travel

Minding my Ps and Qs. Oh, and my Mom.

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‘Signs that I’ve been away. Plus some actual signs.’

It’s been a while since I shared my unbelievable-but-true tale, “The Four Seatmates of the Apocalypse.” But that’s because I’ve been away twice since that three-weeks-long trip to Africa. And, while both places were well-equipped with up-to-date conveniences like internet, I was a tad too distracted to wow you all with any new tales.

Dr. Dude and I smack-dab in the middle of Namibia

So, you might be asking, where the heck were you? Nowhere nearly as exotic as Namibia and Botswana, but that’s okay. Sometimes I think “exotic” is highly overrated.

I can honestly think of nothing more satisfying than spending Columbus Day in the Catskills with our politically-wacky-but-otherwise-most-excellent friends Jim and Phyllis.

Dude Man and Jim admire the signage at the Kaaterskill Falls. They admired the actual falls, too

Unless, of course, it’s spending a nice restful week in Vancouver, Washington, with my one-and-only mother. (No, that’s not the Vancouver where Megan and Harry fled; this is the Vancouver that’s just a hop, skip and a jump over the Columbia River from Portland, Oregon.)

This is the Vancouver where you get to see cool mountains — coming or going

My routine while in Vancouver is to get up early, go for a walk, have coffee with my mother and her friends (hi, Jeff and Carole and Leonard and Betty and all you Shirleys!), hang out with my mother, make dinner, hang out with my mother some more, sleep — and repeat.

My mother’s apartment building seen on my return from a daily walk. It’s really nice. We like to hang out on the balcony and eavesdrop on the smokers who gather under that awning on the right

Trust me. Hanging out in a senior living center makes a nice change from the hustle and bustle of New York. “You live in New York?!?” gasped a new mom-friend named Bill. Um, yeah, Bill. A whole heck of a lot of people do.

But, as I say, hanging out with the seniors can be pretty nice. For one thing, you’re almost always younger than everybody else. Though it doesn’t always show. “You’re sisters, right?” is something I hear every time I visit.

A nice photo of Mom and her daughter and “sister”, taken on my last visit

And there are actually lots of things to do, like exercise class with Kim. And history lectures with John. And this time of year there was lots of baseball to watch.

There were also lots of Halloween decorations to admire

Oh — before I forget. I must explain about the Ps and Qs mentioned in the title of this piece. See, my morning walk takes me by an elementary school. It’s really nice seeing the kids arrive on the big yellow school buses. There are crossing guards, too; volunteer parents who stop traffic so you can cross the street. One very sweet woman with impeccably-groomed eyebrows greeted me warmly every day.

But there was also this sign. Cycling through an electronic display, it read, in part, thusly:

Check out the third line.

Now look at the first word. Ouch.

I mean, really. This is a school we’re talking about, people! One would think they would know their way around some apostrophes. Heavy *sigh* goes here.

Oh — also before I forget. We did have a bit of excitement. Mom and I were happily ensconced in front of her big ole flat-screen TV watching the Phillies wallop several homers during the MLB playoffs when the game was interrupted by, of all things, a tornado warning. Having been raised in the Midwest — specifically in what is known as “Tornado Alley” — Mom and I did not have to be told twice to get away from the windows and down to the first floor.

Nope. That’s not a tornado. That’s my One and Only Sister, with a giant bag of frozen green beans. Which she served with her amazing beef stroganoff. (Yes, she shared the recipe with me)

Turns out we weren’t the only smart ones. Carole and three of the Shirleys — Shirlee With Two Es, Shirley With The Purse At All Times, and Shirley Who Looks 70 But Is 90 — were there, too. (I decided this trip that it is a requirement of this senior living place to have at least two Shirleys on every floor. Marilyn is another hot name. As is Carol, with or without an “e.” But not nearly as ubiquitously hot as Shirley.)

Speaking of which, I have a hot ticket to the opera tonight, and must get gussied up.

Yes, I’m back in New York.

That’s my home town down there

New York City. October 2023

 

The Four Seatmates of the Apocalypse

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‘Fellow travelers from Hell’

Now, why couldn’t it have been Drew Barrymore and her daughter who sat behind us on our 17-hour plane ride?

See, I happened to run into Drew and her daughter in the lobby of our building the other day, and boy, was she nice. I had spotted a cute little girl sporting an unmistakable school uniform and said, “Hey, is that a Brearley Girl?” (Brearley being the name of the exceptionally fine New York City girls’ school that The Child attended.)

The Child rocking her blue Brearley jumper

The Brearley Girl thus addressed responded with true B-Girl enthusiasm as her mother beamed. I then praised the school and threw in a few deets about my own Brearley-burnished daughter. (Math Whiz, Tech Genius, Forbes Thirty Under Thirty honoree, and so on and so forth.)

Realizing I was being, well, gushy, I focused my attention on the blue-jumpered sprite in front of me. “Hmmm…fifteen?” I guessed, knowing that little girls want to be thought of as much older. “Ten. Next week!” she piped up. That’s when the mom chimed in with the girl’s name, then held out her hand and said, “I’m Drew.” Me, (knowing that celebs, at least in New York, never want to be acknowledged as such) “Nice to meet you, Drew. I’m Alice. I live in the secret apartment.” (To ten-year-old) “Wanna see?” So I opened the swing door next to the elevator to reveal the shiny red door to the Ken & Barbie House. “I’d show you, but I’ve gotta run. Maybe next time!”

Now-grown still-youthful Child plus shrinking aging Mom inside the secret apartment, AKA the Ken & Barbie House, on my last Very Big Birthday

It was a lovely encounter, especially when I remembered that Drew had been our main competition for the K & B House. (She wanted it for one of her staff.) It would have been so nice if it were she who sat behind us on our flight. Though I realized that wouldn’t happen, since no doubt she would have flown first class.

I briefly considered first class when booking our Africa trip. I say “briefly” because I practically had a heart attack when I saw the price. When I told Dude Man, he said something like, “Why not go for it; it’s only money.” When I quoted the figure, he said, “For both of us, right?” “Nope; multiply that by two.” “Oh.”

I think he was relieved when I admitted that, even if we sprang for it, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy myself. I’d be thinking every single minute of those 17 hours that the flight was costing as much as the entire tour.

Some of the things that made the trip worth every penny: elephants

So there we were, settling into what Delta calls Premium Select (which wasn’t exactly peanuts, though they did give you some), when I see a mom and a dad towing two small children down the aisle. I’m crossing my fingers and holding my breath when, sure enough, they stop right behind us and consult their boarding passes. “We’re right here!” chirps the female parent in one of those gratingly annoying sing-songy Mom Voices.

Oh noooooo.

Well, all I can say is that I’m so grateful that Dude Man bought me noise-cancelling headphones — and that I elected to bring them on this trip. (Which I almost didn’t, since we were going to be traveling from lodge to lodge and bringing head phones meant more gear to tote.)

Aboard our first flight home. Sweaty palms, but no need for headphones

The kids — boy around seven, his sister, around five — weren’t so bad, except for the occasional obligatory seat-back kick. It was the parents. They kept it up with the (loud) sing-songy voices: “Mommy’s going to go potty. Would you like to go potty too?” “Here, let Daddy help you pick out a movie.” Whereupon he reads the description of every single child-friendly film. “You loved Frozen. Oh look! The Little Mermaid!”

Seventeen hours, friends. Seventeen hours.

Well. Flash forward three weeks. Through three weeks of amazing African adventures. Enough to fuel many a blog post.

Me with cubs. Lion cubs, not people cubs

Our travel home started with an hour-long ride in an open safari vehicle, followed by a flight in a plane so small it was like wearing a plane, then a small regional jet from Maun to Johannesburg. Six hours and two airport lounge stays later, we’re settling into our seats in Delta Premium Select when I hear, “Let Mommy buckle that for you.”

Yes, it’s them. The Flying Family From Hell. Same seats, right behind us. Same sing-songy voices. Same periodic kicks in the back. For seventeen hours.

Those noise-cancelling headphones were worth their weight in gold. God bless you, Sony.

The only way some children should fly. In my humble opinion

New York City. October 2023.

Hippopotami

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‘As in Hippo pot — oh my!’

Hey there, Madeleine and Becca and Ruth. I’m baaa-aack! Yes, after three weeks and two countries’ worth of African adventures, I’m back at the keyboard again.

What with the animals and the birds and the dunes and the waterholes and the sunrises and the sunsets and suchlike, I’m not sure where to begin.

One of the animals we met made a great breakfast buddy

So I’ll just jump right in with the story about the hippos in the middle of the night.

See, we covered a heck of a lot of ground on this trip, going from habitat to habitat to get different kinds of birds. Which meant that we mostly stayed just one night in each of, gosh, a dozen different lodges. These places were not fancy, but very cool all the same, and I must admit I hated leaving most of them. But once I got the hang of never really unpacking, I got into a rhythm and started to enjoy the feeling of anticipation that came with knowing I’d get to discover a new place at the end of each day.

Here’s a sunset and a waterhole

We were about two-thirds through the trip when we stopped at Xaro Camp. (Interesting linguistic note: in Bostwana, an “x” is pronounced like a “k,” so you say “Karo Kamp,” ’cause, well, the “c” is also pronounced like a “k.” Hahaha.)

We covered a heck of a lot of territory. This story takes place at Xaro up there at the Okavango Delta

The only way to get to this camp is by water, it being situated at the head of the Okavango Delta. 

When we were shown to our room — which was a canvas tent on a wooden platform — we were told (rather firmly) not to leave the premises after dark — not even to go out on the balcony — since large nocturnal animals would be roaming about looking for food. And, if we didn’t want to be on the menu, we’d need to stay inside. The one time we’d be out after dark would be dinnertime, and then we’d be escorted. Safety in numbers, I guess.

Approaching camp by water. Yes, that’s a crocodile. A huge crocodile

We were used to this, having been to Africa before. In fact, once in the Serengeti, we were having breakfast when a whole herd of elephants came marching through the lodge grounds, ripping up trees and causing havoc. A whole herd of German tourists rushed out to take their pictures (!) and had to be wrangled back inside. So, yes, we were into the escort idea.

These ginormous dunes were in Sossusviel in the Namib Desert. No hippos there!

Another fun fact: when shown our cabin (room? tent?), we were also told that ours was called the “hippo cabin,” since it was just a few yards from a dip in the riverback where hippos liked to come ashore. Oh wow. Terrific.

Dude on our balcony. You can see the “hippo ramp” right behind him

This was a stay-two-nights place, and the first night was uneventful. Some screeching, a few hoots. Plenty of elephant tracks out there in the morning, but otherwise nada. Oh! We did see Pel’s Fishing Owl (or PFO), which is very hard to find. We found two.

But the next night I woke around 3ish and was lying there deciding whether to grab a flashlight to make my way to the bathroom, when I heard this snuffling sound. A really loud snuffling sound, punctuated with these grunts. By now, I really needed to pee, but decided against using the light. I kind of felt my way toward the toilet, and lowered away — trying to be extremely quiet, which I have had lots of practice doing. (See “The Daydream Believer and the Homecoming Queen” for a tale of quiet peeing gone awry in an awfully embarrassing way.)

Sorry, I do not have a shot of myself quietly peeing. But here I am, quietly stalking the elusive Dune Lark. (Yes, we found it)

The whole time I’m aiming for the side of the bowl to avoid noisy splashing I’m hearing snuffling and grunting just inches away from my scared little snack-sized body. Mind you, there’s just a piece of tent canvas between me and whatever it is making the snuffling and grunting.

I also don’t have a photo of the hippos. Mainly because I didn’t see the hippos — just heard them. But here’s a closer look at that croc 

Next morning, I see large footprints around our tent and am told at breakfast that, yes, it was hippos I was hearing — and that everyone in camp heard them too. Though not everyone heard them inches away from their peeing selves.

Well, I think that’s enough adventure for today. But don’t worry; there’s plenty more for next week.

At the end of another adventurous African day

New York City. September 2023

 

Our Wild Car(d) Rental

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‘Scoring an F150 from Thrifty’

Not to sound like a summer deadbeat or anything — though I am kind of a deadbeat, and not just in summer — I was going to skip yet another week of blog-posting. (I was AWOL last week, in case you didn’t notice.)

My AWOL view; perfect for working on a photo book to commemorate the Living Wake

But then I realized that you Faithful Readers (Madeleine and Becca and Ruth, I’m talking to you) would wonder if I’d fallen off the face of the earth.

See, Dude Man and I are going on yet another of our Wacky Birdy Adventures, and we will be out of internet contact for three whole weeks. And gosh, if I didn’t write one of these things till the end of September, I might even lose Madeleine and Becca and Ruth!

Showing off a leech bite on one of our birdy adventures (Borneo). Now I’ve done it; you’re all going to Borneo

So, what’s been keeping me away from my keyboard? Ta-da! Another wedding, that’s what. And boy oh boy do I love weddings. I have said it before, but I’ll say it again: What’s not to love about a wedding? There’s a big gathering of family and friends, toasts and food and more toasts, and everybody’s happy. The only other time I can think of when this kind of thing goes on — well, except for maybe the “happy” part — is a wake. (Though a wake can be happy; read about my Oldest Younger Brother’s genius idea, his Living Wake, right here.)

Scott and me living it up at his wake

But what’s that about a rented F150, you might be asking. (A couple of 70-Somethings don’t exactly seem like the F150 type.) Well, this wedding took place on the Biltmore Estate — Biltmore being the name of the extremely large (more than 250 rooms) and extremely luxurious (an indoor heated pool and a bowling alley) house situated on equally large (some 30,000 acres) and equally luxurious (designed by Frederick Law Olmstead) property near Asheville, North Carolina, that the Biltmores built more than a hundred hears ago.

Dude Man, with the Biltmore mansion a hike away in the background

We booked rooms in the Biltmore Inn, since no one can stay at the mansion itself. (A pity; there are 33 guest rooms.) In the weeks leading up to the wedding, I received several emails from the Inn, inviting me to book events — dining (nah), flowers in the room (also nah), tickets to the mansion (yes!) — in advance. But we were also advised to rent a car. They said the property was way too big and shuttles too infrequent to opt out. (We also discovered that GPS was completely unreliable, but I’ll get to that.)

Dude Man again, with the Biltmore Inn a walk away in the background

So I scrounged around on the internet and found that the best car rental deal was through Thrifty. They have this thing called the “Wild Card.” Which is their cheapest option — even cheaper than those micro-compacts that look and feel like those clown cars they used to have in the circus. (Maybe they still do; I haven’t been to a circus in decades, thank god.) To get this cheaparino rate, you simply agree to take whatever car they might have available at the time. It’s a surprise — hence the “Wild Card” moniker.

Dude happily at the wheel of the F150. There was no way I was going to drive that thing. It made my Dad’s cars seem like Tonka Toys — see “Boats? Dad had yachts of them” for Dad-car stories

Well, I think they should just call it the Wild Car. Because what did we score? This brand-spankin’-new F150 truck, that’s what. It was shiny, it was blindingly white and fragrant with that lovely new-car smell. Wild, indeed. Also, it was huge. Not as huge as The Child’s F350 — which they used to haul their camper shell around the country during the late not-lamented Covid Lockdown — but way bigger than our Honda, that’s for sure.

We could have hauled the whole wedding party in that thing. Plus a cooler and some lawn chairs in the truck bed. (Which is something people did in my home town; we called it a “Clinton County Cadillac.”)

The happy couple. The groom is Dude Man’s cousin’s youngest son. Yes, we’re digging deep, wedding-wise

Oh yes, the GPS Thing. It took us ages to find the Biltmore Inn. When we programmed the address into Apple Maps, we kept getting sent to the employee-only entrance. Turns out everyone gets sent by GPS to the employee entrance — except for the employees. (Or so a very nice employee told us when we finally checked in. I had to get out in town and ask directions, which an antique-store-proprietor helpfully scribbled on the back of an old receipt. He even drew us a map. I felt bad not buying anything, but not after all that downsizing.)

Speaking of downsizing, I don’t want to expand on this story further. If I get too longwinded I might alienate even Madeleine and Becca and Ruth. I will leave you with a few more nice photos of where the Biltmores once roamed. I’ll be back with stories at the end of September — unless we get stampeded by elephants.

Me, making like a Biltmore

Dude, ditto

Dude, admiring the indoor pool. Nope, no water. It leaks

The two of us, plotting how to marry Biltmores. Except we’re already married, darn it

Amagansett, New York. August 2023

 

Don’t leave home without it.

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‘The one travel essential that never appears on a list’

A couple of weeks ago Dude Man and I had dinner with the kind of couple I love to do things with in the City. They’re up for just about anything and, if weeks — or even months — go by between dinners or whatever, it doesn’t matter one whit. We just take up where we left off and have a jolly good time.

I knew the woman from a zillion years ago at Ogilvy, but our friendship got rekindled when she and her husband were on a plane to Bonaire and happened to sit next to Dr. Dude. One thing led to another and, next thing you know, we were sharing a pizza on the island and cracking each other up.

Anyway, that was years ago, and we still get together every once in a while to share a pizza on an island (Manhattan now) — and, yes, crack each other up. This last time they were telling us an air travel horror story. Trust me, even air travel horror stories can be pretty darned funny well after the fact. (You know the famous saying, right? “Comedy equals Tragedy plus Time.” True, so true. For anecdotal evidence, try out “The Gate Nazi at JFK.” Horrible and hilarious.)

On the same trip (of Gate Nazi fame) our flights were delayed for so long we went back to the hotel for more birding. (See “Birders Gotta Bird”)

This particular air travel horror story did not involve authoritarian gate agents demanding the singing of Christmas carols. No, this time the horror involved a delay — the kind of dreadful delay that drags on and on and on, and, adding to the drag, no food or water or refreshments of any kind.

Me, warily contemplating my fate at a gate at JFK

Were our friends daunted by this delay? Well, they weren’t pleased, but they weren’t starving either. Because, with tremendous foresight, my friend had packed a peanut butter sandwich. (Well, actually, two peanut butter sandwiches. One for each of them.)

This, O Reader, is the Travel Trick that I never see on even the most comprehensive lists. I see packing cubes, I see headphones, I see phone chargers, I see collapsible pillows. But do I see “peanut butter sandwich?”

Oh, once in a while, I see a suggestion to bring “snacks.” But what do they mean? Fruit gets mushy. Cheese gets rubbery. And god forbid you bring something aromatic. I once was on a flight where my seatmate whipped out a carton of chinese food. And don’t get me started on the guy who brought some McDonald’s (!)

Yes, this was The Child’s travel snack. No, she did not try to bring it on the plane

True, a peanut-butter sandwich can exude a somewhat nutty aroma. But, other than that, and the fact that it might get a bit smooshed — a problem that can be mitigated by making it foldover style — a PB&J is portable, palatable and non-confrontational.

If you find yourself saying, right about now, “Oh, but I’m going to be on an international flight and they have to serve me food” or “But I’m going to be in first class and the food will be terrific” — listen up. Your Emergency PB&J won’t take up a lot of room, and, like a spare phone charger, you might be awfully glad you’ve got it with you. (See my friend’s photo of her international-flight dinner — cup of water plus weird cracker/cookie thingie — at the top of this post. That sandwich on the left? That’s her presciently provided-by-herself PB&J.)

Dude enjoying First Class on our flight to Ecuador. (The food was good)

And if you end up not needing your PB&J after all? Eat it when you get where you’re going. Then you won’t need to go out for pizza. Though you’re going to want to go out for pizza if you’re with friends like ours.

Amagansett, New York. June 2023

Mr. Malaprop

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‘”But that’s what I’ve always called it,” and other Dudeisms.’

I flew home from my Mom’s yesterday, and boy are my arms tired. Almost too tired to peck away at my keyboard. But I already missed last week’s missive — because I was at Mom’s — and I daren’t let too many postless weeks go by or I will lose my thousands of subscribers. Kidding.

Three Mom Amigos at a lilac garden

So. Mom’s visit. It was super satisfying, what with outings to lilac gardens and riverfront eating establishments and such, plus plenty of Sister Sightings, which are always my favorite part. Sigh.

Hanging out at Laura’s. Even more fun than a lilac garden

But back to the topic of today: Dude Man’s somewhat trying and definitely hilarious habit of peppering conversations with words or phrases that are, well, somewhat off. Not quite wrong, like insisting that “night” is called “day” or “black” is called “white.” But pretty close. And, what’s even more Dudelike, insisting, when gently corrected, that his usage is correct.

For example (speaking of “night” and “day”). The Dude and I have been trying to incorporate morning walks into our daily routine. Since his office hours start around 7:30 — he is a doctor, as you may recall — these walks have to start early. Like around 5:30. AM.

Which means we get to see the sun rise over Central Park. (Gorgeous, BTW.) Invariably, His Dudeness will look out over the Lake as we’re crossing Bow Bridge and say, “Ah, look at the lovely twilight.” Then, when I point out that the appearance of first light is called “dawn,” and that “twilight” refers to the fading of light in the evening, he insists that “twilight” works just fine — because “that’s what I’ve always called it.”

I don’t have a photo of us in Central Park at dawn (er, “twilight”) but I do have this one (and the one at the top of this post), showing twilight in Brazil

Another example. As you may recall, I’m sort of never not knitting something. Baby sweaters, usually. Because they’re little and fun and fast, but mainly because I’m hoping somebody out there will take the hint, already. The last one I did was a cardigan.

One of my latest sweaters. Definitely not Dude-sized. And definitely not a “button-down.” It’s called a “cardigan”

Dude Man duly admired it, then asked if I could knit him one too. (Larger, for sure. And probably not pink.) Since he never wears the many sweaters I have already knit for him — which have lived in a lonely stack in his closet ever since he discovered Polarfleece — I asked what would qualify this hypothetical sweater for actual wearing.

Oh, it would be a vest. So it would fit under jackets. (He has vests, I point out. Vests he never wears. Under jackets or anything else.) Oh, I’d like one that buttons down the front. You know, a button-down.

One of the many vests I have knit him. It does have buttons, but only part way down the front

A “button-down?” I say. “A button-down” is a shirt. A shirt with buttons that hold the collar down.

No it’s not. A “button-down” is anything that buttons down the front. Like a shirt. Or a sweater, he insists.

A cardigan is a sweater that buttons down the front, I insist right back. If you go in a store and ask for a “button-down,” they’re going to bring you a shirt with those little buttons on the collar. They are most definitely not going to bring you a sweater that buttons down the front.

Well, he huffs. That’s what I’ve always called sweaters like that.

Another sweater that Dude would call a button-down. And that everyone else calls a cardigan. This one wasn’t for him either

Okay. I give up. (Big sigh goes here.)

This post is reminding me of one of my father’s favorite jokes — one that he taught The Child to tell at family gatherings. Here goes:

A woman is walking down a country lane carrying a duck. A man walks by and asks, “What are you doing with that pig?” The woman replies, “That’s not a pig — that’s a duck.” Man: “I was talking to the duck.”

New York City. May 2023

The Emotional Support Rock

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‘When it comes to The Kidlet, no stone is left unturned.’

I know I wrote about The Child (AKA “The Kidlet,”) just last week. About how she can recite pi to like a googillion places. (Cool word, googillion. Thanks, Spelling Bee!) But tomorrow’s her birthday. And besides, I thought of a cute story about her Kidletness that I don’t think I’ve told yet.

This is about how, when she was small, The Child would carry a rock around with her pretty much all the time. This would not be a big rock — more like a pebble. (See the photo at the top of this post for a great example sitting right there on the picnic table.) Fortunately, she was attached to just one rock at a time, sort of like mineral serial monogamy. But she had to have that rock on or near her person at all times, usually in a pocket. (Yes, I’d have to check before doing the laundry; we almost destroyed a dryer once when I forgot. You never heard such clunking.)

Look closely and you’ll see a rock clutched firmly in that little toddler paw

It wasn’t just rocks she liked. She was into stuffed animals, too, and had a whole menagerie of plushy friends. There was Lion and Penguin and Bear and Squirrel. Also Cow and Lamb. Their names? Lion and Penguin and Bear and Squirrel and Cow. The Lamb was the only animal with a more namelike name. She called him (her?) “Lammie.”

The Child wasn’t the only one in our house who liked stuffed animals

When we’d go on a trip, she would select an animal to accompany us. “Squirrel got to go to Gramma’s last time; now it’s Penguin’s turn.”

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“Watch the birdie!”

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‘And watch out for water balloons!’

Not only did I promise to pry some bird photos out of Dude Man’s camera and share them with you this week, I forgot to tell you about a pretty important part of our trip.

Here’s a Green-Backed Trogon. Nice, huh?

And that’s the fact that our birding expedition to the wilds of SE Ecuador happened to coincide with Carnival. Now, we do celebrate Mardi Gras, sort of, in some parts of the good ole U S of A. Once, in fact, I almost had a heart attack when The Child traveled to New Orleans with a group of college buds to participate in the revelry there.

Her Childness and Friend meet a shark on the streets of New Orleans

But trust me when I tell you that no one celebrates the days leading up to Lent (AKA “Carnival”) like our neighbors to the South.

But first — even before Carnival — there was The Wedding. We arrived on a Thursday and went to our very nice hotel near the airport to rest up for our trip further south the next morning. (This is the place featuring Sylvester, the Hotel Cat. Last week’s story has a photo.) Little did we know that the hotel was hosting a wedding. (We did see the white tents, and had our suspicions.) Soon enough, we were assaulted by the sound of happy wedding guests dancing the night away. And it wasn’t even the wedding yet. This was just pre-party stuff. Thank heaven for ear plugs.

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“People people people!”

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‘Meet the Energizer Birder’

I just flew back from Ecuador, and boy are my arms tired.

Well, maybe not my arms, but the rest of me is pretty darned tuckered out. Because, speaking of flying, we’ve just returned from another of our wacky birding trips.

Wayne enjoying every second of our latest wacky birding trip. That’s the Energizer Birder on the right

I have written about these trips many times before, of course. About how you get up really early, tramp around jungles in sweltering wet weather, eat strange foods (durian, anyone?) and feel darned lucky at the end of the day if you can manage to stay awake long enough for your hair to dry before your pillow can mold it into strange overnight shapes.

Or sometimes you freeze yourself at 14,500 feet. Doesn’t matter about your hair getting molded into strange shapes — it’s always crammed under a hat

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Jury duty, only with feathers

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‘What those crazy birding trips are like’

I just flew back from a birding trip to Brazil, and boy are my arms tired.

The jury is in: Birthdays are Birddays on trips like this one. Here we celebrate my latest at Itatiaia National Park

People often ask me what these trips are like. Well, here’s how I often describe them. Picture yourself thrown together with eleven random strangers from all walks of life. For several days you spend nearly every waking moment with these people.

Our team of twelve doing a bit of problem-solving together

You eat every meal together, you take breaks together, you even spend the night together. (Well, sort of.) You consult, you deliberate, you draw conclusions.

Which owl was this? Group conclusion: Tawny-browed owl — a baby one

You form bonds and promise to stay in touch. Then, when it’s all over, you go home — and never see each other again. Jury duty, right?

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