In the morning, it turned out that the stove, which hadn't been working yesterday, had suddenly fixed itself for reasons unknown to science. Either a German or an Austrian picked it up, cradled it a bit, and it hissed with a blue flame. Machinery, you know, it likes affection. At least, that's what a 17-year-old girl once taught me. I've gotten smarter since then, and I won't yell "that's just idiotic" anymore; instead, I'll look affectionately and point out that men actually absolutely adore affection and tenderness, and reciprocate them, so it's much more useful to waste your charm on living creatures than on mechanisms.
We had barely left the gloomy Hvanngil campsite when another disaster struck. Andrey was walking along the trekking trail and rubbed his tire against a rock, creating a nasty gaping hole. This proved once again that bringing a spare tire to Iceland is highly advisable, even though it weighs a ton. I was lugging one around, but we decided not to put it on, because Andrey's tire was torn on the side, and he could keep going after just replacing the inner tube. We decided to save the spare tire for an absolute emergency, when push really comes to shove.
