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Even though I grew up in New England, there was something novel about
seeing an Icelandic blizzard. It was paralysing, with epic wind gusts
that made snowflakes feel like razors.
As I dragged my bags along Reykjavik's snowy pavement, an older man in a Jeep pulled alongside me.
"You want to get in?" he asked.
It sounded crazy. Why would I ever get in a stranger's car?
Despite everything I was taught about riding in cars with
strangers, I climbed in the backseat. And I knew nothing bad was going
to happen to me.