After Reykjavík, driving into Borgarnes was a quiet, deserted affair. At one hundredth the size of the capital while still being one of the biggest "cities" in Iceland, the first person I saw was the owner of the hostel once I called him to come check me in. After a little exploring, I sat down to a dinner of tomato soup and toasted bread and met Daniel from Bristol, England, who had been hitchhiking around the country for the last 6 weeks. When asked what he did, he insisted that he was a traveler that happened to work with computers just long enough between adventures to fund them. He shared some tea, I shared some chocolate, and we talked about our various travels. Shortly after Daniel went to bed, a large Australian man with two black eyes sat down across from me. After introducing himself, he asked if I minded him taking out his two front teeth. Dale, professional fighter and most genuine of people, and I talked about photography, micro-expressions, war, various societies' perception of loss, native cultures, and much more. When I finally tiptoed into my room that night, my roommate, a cyclist from Quebec who had been biking Iceland for a few weeks told me, "it's ok, you don't need to be quiet." As I laid down and closed my eyes, he let out a sigh and softly said in his thick French accent, "after spending so many nights outdoors, it is difficult to fall asleep inside." "I can imagine," I answered. "Sweet dreams."