I wanted to explore Niðavellir's bustling streets a little more, but a glimpse was all I would get of this visually captivating kingdom of artisans.
Once Dalmatia told us the truth about her king's condition—a truth that we probably would have figured out ourselves considering how bleak the city was—she took us to the nearest subterranean tram stations so our party and our escorts could take a private tram to the heart of the great city.
The tram itself was a delight to see.
Visually, it was like a San Francisco cable car had sex with a Japanese bullet train and a Niðavellir tram came out of them. Performance-wise, we traversed a city three times the size of New York in to get to its center in the short time it took for me to pick my nose. Kidding. But it was a lot less time than getting to Broadway from Queens. Believe me.
