Post-it Note, Hot Chocolate, Wool Blankets, and the Northern Lights

Before, if someone had used the word “hunting” to describe seeing the Northern Lights, I would have found it peculiar—but not after the day we drove to the outskirts of Reykjavik to see, or as the tour guide referred to, to hunt Northern Lights.

BG, the tour guide, picked us up hours earlier, at bus stop 15. We then drove further and further away from the city and lights until we stopped on a dark, empty road and made what seemed like an illegal turn. Then we were invited to step outside and begin our hunt for the Northern Lights.

Have you ever questioned a life choice while right in the thick of something you’d rather not be doing?

This was that moment for me.

I wondered why the Northern Lights were considered so special. Was it actually on my bucket list, or did I want to see it just because it’s on everyone else’s bucket list? Also, what business did I have being here when I couldn’t even stay awake to see the Southern Lights—literally in my backyard—a few months ago?

The real reason I came to Iceland was to soak in the Blue Lagoon. I once saw a blogger turn a visit there into an influencer moment, and I was influenced.

So why was I standing among strangers, all of us gazing up at the black sky while shivering

Then it dawned on me.

Years ago, when Fafa and I were in a long-distance relationship, I wrote him a note—actually, a little sketch on a post-it—of us as stick figures watching the Northern Lights together. It was more self-encouragement than anything else, a hopeful vision. A reminder that even though we couldn’t yet see the light at the end of the tunnel (it was all tunnel, no end), we would make it.

I don’t remember what state of mind I was in when I drew it. The Northern Lights had never truly been on my bucket list. But recently, I flipped through my old journals, saw the ugly scribble, and felt something tender.

That journal entry—and the Post-it note—was from eleven years ago. I re-read them a few months ago.

And now, here we were. Way past midnight. Outside in pitch-black darkness, in sub-zero temperatures that had completely defeated the winter coat I bought in Korea to combat minus-degree weather. But that coat was no match for the Icelandic chill. I kicked myself for not bringing the 20-pack of hand warmers I had definitely packed after taking out workout clothes and a tripod to make space in my suitcase.

Shivering, we stood and waited for what felt like hours, but it was only minutes.

“It’s not dark enough,” BG said.

What is he even on about? I thought, staring up at the black sky while I wrapped myself haphazardly in the wool blanket they’d provided.

But I chose to trust him. Partly because we had no other option, and partly because I knew he was doing what he knew best.

Earlier in the van, this basketball coach–turned–tour guide had warned us: even if the forecast looked good, it all came down to luck.

He’d seen the Northern Lights appear right after a storm, and not at all on clear, star-filled nights. Also in the van, he showed us a video explaining how the lights form. If you ever do this Northern Lights hunting someday, my suggestion is to skip watching this educational video on the same day. It’s informative—but a bit of a “ruining-the-tooth-fairy” moment.

Do I feel lucky tonight?

Fafa had asked me this question a few hours earlier while we were resting in the hotel room (how very old age-y of us) before the night’s hunt.

And there I was, hours later, holding a cup of delicious hot chocolate—courtesy of BG’s wife—asking me the same question, Do I feel lucky enough to get to see the Northern Lights that night?

Yes. A shivering, freezing, yes.

I did feel lucky. It was late April, just at the doorstep of summer. The sun didn’t set until around 10 p.m. Before we left Melbourne, I had given up on seeing the Northern Lights. Most tours stop mid-April.

But a week ago, I checked again—just in case—and found this one. It promised hot chocolate, cinnamon rolls, wool blankets, and unlimited rebooking if we didn’t see the lights. It was also the last tour of the season before they took a break until October.

I had made peace with the idea that it’s now up to the Universe, but in the back of my mind, from the track record, I know the Universe will show up for me.

—

Then BG said, “It’s here. Who wants a picture?”

I looked up. Just darkness.

“Your eyes need time to adjust”, he said.

Eventually, after a few more minutes of shivering, I saw it—a faint bolt of grey with my naked eye, and purple and green in the iPhone lens. It reminded me of Alan, my photography teacher during the first years of my life in Melbourne, who once said that, like the Milky Way, you can’t see it fully with the naked eye.

Still—it was something phenomenal.

BG offered to take our pictures in his fancy camera, so Fafa and I queued up for photos, right behind a happy, energetic brown family with thick American accents.

BG’s photo-taking routine was yelling out: “Absolutely still!” before snapping our photo, and a more pleasant “Bingo, bingo!” once we got it right. Full disclosure: I got a few scoldings before earning my own “Bingo, bingo.”

Eventually, we trudged back to the van. Feeling grateful, I zoned out, staring out the window with Fafa sleeping beside me.

—

Now, sitting at home writing this, I referred back to the journal entry I made that night—scribbled at 2 a.m. in the bathroom, trying not to wake Fafa. In a sleepy haze, I wrote that seeing the Northern Lights was a goal, but it wasn’t a life-altering moment.

But now, writing this more clearly than that 2 a.m. scribble, I want to add something: no, seeing the Northern Lights didn’t change my life. But visiting Iceland did.

It unlocked something new in me. It expanded my world.

And maybe that’s the point of a bucket list. It’s not always about ticking off the item itself—it’s about the other thing.

The journey. The learning. The people. The food. The memories. The way it shifts your perspective.

And that’s all that matters. Yes, this might sound like the epilogue of a feel-good movie cliché—but I don’t care.

—

By the way, hunting the Northern Lights made me add one more thing to my bucket list: seeing the Southern Lights. It also made me add and cross off “see the Northern Lights” in my bucket list before I place an order for a Northern Light charm to add to my El Camino bracelet and a basic B tripod for when I go for a Southern Lights hunt.

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