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Call me Ishmael. I mean Fede – my sixth day in Iceland

Husavik is situated in the north-west of Iceland and is – supposedly – the best place where to observe whales.

In order to do so, you need to embark on small boats and wear unflattering vests that make your own butt look like Moby Dick.
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Listen to an Icelandic girl repeating overĀ  and over that “no refund will be given in case the watching cruise turns out unsuccessful”.

You need to wear a hat, hold tight and know how to to wait.
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I’m speaking about long, excited, anxious, impatient waits.

Even disappointed ones.
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Waits that magically become meaningful and make you realize how Iceland’s beauty is very much about this weird state of accomplished abeyance; that If you stare at the ocean long enough, your thoughts will jump off-board and drown in that no man/no whale land and you – against all odds – will exist without them.

You’ll exist even “more”, in fact, if that makes any sense.

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While the Icelandic girl officially declared the failure of our mission, the waves were broken by nothing but our boat and the silence by nothing but a handful of disappointed children, whose hopes had been smashed under the weight of no whale at all.

In the distance, a boat kept shrinking in that ocean of present while we waited to reach the harbor.
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We waited.
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And waited.
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