The Penis Museum

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It started as all same-sex weddings must: at the Penis Museum.

Oh, sorry. The Icelandic Phallological Museum.

A few months back, before this wedding became a wedding and it was just going to be a vacation, we were all at my sister's house. Eric and I were explaining to my sister our original idea to travel to numerous Scandinavian countries, ending up with a drive around Iceland.

My sister, a mother of two, chimed in: "Oh, Iceland. I hear they have a penis museum there."

The Icelandic Phallological Museum isn't even in Reykjavik anymore (perhaps the bad press finally got to them), but in faraway Husavik, where apparently the penises would have more room to, sigh, grow, than in the crowded metropolis they used to call home. I hope they'll all be very happy there.

Anyway, that sentiment ("Oh, Iceland. I hear they have a penis museum there.") really was our introduction to all things Icelandic, and by the end of that day Eric and I had decided to get married in Iceland. When I think back on it now, it dawns on me how possible it is that Eric and I are going through the whole process of getting married so that my sister has an excuse to go to the penis museum.

True story, now that I think about it.