Last summer, I took a vacation to Iceland. Iceland is a tiny Scandinavian country lying about two thirds of the way between mainland Europe and the Americas (and by tiny, I mean the population is about 320,000, versus our population of about 300 million). Among other things, it is known for being generally beautiful; the people are as beautiful as the land, and believe me, I've never been so impressed by my surroundings as when I was driving through the Icelandic countryside with my family.

On the first leg of our 10-day trip through the country, we planned to stay in the village of Vik, on the southernmost tip of the the island. Vik, like everywhere else in Iceland, is stunningly beautiful, surrounded by towering cliffs and verdant plains dotted with sheep and horses. Vik's claim to fame is the Black Sand Beach, a beach filled with (you guessed it!) jet black sand, situated at the base of massive cliffs filled with columnar basalt, shown below:

It turned out we happened to be in Vik at a very special time for Iceland. The Icelandic soccer team, who had somehow made it into the semifinals of the European Soccer Championships, was facing off against the British team. For anyone who doesn't know soccer, this would be like if Greece was somehow facing off against the American basketball team at the Olympics. NO ONE expected the Icelandic team to make it this far (Although it wasn't completely random; Iceland has been making major improvements to its soccer programs in recent years, but that's another story). Needless to say, the natives were very excited, even nervous. When we walked through the streets of Vik on the day of the game, there was a tense hush over the entire town. Every Icelander you saw had this nervous little smile on as they went about their business. When you engaged them in conversation about the game, their nervous smile would widen, and they would say, in a cool Icelandic accent "I think we will do well. I can't wait. I'm nervous, but I can't wait" or something similarly phrased.

When it was time for the game, we struggled to find somewhere with a good TV in the tiny town. We were, and still are a big soccer family; My brother, father and I have all played at some point in our lives, and my mother loves to watch it, so we really wanted to catch this game. Just when we started to consider heading back to our Airbnb to catch the game on the cruddy TV in the living room, we found a small cafe looking out on to the Black Sand Beach with a decent flat screen. As we sat down and ordered food, we noticed that the cafe was filled with tourists who, like us, had been looking for a place to watch the game. As my dad made a joke about how much of the Icelandic population was inside the French stadium where the game was ("At least 3%, I'll bet" he said), the game began. As the first minutes went by, I noticed the staff of the restaurant (definitely Icelandic, and decked out in Iceland jerseys), had all but stopped working as they became riveted to the screen.

The room is silent as Iceland concedes the first goal to England in a penalty kick from Wayne Rooney. I see several staff members put hands over their mouths. The tourists shift positions and frown, not really invested in the game, not yet. It is the fourth minute, and there's a lot of game left to go.

Almost Immediately the the Icelanders even the score, with a beautiful head pass from Kari Arnarson to Ragnar Sigurdsson who finishes it with a close range shot. The play is scrappy and dirty, yet somehow graceful, and instantly charming. The cafe employees scream as the shot goes in, jumping up and down. The tourists smile and clap a bit, but now they are really paying attention. Now, they really, really want this team to win. Our hearts are pumping, our eyes are glued to the screen. Iceland is back in the game.

Then there are about ten minutes of heart pumping back and forth between the two teams. Then, Kolbeinn Siggurdson becomes a hero to all those watching (except for the Brits of course) when he slams home a shot from the center of the box. The cafe erupts. Both tourists and natives are up out of their chairs. Hugs are exchanged. Fists are pumped. Somehow, this team had transformed me from a jaded teen into a starry eyed kid in just eighteen minutes. From then on, it wasn't soccer we were watching. It was history, and being part of it, being in in Iceland when these guys where making history, it was pure magic

We watched the next 76 minutes of the game in a a tense, shared trance. We clenched our fists at every Icelandic foul the referee called, and winced at every shot on goal the English team made. We watched as the English team slowly realized that they, a legendary team representing a nation of over 50 million people, were losing to a team representing a country with more sheep than people.

Then the final whistle blew. The tourists were up immediately, yelling and screaming, clapping each other on the back. The Icelanders were slower. At first they just stood in shocked silence. One must remember, this was a country that had never gotten anywhere close to the final stages of the tournament in its history. Then there was the hugging and the joyful screaming. There were even a few happy tears shed. This victory was needed in more ways than one. Iceland had been hit especially hard by the recession in 2008, and were only now starting to recover. On top of that, their prime minister had resigned in April of 2015 over controversies about his offshore financial holdings. And now, a team made up of part-time players and coaches had beaten England- England!- on one of the largest stages in the world, the 2016 euro tournament. Every single Icelandic man, woman, and child had a reason for joy that day.

When the cafe had calmed down, and when the Icelandic team had started to do their oh-so-famous viking clap (look it up on YouTube, its one of the most powerful things you'll ever see), I walked out onto the black sand beach. I stared out at the black sand, the towering cliffs, and the stark blue expanse of the northern Atlantic Ocean in wonderment. I have just witnessed the first chapter of a fairy tale. I will witness the next chapter a week later, when I watch Iceland be beaten 5-2 by France- France!- in the Euro quarterfinals. I will witness the third chapter two days after that, when I watch the team return to a hero's welcome in Reykjavik, Iceland's capital. But who's to say how many chapters there will be? Hopefully, the fairy tale continues at the World Cup in 2018 in Russia. My family, and about 320,000 more beautiful fans can't wait.