Tapped Out in Iceland

After clubbing in Reykjavik, rest up in Landmannalaugar, the Icelandic highlands region known for its volcanic rock formations and natural hot springs. (Tyler Stableford - Getty Images)

More than 300,000 people visit the pool and spa facility each year. It's one of the few places where you'll see spiky-haired British punks, large German grandmothers and pale Japanese businessmen sharing a warm, relaxing moment together half-naked. Once they smeared on their mud masks (buckets of the silica mud were brought out by the spa staff every hour or so), everyone pretty much looked the same. It's a small world after all.

But in our detox research, Krista and I discovered an unusual swimming facility on Snaefellsnes that also claimed to have famous healing properties, though its pool and hot tub have the murky green color of untreated sewage. When we entered the grounds (which are occasionally open to the public during the summer), we found just a married couple -- August and Thora -- soaking in the hot tub, which Icelanders call a "hot pot." August tried to get us to go in.

"Does it feel weird being in that water?" Krista asked.

"You just close your eyes and enjoy it!" he said.

Krista and I dipped our hands in the pool, which seemed a lot slimier than the hot pot. Still, the unsightly substance somehow reminded me of how many Icelanders believe that eating putrefied cubes of shark meat, called hakarl , is a great way to cure a hangover. Perhaps Icelanders know that only through worldly repulsion can one acquire inner calm. Maybe this place, like rotten dead fish, was on to something.

"It's getting late. We need to check into our hotel," Krista said to the couple. "But maybe we'll be back tomorrow."

We got back to our car in a hurry; the arctic winds had whipped up in the last couple of hours, dragging in an armada of gray clouds from the sea.

"Are we really coming back?" I asked.

"No," she said without a break in her stride. "I'm not getting in there."

We drove on a winding cliff road that brought us beneath the massive ice cap of Snaefellsjoekull, the setting for Jules Verne's "Journey to the Center of the Earth." On the other side, far below, I noticed a small patchwork of curvy manicured greenery straddling the coastline.

"That's pretty," I said. "Is that a golf course?"

"No," Krista said. "That's the town we're staying in."