Island hopping OAP's.

• Author: Bergesen, Bobbie
• Position: Old age pensioner

Editor's Note: A Foreign Service spouse takes us on a tour of some exotic islands of the far north.--Ed.

"Dare I inquire," the middle-aged man behind the desk asked carefully, "whether you are an OAP?"

Having toured the UK (we're using initials now) for about six weeks, I knew he was asking if I was a Senior Citizen (U.S. usage: no initials). The British call us Old Age Pensioners. I also knew that after a glance, he knew the answer perfectly well, but was just being polite.

"Yes, I am," I assured him, pointing to my gray hair, "and my husband is, too."

"Good," he said, "then you pay less for the tickets."

It was August, 1988, and we were at the express bus station in Bath, England, buying two tickets for the next morning's bus to Heathrow airport, to catch our flight back to the United States. After island-hopping around the British Isles, it was time to head home.

The ticket-seller's politeness, tinged with humor, was on a par with the courtesy we found almost everywhere--with one notable exception--on our self-guided tour of northern islands ranging from the Faroes to the Channel Islands, with necessary stopovers in Iceland, Scotland, and England. After my Foreign Service Officer husband retired, we kept on traveling the world somewhat to my surprise, as we had done for over 30 years. The difference was that it was on our own nickel and with our own itinerary.

Touring the islands around the British Isles had long been a dream--islands like the Shetlands, the Orkneys; the Isles of Mull, of Man, of Skye; Iona; the Isle of Wight; and the Channel Islands: Jersey, Guernsey, and others. But cows or not--and we saw several on Jersey, looking just as storied Jersey cows should, with huge, soft brown eyes--we couldn't get to Guernsey. High winds and roiling seas made it impossible for the Hovercraft to ferry us from Jersey over to Guernsey, and the airport was closed, too.

Iceland

En route, we first stopped at a set of non-British islands. It was 99 degrees when we left Washington, D.C., marking the tenth day over ninety in one of that summer's longest hot spells. But Icelandair--an airline we cottoned to--Took Us Away From All That. Leaving Baltimore, we landed at Iceland's Keflavik airport, where a cool, pure wind immediately blew the smoggy heat out of our systems. Icelandic air was eminently breathable. We looked forward, too, to another visit to Rejkavik, where two years earlier we had an enjoyable visit on our way to Europe. Fares were cheaper than other airlines' at that time, and the service excellent. They even gave us two free nights at a hotel in the capital. Although that freebie no longer applied, the water in the hotel softened one's skin wonderfully, I remembered--it was sulfur, someone said--and when it was piped from its volcanic source, it was...