I met the French couple in Vik. They were sharing my room at the hostel, along with a sweet student from Okinawa named Takoyama (fried octopus balls?).
Clothilde and Sylvie were older than anyone you normally meet in hostels, but then so was I. In Iceland, even a bed in a dormitory costs $30.
It was close to midnight, barely dark, and I had my laptop out, enjoying the free wifi. Clothilde pulled out his laptop too, and we typed away, recharging batteries and uploading photos.
I asked where they'd gone, and Sylvie recited the same places I'd just been: Reykjavik, Skogafoss, Dryholaey.
We compared photos. Hers showed urban sculptures, close ups of puffins, artfully framed waterfalls. Mine were mossy landscapes filled with lava rocks, tombstones from the graveyard, marathon runners in red t-shirts.
"Two travelers in the same places at the same time," she said, "but you'd never guess it."