WANDERLUST
“I’m not the outdoorsy type, unless a waiter is following me with a tray of champagne.”
“HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT KENYA?” PETER asked me on the phone, asking me out on our second official date.
“I love Kenya!” I said. Of course, I thought he was joking—who gets immunizations to go on a date? But no, he was completely serious. This is why I love New York; where else can you meet a man with the means and the sense of adventure to plan such a killer date?
Peter called the New York offices of Ker & Downey, an old-school safari company, and told them we wanted to take a week-long safari and would like to leave the coming weekend.
“But it’s Tuesday. You want to leave Saturday?” the agent asked in disbelief.
“Or Friday,” Peter replied casually.
“People plan a trip like this a full year in advance. Kenya is in Africa. There are a lot of arrangements to make.”
Peter messengered a check over to prove he was serious, reservations were made, and I found myself in the office of a tropical infectious disease specialist getting vaccinations and malaria pills. The next stop was a whirlwind shopping spree for fabulous khaki cocktail wear. Peter already wears khaki, so his wardrobe was perfect. I mailed my daughter to Texas to stay with my mom, and we headed for the airport.
It was a dream date from start to finish. We stayed at the Governors’ Camp in the Masai Mara, where we could hear lions roar as we lay in our luxury tent. One afternoon I was changing and heard someone enter. I turned around to see a wild elephant standing about ten feet from me. I grabbed my camera and got a priceless close-up of his face. Only after the camera flashed did I notice the panicked guard with the spear who shooed the powerful creature out.
“You will live a long life because you were not killed by that elephant,” the guard informed me. It hadn’t occurred to me that I wasn’t on an amusement park ride.
We then went to a camp called Borana, where the animators of
“Come see this.” He motioned. On a small cliff below were two sleeping leopards.
“This is very rare. Leopards are difficult to see because they hunt only at night and are well camouflaged. They are solitary animals; seeing two together is very rare. It only happens when they are mating.” When we turned around, there was a waiter holding a tray of champagne. Thank God my backpacking days through Europe with a Eurail Pass eurocard are over, I thought;
That night, back at the camp, we dined with an Italian expat wearing a shoulder-holstered pistol who showed us his elephant gun with lion tooth marks in the butt. It occurred to me that he wasn’t on a photo safari like the rest of us.
“Let’s all have a drink to congratulate Peter and Laura,” our host said. “They are the first guests here at Borana ever to see all of the big five in one trip. We have guests who return year after year in the hopes of such an accomplishment.” The “big five” are the elephant, lion, water buffalo, rhino, and leopard. Unbeknownst to us, it is the goal of a safari to view these animals, or bag them if that’s your thing.
“Why not the giraffe, or the hippo?” I asked our host.
“The animals in the big five were determined by big-game hunters. These are the animals most difficult to shoot, because of their ferocity when cornered,” he said.
I still enjoyed seeing the giraffe the most, but it was our friends the mating leopards that gave us the edge. I love it when I win competitions I didn’t even know I was entered in.
After Borana, we stayed at Giraffe Manor in Nairobi, a 140-acre estate used as a refuge for giraffes. The giraffes roam free on the property and, like park squirrels, they stick their heads in through the dining room windows to beg for food.
Peter must have known this trip would be a hard act to follow, especially after we took our cue from the leopards. He had me at “safari,” and I never looked back. Oh, sure, we went to Europe a couple of times to visit my brother’s family, and I have been known to tag along on the occasional business trip, but once we had two three four five six kids, “vacation” became a four-letter word.
Once. We have gone on vacation all together, as a family of eight exactly once. I’m not really sure why we did it—perhaps because Peter had traveled a good deal as a child and wanted his children to do the same, or maybe because I was suffering from some form of wanderlust postpartum depression. We decided on Puerto Rico as it was a short, direct flight, and we could give the kids a taste of
Remember when the Brady Bunch go to Hawaii and Bobby and Peter find some ugly idol at Dad Brady’s construction site and it turns out the trinket has an “evil taboo” and the next thing you know Bobby’s head almost gets bashed in by a hotel wall decoration, then Greg has a massive wipeout on his surfboard and Peter is attacked by a vicious tarantula while he is sleeping? And then they have to return the cursed thing to the “Tiki Cave,” where crazy Vincent Price is lurking and tries to scare them, then ties them up, while back at the hotel the girls confess to knowing where the boys are and oh why didn’t they tell their parents sooner? And finally it’s all happily ever after with a big luau and everybody—Vince included—takes a turn “sounding the horn of brotherhood” while blowing into a big conch shell and great hilarity ensues? Well, Puerto Rico was nothing like any of that. It rained. We stood in line for a boat to the recreation island. I suspect the food was shipped in from Wendy’s. The kids swam in the pool during the one hour it didn’t rain. We could have gone to the Holidome in Paramus and been a thousand times happier and about $15,000 up on tuition.
Peter worries that we don’t travel enough. But having children in such a wide range of ages makes vacation planning tricky. It’s hard to find a destination that appeals to all of them. My older children should be receiving their requisite doses of culture by touring the great cities of Europe. I am loath to imagine the horror of shepherding my three younger ones through the British Museum or the Louvre. We have all grown to love the
Last summer Peter’s friend John took his family to a dude ranch in Wyoming. Knowing I am not the outdoor type, unless a waiter is following me with a tray of champagne, Peter decided to take Peik and Truman for a session of male bonding. Or male bondage, depending on your deftness with the reins. I’m not sure why he agreed to go to a ranch; his only memory from the single such childhood trip was of his father’s butt bleeding from too much riding. Nevertheless, he picked up the phone and booked a week in August.
My inner calendar shrieked—August is the darkest month in New York, when both nannies and therapists leave the city. It is a dangerous time, with hollow-eyed mommies pushing strollers and sobbing into cell phones, begging their therapist’s receptionist to please,
Here’s one thing you should know about the Disney Cruise: the culture of Disney is insidious. Mousack is piped into every nook and cranny of the damn ship: the elevators, the restaurants, the hallways. If you submerge yourself in the mouse-shaped pool, you will hear the haunting theme from
