^{Photo Credit: Carol Madigan}

   Thermal underwear. Check. Wool socks. Check. Winter gloves. Check. Boots, heavy coats, sweaters, scarves and wool hats. Check, check, check, check and check. Getting ready for our first summer travel vacation in over a year. And no, we’re not so out of step with traveling again that we have our seasons mixed up. We’re heading to Iceland, the only country opening its doors to tourists in what the world is hoping to be the first post-pandemic travel destination.

   It is by no means a slam dunk, mind you. While we have hotel accommodations reserved in Reykjavik for the end of May, we have to get there first, and flying standby is no guarantee of that. That’s why we usually don’t make reservations prior to getting our seat assignments at the gate. But covid testing protocols and a crush of travel-deprived tourists have hotels filling up fast.

   Iceland has been a bucket list country for me for years. As far as Carol is concerned, even travel to the edge of the Arctic Circle is worth it, if for no other reason than to dampen her fears of one day soon needing the Jaws of Life to get me extracted from the couch.

   The Icelandic landscape promises to be breathtaking, provided the windstorms don’t take your breath first. Temperatures in early June are in the 40s and 50s, but presumably the wind chill can bring them down to Absolute Zero. Hence the winter gear noted above.

The national dish of Iceland is something that translates as “rotted shark,” composed (or decomposed) of fermenting the shark meat, and then hanging it out in the sun for four or five months. I think the Icelandic name for it is Hurl.

   One of the main attractions are the famous thermal pools heated by the country’s volcanic substrata. In order to enter, however, you have to take a complete shower naked and with strangers, which in my current physical shape threatens to cause an international incident. I may decide to watch Carol frolic alone.

   The national dish of Iceland is something that translates as “rotted shark,” composed (or decomposed) of fermenting the shark meat, and then hanging it out in the sun for four or five months. I think the Icelandic name for it is Hurl.

   Iceland’s Ring Road is an 800-mile circle of the island nation that offers spectacular views of the country’s many waterfalls, rocky cliffs and beautiful fjords. The trick here is finding accommodations for the night in some of the more remote villages along the way. Carol and I are choosing to travel by camper as a plan B for not finding any room in the inn when we stop for the night.

   The real adventure, though, may be getting back home after turning in the camper and digesting the last morsels of Hurl at one of Reykjavik’s hospitals. Currently, the U.S. is requiring a negative covid test 72 hours prior to the flight home. Since standby is uncertain, we may find ourselves in a real-life version of Terminal.

   Wise travelers would probably decide to wait for more favorable travel conditions, but we’re thinking we might slip through and enjoy an adventure of a lifetime. I’m thinking two weeks of a Hurl diet might just jumpstart a weight loss regimen.

   Maybe I’ll save that dip in a thermal pool for the end of the trip.