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In the middle of a cold Icelandic winter I am standing on a pavement in Kópavogur, the country's second largest city. My face betrays all my emotions as I am about to knock on a two meter tall, few tons heavy rock, asking its occupants whether I can join them for a cup of tea. “You need to knock harder.” tells me Brynja, my local guide. “They might not hear you.” Being an elf whisperer for over twenty five years, she certainly knows what she is talking about. During the preparation for the unusual visit she advised me to take with me a jar of honey (elves go crazy about it), dress in simple, single colored clothes (they follow fashion but appreciate modesty) and open my heart (they can see into a human's soul and know our true intentions). So here I am, standing in front of Álfhólsvegur (directly translated: Elf Hill Road) number 102, with a pot of honey in my hand, dressed in my best clothes, hair combed, smiling from ear to ear. An adult knocking on a rock might cause stir in some parts of the world but it isn't anything extraordinary in Iceland. A nationwide survey taken in 2006 showed that 62 percent of the population does not exclude the possibility of the existence of elves. That is an astonishing number, which made me travel over four thousand kilometers in order to see elves with my own eyes. According to Icelandic definition, elves are supernatural beings living in rocks mostly, have similar physical attributes to humans but are invisible to them. Unless they want to be seen. Adjusting my bow tie, bought especially for this occasion, my eyes are scanning the neighborhood. Both number 104 and 100 are small family houses. A bicycle leans against the wall of number 100, a swing can be seen in the garden of number 104. Regular, suburban family houses. Yet the main reason for my journey is located right in front of me – number 102, an enormous rock. Twice over the last ninety years did the construction workers try to remove it to extend the road. Each time however unexplained accidents happened on the site, new equipment got damaged and workers injured. It took a professional medium to find out that the accidents were caused by elves, who were understandably upset about their homes being destroyed by humans. So the local government decided that the rocks and their inhabitants should stay forever untouched and as a sort of consolation prize, the rock even got its own street number assigned. I clear my throat loudly to inform the rock inhabitants about my arrival. My next knock is confident and strong. In my head I have a whole speech prepared. I wonder what they look like, whether they are afraid of foreigners and – most importantly – how will I fit in with my eighty kilograms through a small door in the rock. Many questions pop into my head. Unfortunately I don't get a chance to ask them, as the rock remains ice cold and I don't hear any door squeaking. “Maybe they are out fishing. The weather is great.” Brynja tried to lift my spirits. She suggests to try again the following day. As my return flight is scheduled early next morning, this isn't a possibility. I leave the pot with honey in front of the rock and head home disappointed. On the plane I keep thinking what could have gone wrong: was my bow tie not colorful enough, the honey pot too small or perhaps I missed to introduce myself beforehand? I take a sheet of paper, writing down a sincere apology, sharing information about myself and my interest in them. I post the letter from my hometown. The address on the envelope: Álfhólsvegur 102, Kópavogur, Iceland. The last time I was waiting with such excitement for a reply was over thirty years ago, when I sent a letter to Santa Claus. And just as back then, I keep checking my postbox first thing every morning.