, flowing rivers, striking rocks and endless waves. We moved along quiet roads that seemed to stretch without end. The rain, too, came and went with quiet patience, never an intruder, always a companion.
We were five: the four elements and the island’s spirit as the fifth. The perfect being.