A hypnotic, almost unnerving light, tints the horizon with purple, violet, gold, and fire. We are traveling under the Icelandic midnight sun. I feel trapped by the magnetic sensation of entering emptiness, where the limits of space and color vanish. It's hard to believe this is Europe. It's hard to believe, in fact, that this is anywhere. The clouds look like ghosts. They are our only company, until we come across an enormous compass on top of a monolith. It tells us we are less than 200 miles away from Greenland, and close to Hveravellir, the heart of Iceland.

In this non-place lives a married couple, surrounded by all kinds of weather instruments, paraphernalia of antennae, satellites, and a gasoline tank. Every three hours, their duty is to send a meteorological report to the capital…

Published in GEO