Matt and I leave for Iceland in two days, and I just received an email from our dogsledding company (because, you know, why not go dogsledding on a glacier while in Iceland?) saying that, due to the heat, the glacier base camp has closed for the season. They are now only offering dogsledding tours in the lowlands, which translates to “dogs pull you along farmland on a wheelie cart.” I’m sure that would still be fun, but the basecamp isn’t located anywhere near where our (non-refundable) lodging is. Besides, it’s pretty pricey to do something I used to do with my own dogs when I was a kid. So… yikes.

My initial (and crushing) disappointment, however, only lasted a moment because that’s all the time I have to give that particular feeling. The problem with leaving for Iceland in two days is that I have no time to be sad — I only have time to plan.

All I can say is that it’s a good thing Matt and I planned our wedding in just four months last summer—the “SHIT SHIT SHIT!” method of planning is old hat by now.

So here’s how this played out over my lunch — right after global warming ruined my life:

Step 1: Email the people we’re lodging with. “HELP! WHAT IS THERE TO DO IN YOUR AREA?” Realize that their offices are closed and we will not hear back for at least 16 hours. Realize that we do not have time for these shenanigans.

Step 2:  Go to the Internet!

Step 3: Find a bunch of stuff that seems like it might work but be sold on nothing

• Snowmobiling tour on a mountain glacier (isn’t this just a less cool version of dogsledding on a glacier? Louder and less, I don’t know, full of furry joy?)
• Horseback riding (but Matt is afraid respectful of horses)
• Hiking. Are we into that? Do we like hiking? Better question, do we like hiking while jetlagged?
• Drive around the country..? Is this even something that is done here?

Step 4: Lament again that nothing is as cool as dogsledding on a glacier.

Step 5: Tell myself we will go to Sweden in a few years and pledge to go dogsledding there. Or in northern Minnesota sometime because, you know, we live there and this is not our only adventure. Look on the bright side and realize we no longer have to worry about packing wool socks. Try to maintain a stiff upper lip because you do not have time for melancholy, madam.

Step 5: Remember that OMG, I HAVE A FRIEND WHO WORKS AT A TRAVEL COMPANY SPECIALIZING IN ICELAND STUFF! Call her immediately and learn all sorts of stuff:

• The part of the country we’ll be in is incredibly scenic. One of the best things to do is just to drive around the peninsula and take in the sights. This is apparently a great idea.
• There are two particularly adorable towns full of cafes and horses (safely tucked away on beaches, so my husband doesn’t get scared respectful) that we could visit.
• There is some guy called The Shark Man who has a museum to fishing and fishing culture; also, he gives out lots of tasty samples… of fermented shark. Awesome or disgusting? 
• There’s a sweet sweet boat tour, if we’re into being on a boat, that leaves many times a day from the northern side of the peninsula and is gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous. Gorgeous.
• The national park up there is free and heavenly, potentially worth a visit.

Step 6: Exhale.

So the moral of the story here is that we haven’t even left the country yet and our carefully laid plans are already falling apart. But the second moral is that we’ll adjust with relatively small amounts of panic. Because it’s really the only option we have. I find that oddly comforting.

(Also, an update for you: no, it still doesn’t feel real.)