Reykjavík

Reykjavik is the world's northernmost capital and possibly its coziest paradox: a fishing town that reads more books, writes more music and drinks more coffee per head than cities twenty times its size, warmed from below by the same volcanic plumbing that occasionally rearranges the country. Corrugated houses in crayon colors face a bay where whales commute.

The sensible traveller walks it in an afternoon and loves it for days: Hallgrímskirkja's concrete basalt columns and the view from its tower, Harpa's honeycomb glass at the harbor, Laugavegur's record shops and wool sweaters, and — most Icelandic of all — the neighborhood geothermal pools, where the entire city discusses politics in warm water regardless of sleet.

The Guide's honesty: prices are Nordic with a volcanic surcharge — the hot-dog stand and the soup-in-bread are honorable meals —; the aurora obeys forecasts, not itineraries: give her three nights and low expectations; and the city is the friendly front desk of the country: check in properly, then take the ring road.