Why we travel: The View from Viator (click here)

Editor’s Note: At Viator we are big fans of Vagabondish: The Travelzine for Today’s Vagabond. So much so that we’ve agreed to swap posts on the critical question of “why we travel.” The following is by Amanda K, an Australian travel addict, writer and English teacher who’s visited more than 30 countries. Also check out her personal blog - Not A Ballerina.To read the Viator reply to Amanda & Vagabondish, click here.

Not everyone who travels becomes a travel addict. There are those people who are happy to take the odd vacation now and again, do a little sightseeing, perhaps tentatively try a new food, but are happier at home in their living room, attending to their garden or catching up with their friends on a regular Friday night at the pub.

I am not one of those people. And if you’re reading this, the chances are that you’re not one of those people, either.

Remind me: Why do we travel?

So why do we travel? And why do we just have to keep traveling? Traveling is an expensive, time-consuming hobby. I don’t dare to try to calculate how much money I’ve spent on my travels over the years. And what do I have to show for it? A few insights, some pretty photos, friends dotted around the globe who I send occasional emails to… is that a good return on investment?

I guess what I’m saying is that there is some almost inexplicable force that keeps travelers getting on planes, booking vacations and daydreaming about their next destination. It’s a strong force that’s pretty much impossible to fight.

Here’s my own personal philosophical take on why we travel: we’re trying to improve ourselves. It sounds all very noble, although perhaps it’s not what any of us are actually thinking as we rattle across Russia in a train or swallow fried cockroaches in Thailand, but I think that might be the basis of it all.

Why we travel: Expanding our comfort zone

One aspect of this is expanding our comfort zones. That’s what makes travelers different from the people who prefer to stay home – you really only test the barriers of your comfort zone when you’re in foreign countries, faced with complicated decisions and multitudes of new impressions. While confronting yourself with new challenges might partly be an adrenalin issue (if you can compare trying to find the bus station in Sousse, Tunisia with bungee jumping), I think it’s also part of an inner desire to push yourself to somehow be better, more capable of meeting challenges, to have an “I can do anything” attitude.

To be frank, I consider myself a pretty cowardly person. I won’t ride a rollercoaster if it loops upside-down, I’ll shriek if I see a small spider and I get scared before making a speech in front of my colleagues. But others see me differently, because they watched me give up a good job to travel the world with no particular plan, they know that I traveled across Russia without meeting more than two or three other foreigners, and they even think I’m brave for eating some of the more unusual Japanese foods.

Why we travel: Understanding the world

Another side of the self-improvement idea is that travelers might have an innate sense of wanting to understand the world better. The more I travel and the more foreign people I meet, the more I realize that they’re not foreign at all, and people are really the same the whole world over. Because I teach English as a second language, I get a double dose of that – in my classroom I’ll have Colombians sitting next to Koreans, Russians next to Taiwanese, and they inevitably become firm friends.

Is it too big an idea to say that if everyone was able to travel extensively we’d be able to achieve world peace? Sure, it’s a big call, but maybe there’s something in it: if everybody got to experience more of those special friendships with people from all different countries, races, religions and beliefs, perhaps a whole lot more barriers would be broken down and we could achieve a bit more harmony. Or at least we could shed a lot of the negative stereotypes we hold about other nationalities.

Why we travel: Avoiding materialism

I’m not sure whether this is a cause or effect of the force that makes us travel, but it seems to be bound up in it somehow: travel addicts are mostly people who are trying to avoid getting caught up in the materialist traps that our society sets for us. Yes, it’s lovely to have a lot of nice belongings, but we all know the research that suggests people from developing countries who basically have nothing are intrinsically happier than we are.

Unfortunately, I’ve always been a bit of a hoarder. Not of expensive material goods (I’ve never owned a brand new car, for example) but of sentimental belongings like books, clothes, souvenirs and old letters. Of course, I had to live without all of this stuff during my time abroad. I learned that I really don’t need it all. And I especially don’t need a wardrobe full of new clothes, the latest and best computer or stereo equipment, or an expensive leather sofa.

So why do we keep traveling?

The result of all this is that once we get the travel bug, we can’t give it up. And that’s because all of these goals that we’re either consciously or subconsciously trying to achieve are almost unattainable.

Once you expand your comfort zone, the new, the exciting and the dangerous become comfortable. So then you have to start all over again and find other ways to stretch yourself outside of your (now enlarged) comfort zone.

You will never fully understand the world. There are too many people in too many different places, and on top of that, the world is constantly changing. You might come to grips with how middle-aged Germans see the reunification of the former East Germany and West Germany, but then there’ll be a new generation of Germans who grew up in a unified country and have a completely different perspective.

Western society in particular revolves almost entirely around materialism and consumerism. Since I moved back to Australia, I’ve been astonished at how many shopping catalogs land in my letter box, how many people are crowded into shops to grab the latest products, and – more scarily – how tempted I’ve been to join them. Perhaps I need some more traveling to remind myself how little stuff you really need to be happy.

A Caveat: It’s OK to stay home, too

Just in case you’re a non-traveler and you’re reading this too: I’m not saying that those who stay at home aren’t trying to improve themselves too. I bet they do in a million ways that travel addicts like me would never understand. They might even end up with a much healthier bank balance than me, and a bunch of multi-cultural friends in their own city. Part of me wishes I could be like you, and then I wouldn’t feel unsettled every time I stay home for any extended time. But I’m a travel addict, and I don’t think there’s any program to cure it.

–Amanda K.

Editor’s Note: The following blog post is by Don George from his recent trip to Kenya & Tanzania. Don, a pioneering travel writer and editor for 25 years, is the host and creator of the adventure travel web site Don’s Place and the editor of the literary travel magazine RECCE.

MAASAI MARA NATIONAL RESERVE – Nighttime at Bateleur Tented Camp, just outside Maasai Mara National Reserve in western Kenya, near the Tanzanian border.

I’ve just returned to my tented, bush-surrounded camp cabin after a spectacular dinner on Bateleur’s open-air dining verandah: coconut carrot soup; a salad of pumpkin, beetroot, and rocket with walnuts; grilled Indian Ocean prawns with stir-fried onions, potato, spinach and corn; and a mousse-like chocolate pate with passionfruit sauce.

Don, among the Maasai

Eating such sophisticated, elegantly prepared cuisine on a full setting of china, silverware and crystal, choreographed with gracious, efficient service, it’s hard to believe that a couple of hours earlier we were scrambling, scraping, banging and bouncing over the Mara Plains – but that’s one of the fundamental joys of this journey, which combines long and rigorous drives into the bush with exquisite comforts back at the camp.Right now I’m sitting on a luxurious king-size bed surrounded by old leather traveling cases, leather-bound books on a mahogany desk, and wooden spears. Behind me is a porcelain sink with gleaming brass taps, a separate stone-floored shower area with organic shampoos and lotions and a certifiably high-powered shower, and a wood-paneled bathroom with a modern toilet. In front of me is a roof-to-floor mosquito net that I’ve zipped shut, and beyond that the deeply dark night alive with a symphony of surrounding sounds.

When I left the dining verandah to make the three-minute walk back to my cabin, a guard carrying a rifle raced to walk with me. “We must be careful, sir,” he said, arcing a powerful flashlight down the path and off into the bush. “You never know what is waiting for you. A few days ago I found a big Cape buffalo right there,” and he turned his light on the waist-high grasses not ten feet away. My heart skipped a beat. No buffalo tonight.

*****

The day began with breakfast at the Mount Kenya Safari Club, then a short drive to Nanyuki Airport, where we boarded another propeller plane for the flight to the Maasai Mara airstrip. From there we drove over a deeply rutted road – past a broken-down gas truck that looked like it was becoming part of the landscape — to the tented camp, where we settled in, had lunch, and then met Andrew, a local Maasai teacher who would bring us to his nearby village.

Breakfast on the lawn, complete with white-toqued chefs

As we drove to the village, Andrew told us about the Maasai diet. “Traditionally, the Maasai eat meat, milk, and blood from cattle,” he said. “We take the blood from the jugular vein. Now we sometimes also eat meat and milk from goat and sheep.” He also told us about how the Maasai use nature’s “living apothecary”: Leaves, roots and bark are all used as medicine, from twigs that are used in dental care to herbs that are used for stomach ailments to what he called the “Kenya green heart,” which is used to cure malaria.

When we reached Andrew’s village, he invited us to enter through a break in the encircling fence of thorny acacia. “Four families live in his village,” he said, ”and there is one entrance for each family. As you can see, the village consists of about a dozen huts, each made of mud laid over interlacing branches. Responsibilities in the village are clearly defined: Men do the cattle grazing, settle disputes between villages, provide security during the night, and mend the fence around the village. The women work a lot: They build houses, do cooking, fetch water, milk cows, fetch herbs and take care of the village during the day. There are more houses than families because the Maasai practice polygamy, so one man usually has multiple wives – depending on the number of cows he has; the more cows, the more wives he can marry. Each wife builds her own house.”

Suddenly a line of women, resplendent in brilliant red, white, yellow and purple robes, long dangling beaded necklaces and large looping beaded neckbands, assembled in the middle of the village and began to chant. “They’re welcoming you,” Andrew said, as they smiled and sang, their voices rising into high-pitched cries.

(more…)

Editor’s Note: The following blog post is by Don George from his recent trip to Kenya & Tanzania. Don, a pioneering travel writer and editor for 25 years, is the host and creator of the adventure travel web site Don’s Place and the editor of the literary travel magazine RECCE. His seven books include “Travel Writing”, “The Kindness of Strangers,” and “Tales from Nowhere.”

An elephant and her children; Mt. Kilimanjaro in the background.

On our second bay in the bush, as dawn is just beginning to light the world outside my tented room, I hear a shuffle of feet and then “Jambo! Your tea, sir.” One of the Maasai staffers places a tray with a pitcher of tea, heated milk, sugar, a china cup and saucer, a spoon and two biscuits on my veranda. I throw on my clothes, down a quick cup of tea, and hustle up to the main lodge, where our safari van awaits.

Lewela, our safari director, greets us with a broad smile. “Are you ready to see some wildlife?”

We hop into the van and set out as the rising sun starts to streak the sky. Bouncing on dirt tracks through the dry brown Savannah, we soon spot a herd of elephants in the distance. As we approach, the classic Amboseli photo composes itself in my mind: a line of huge gray elephants standing in the foreground among swaying, lush green elephant grass, with snow-crowned Mt Kilimanjaro rising massive and majestic in the background.

All the elements are there, except one – the lower flanks of Kilimanjaro are visible, but the top remains tantalizingly hidden within a dense gray camouflage of clouds.

“The elephants are probably walking toward a waterhole for their own version of morning tea,” Lewela says. Their path parallels the dirt road we’re on, and we’re able to drive alongside them for about 10 minutes. Then the lead elephant veers to the right, directly onto our road. We stop and watch in awe as a parade of elephants lumbers unconcernedly in front of us, less than 15 feet from our van.

There are twelve in all, ranging from mature adults nearly twice the size of our van, with two-foot-long tusks, to babies about as tall as a bicycle. They plod slowly, deliberately, delicately across, a surprising combination of girth and grace, then plunge unhesitatingly into the dense tangle of trees and brush on the other side of the road. Immediately the air rings with the sound of tearing and scraping as they break and uproot their breakfast, grabbing great trunksful of branches and bushes and curling them into their mouths, where they methodically chew them.

“In fact,” Lewela says, watching the elephants feast, “elephants spend about three-fourths of their lives eating. Adult elephants generally eat between 200 and 400 pounds of vegetation a day. About 70 percent of their diet is grass; the rest is leaves, fruit, branches, roots and bark. As you can see, the elephants grab the food with their trunks and stuff it into their mouths; then they grind the food down with their molar teeth. They use these teeth so much that in its lifetime, an elephant will grow six sets of molars.”

Suddenly Lewela pauses. The next to last elephant in the road-crossing parade has stopped, and is now turning toward us. Ears extended, tusks pointing our way, eyes staring straight at us, he ponderously maneuvers his tree-sized legs so that he faces us squarely. “Don’t worry,” Lewela whispers, “he’s just curious about us. He’s checking us out.”

Tembo! This elephant decided to check us out closely!

For an electrifying moment, we stare at each other, and rather than fear, I find myself falling under the spell of the elephant. There’s something so gracious, dignified and wise about him. I know these are personifications and projections, but still – look at him! His big round eyes curiously, peacefully staring, his Dumbo ears ever so gently flapping, his foot-long tusks just starting to curl, his tail swishing, he’s a big gray embodiment of curiosity and self-assurance combined. We hold our breaths in taut suspension, and I feel a kind of primordial gut-tug, like some spirit-understanding is leaping from me to the elephant and from the elephant to me. An inexplicable, irrefutable connection is fused, then the enormous tree-legs start to slowly turn, heroically bearing that wrinkled gray bulk, and the elephant slowly shifts course, heavy foot-step by heavy foot-step, and ambles off into the brush.

Elephants are a good example of the complexities of conservation in Africa. “They are enormously destructive,” says Lewela. “Look at how much they eat! If they’re confined to an area, they can strip it of its trees and other vegetation. They can even transform a wooded area into a grassland. But they also open up dense forests so that all kinds of animals and plant life can thrive there. They have a role in the cycle. And of course they’re good for tourism, too. But as local people want more and more land for their livestock and farms, the elephant’s territory gets smaller and smaller. It’s a very complicated situation.”

We drive on and see our first hippopotamus, a brown blur slowly stepping through the bush. “He must have been out late partying and now he’s headed back to the swamp,” says Lewela.

Then we see elegant, impossibly elongated giraffes nibbling on tree-top leaves, and two tawny, big-maned lion brothers walking magisterially through the elephant grass. We come upon a herd of big-nosed, crinkly-skinned Cape buffalo – “a face only a mother could love,” Jennifer says – and wildebeest and zebras placidly grazing. Our drive climaxes with a rare view of two lions mating in the grass. (We share this sight with a van full of peach-skinned Scandinavian teenagers; one especially cherub-faced girl turns to us breathlessly, flashes a thumbs-up and exclaims, “Lion sex!”)

The wonders continue. But that night, as we review the day over a sumptuous meal on the dining veranda, it’s the elephant – full with a wisdom that seems to stretch through centuries – that stands, stolid and wide-eyed, in my mind.

–Don George, guest blogger

Planning a trip? Head over to Don’s Place to browse his recommendations, or browse Viator’s own tours and safaris in Kenya.

Editor’s Note: This is, alas, the final post in a series from Jeff Gates, the New Media Lead Producer for the Smithsonian American Art Museum and Managing Editor for its blog, Eye Level. Jeff’s family vacation has officially come to an end. Don’t despair, you can re-read all of Jeff’s posts here.

San Francisco and the bay looking north, from the top of the Fairmont Hotel

Our fifth and final stop on the 2007 Gates family vacation tour would take us to San Francisco for the wedding of my best-friend-from-the-first-grade’s daughter. First grade: back then Ron and I were members of a very exclusive club. Just the two of us, Ron was the president and I was the VP. Our official meetings were brief but boisterous. Uncontrollable laughter was high on the agenda. I remember one sleep over Ron made me laugh so hard I had an asthma attack in the middle of the night (which made him laugh even harder).

Our closeness led to the inevitable: our desire to elevate our friendship to blood-brother status. But when the time came to go under the knife we both chickened out. We decided becoming “hair brothers” would be just as good but not as deadly. Each of us pulled a lock from our scalps, exchanged follicles, and ceremoniously transplanted them onto our own heads. Today, Ron has a full head of my hair and I am bald.

The by-laws of our childhood club clearly stated that all members would attend the weddings of their respective children — someday. Once a hair brother, always a hair brother; the time had come.

From our hotel room at the Fairmont.

The wedding was going to be held at the stately and historic Fairmont Hotel. After Motel 8 and other low-budget hostelries we’d been staying at since Las Vegas, this little bit a luxury would be the perfect end to our trip. In addition, this was going to be a reunion of sorts. Schoolmates I hadn’t seen since elementary school would be in attendance. And my wife was going to meet the girl I took to the prom.

But first, we had to get there. Gilroy is only about 80 miles from downtown San Francisco. But we’d learned on our last trip to the Bay Area that a Sunday drive up Highway 101 held no guarantees of an idyllic and easy passage. Eighty miles could seem like two hundred if we hit weekend traffic.The wedding was to begin at 4 o’clock. I had called to arrange for an early check-in at the hotel, but they couldn’t guarantee it. In fact, they told me check-in would be at 4, just when the nuptials were to begin. When we met my sister early that morning for a Goodbye Gilroy breakfast Susie and I were already dressed in our wedding finery.

Then there was the issue of the children. The wedding was to be adults-only. We arranged with the hotel for a babysitter. We had never left our girls with a stranger in a hotel. And this would either turn out to be a luxury we would never be able to live without again or make headline news when we came back to an empty room and a ransom note. We prepared the girls for the former (relieved that our oldest knew our cell phone numbers by heart).

Red lights, no turns, Bush St.

Seeing long lost friends can be an upending experience. It feels like no time has passed at all and yet you know that each of our lives have taken trajectories none of us could ever have imagined back then. What would theirs be like? I had known them but I didn’t now.

After ten days traversing the West, we had survived the debauchery of Las Vegas, car sickness on the road to the Sierras, a near bear attack in Yosemite, the mixture of garlic and snakes in Gilroy, and finally a party that celebrated a couple’s future and reconnected me with my past.

I decided to top off the trip with a little bit of political photography just before checking out of the hotel. It felt good to be in the bastion of liberal bias but we were about to reenter the vortex of conservative politics. It was time to get back to the present.

It had been a great trip, one my girls will remember. At least for a few more months.

–Jeff Gates

Planning a trip? Browse Viator’s tours and things to do in San Francisco, Las Vegas, and everything in between.

Editor’s Note: The following post is by Laura Z, the online marketing guru at Blurb; Laura also writes about her voracious book consumption on a different site.

Lady Liberty

A few weeks ago, my boyfriend visited his parents in Manhattan and seemed on the verge of not coming back to California. I flew out to fetch him from the east coast, and squeezed some tremendous fun into the weekend, all without breaking the bank.

So here’s my list of Things to Do in NYC for less than $20.

• Kayak in the Hudson River. This is run by a non-profit out of Pier 40, you can kayak around the marina and are sheltered from the busy river traffic. You can stash anything you don’t want to get wet in their lockers for free. Cost: Free
• Batting cages at Pier 25. Walking down the esplanade still dripping from our kayaking, my boyfriend gallantly bought us a couple of rounds of pitches. My lifetime batting average was not improved by 60-mph balls hurtling eye-level at me, but it was entertaining and I swear I smelled peanuts and beer nearby. Cost: $2 for 15 pitches
• Play pool on the the outdoor pool tables along the Hudson River promenade. Cost: Free when you show photo ID
• Cruise past the Statue of Liberty. Definitely the most fun way to see NYC’s harbor. Cost: $20
• Explore Red Hook, Brooklyn, one of the last quiet corners of NYC. The water taxi terminal ($10 for a trip to Manhattan) is right next to one of the wonders of the world– Fairway Market. Need 800 cans of baked beans? 300 packs of paper plates? Fairway is the place to go. From the taxi terminal, head down to Coffey Park right on the waterfront, which offers great views of the Statue of Liberty. Cost: Free
  

  Washington Square Park on a sunny day

• Hang out in Washington Square Park. On a hot Sunday afternoon, nothing beats sitting in the fountain, listening to street musicians and people-watching. Cost: Free
• Tour the NYC public library. I hear great things about the reading room in the library at 5th & 42nd, but I was denied entry when Fashion Week took over the building during my visit. Cost: Free
• Celebrity sightings on the street. Ethan Hawke is constantly afoot in the Village, and we also spotted Alan Ruck (Cameron from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off). Cost: Free
• Over on the Viator site there are more than a dozen tours and activities in NYC for less than $20, including a Rockefeller Center Tour, an ‘On Location’ tour to Central Park’s film and movie sites, tickets to the Empire State Building’s observation deck, the Ground Zero Museum Workshop Tour, an NBC Studios tour and more (also check out Viator’s complete list of things to do in New York).

And of course, when you’re back home, you can make a Blurb book with pictures and notes about your trip. Blurb has free software that makes it easy to create your own quality book. I’m putting together a book as a thank-you gift for my hosts for the weekend. Cost: $13 and up.

–Laura Z

What are you doing with your travel photos… why not make a Blurb book to show them off? Laura has created a special promo code for all Viator travelers. Simply enter the promo code gotravel on the Blurb checkout to receive $7 off shipping through the end of the year. Thanks Blurb!

Editor’s Note: This is the fourth in a series of posts from Jeff Gates, the New Media Lead Producer for the Smithsonian American Art Museum and Managing Editor for its blog, Eye Level. Jeff is on a family vacation, which sounded like a great excuse to publish his trials and tribulations from the road. You can read Jeff’s first post, second post and third post here.

My iPhone and me at Half Dome. What would Samuel Morse have thought?

The highlight of our my Yosemite visit is obvious. Ah, technology and the great outdoors. It couldn’t get any better. My email message documenting the event: “We are blissful at this altitude.” What more can I say?

Well, my wife tells me perhaps just a bit more. We spent two days in the park. We started planning this trip back in April but that was already too late to book a room at the famous Ahwahnee Lodge in the Valley. So we spent our two nights at both the eastern and western edges of the park (in Lee Vining and Mariposa). And while we are not known as the All-American Outdoor Family, we did take a few day hikes in both Tuolumne Meadows and Yosemite Valley. While we didn’t stay at the Lodge, one morning we ate breakfast in its wood-beamed dining room. From there it was an easy one and a half mile hike to the foot of Half Dome.

A warning meant just for us? (A larger view makes the point clear)

As we were hiking towards that famous mountain, about half way up the trail we suddenly came upon a cryptic message spelled out in twigs on the ground. It said “WASHINGTON BEAR,” with two arrows pointing north. Did the writer mean to really say “Hey family from Washington, DC, there’s a big black bear over there. Leave now if you ever hope to return to the bedrock of Western Democracy?” Was this message meant for us? I started thinking about the last time I was in Yosemite. Years ago, with my friends Bob and Ellen, I had hiked to 11,000 feet where we camped in a small meadow near a waterfall. We had gone from sea level to 11k in a matter of hours.

And the scenery’s Arcadian beauty provided no antidote for my resulting altitude sickness. I was cold and sick. And in the middle of the night a bear ATTACKED our campsite. Yes, attacked. He was after our food, the food we had not so carefully hung off a large tree branch because we were too cold and too tired to do as the rangers had warned us we must do. It was a night we still talk about (ask our friends who have put up its retelling all these years); although, the trajectories of our individual tellings have gone off in quite different directions. This cautionary sign brought back that night as if it was yesterday. Would history repeat itself?

A few feet later we came upon what looked to us (the Not All-American Outdoor Family) like bear scat! We wondered if we’d make it to our next vacation stop, Gilroy’s annual Garlic Festival. The scent of garlic seemed so much more pleasant than what lay before us and we listened for any sign of a large animal ahead. When we heard a rustle in the leaves along the path we froze.

Suddenly, from behind a large boulder came a horse. Its rider told us we were on the horse trail leading to Half Dome and that we might find it easier to use the paved path just a few yards to the south of us. Looking through the trees I saw bicyclists and day hikers (more Not All-American Outdoor Family types) walking towards the mountain without a care in the world. They were oblivious to our twig warning.

My nine year old was the first to connect the scat with the right animal. She was quite pleased with her deductive abilities and the fact that she was the only one in the family to use them. We still don’t know who made the twig sign or what it meant. But we’re sure it was meant for us.

–Jeff Gates

Coming up next: Jeff and family at the Gilroy Garlic Festival.

Editor’s Note: This is the third in a series of posts from Jeff Gates, the New Media Lead Producer for the Smithsonian American Art Museum and Managing Editor for its blog, Eye Level. Jeff is on a family vacation, which sounded like a great excuse to publish his trials and tribulations from the road. You can read Jeff’s first post and second post here.

“Some people are so nuts. They think every body of water is a wishing well.”

The drive from Las Vegas to the town of Lee Vining, the “gateway to Yosemite,” would be the longest drive of our trip: six hours, give or take a rest stop or two or three or four.

My vision of what my children would see when they first viewed the Sierras. The reality wasn’t quite like that. Albert Bierstadt’s Sunrise in the Sierras, courtesy of the Smithsonian American Art Museum

Susie and I had prepared as much as two parents could for the day ahead. Gameboys and travel versions of our girls’ favorite board games were conveniently accessible. We had entertained the notion of buying a portable DVD player but just couldn’t make ourselves go down that road. After all, the purpose of this “drive by” was to show our children the wonders of the West. Living in the former swamp that is Washington, I miss the mountain vistas of my youth. Passing this appreciation on to my children was important.

All was going according to plan until we got about an hour from our destination. Suddenly, my youngest announced she was about to throw up. The first and only other time this had happened was last year while driving the winding roads of Puerto Rico. Back then it had caught us completely off guard. And we were most relieved to return a prestine rental car by the time we left the island. We didn’t want to have this on our conscience this trip.

This time we flew into automatic pilot. Immediately upon Susie’s command I pulled over (the long and empty road cooperated). She jumped out and opened the back door. My daughter leaned out and all was once again just as I envisioned our family road trip would be. For the rest of the journey we allowed the girls to roll down the back windows for some fresh air while we blew the AC to the front. “Whatever works” is the parents’ first rule of survival. But a note to myself: next time bring a roll of paper towels and a big plastic bag. You know, for emergencies.

Mono Lake Panorama (click for larger image)

Immediately upon our full recovery we arrived at Mono Lake, our first close-up taste of the Western landscape. After the long drive everyone was happy to get out of the car for a bit of exploration. The serene and placid waters with the lake’s majestic tufas submerge the man-made political issues that defined the body of water that lay before us. The diversion of Mono Lake water was directly responsible for the growth of the city I grew up in, specifically the San Fernando Valley where I lived. As we walked along the shore I gave a brief history lesson on water use and the early 20th-century politics of Los Angeles.

The sand flies that feed on the lake’s shore provided a first for the girls: no fear of insect swarms as we walked along the beach (it helped that the flies didn’t bite). And we were rewarded for our nature walk with a huge and long-lasting rainbow on the eastern horizon. I was surprised by my family’s interest in this landscape. Given the unreal reality we had just left in Las Vegas, all of us made the transition to the real world nicely.

We had been preparing our nine year old for the next day for weeks. We would be exploring one of the largest noncommercial ghost towns in the West, Bodie. And we had to reassure her that there were no actual ghosts walking its streets. A short drive from our motel in Lee Vining, by the time we arrived she was fully in control of her imagination. But it was there I suddenly discovered a silly little secret about contemporary travelers: when given a chance they will throw money as a benefaction just about anywhere. In Las Vegas we noticed that any body of water became a “wishing well.” From the lagoon at Treasure Island to the Belagio’s huge fountains, any H2O could potentially answer one’s prayers. But in Bodie, this was taken to extremes.

Ghostly bedrooms, now sequestered behind protective mesh, held an abundance of cash, tossed in by passing tourists. And the town’s church, no longer in need of offerings, became currency pitchball to see how close to the last pew one could cast coins and bills. For the rest of the trip, whenever we encountered this phenomenon my children would repeat my words in unison: “Some people are so nuts. They think every body of water is a wishing well.”

–Jeff Gates

Coming up next: Jeff and family fend off the bears of Yosemite.

Editor’s Note: This is the second in a series of posts from Jeff Gates, the New Media Lead Producer for the Smithsonian American Art Museum and Managing Editor for its blog, Eye Level. Jeff is on a family vacation, which sounded like a great excuse to publish his trials and tribulations from the road. You can read Jeff’s first post here.

Landing in Las Vegas at night is a bit like landing at National Airport in DC: an incredible view of the city beckons you. McCarren International Airport is just south of The Strip. So our first look at the city lights came from our airplane’s window. Despite our destination’s proximity to the airport it would be two hours before we finally arrived at Treasure Island, our hotel. Baggage Claim, Rental Car, and finally the 24/7 traffic jam of Las Vegas Boulevard took precedence. After our 10 hours of airplanes and airports we were hypnotized by the lights of the The Strip. And it wasn’t until two days later as we drove north to our next stop in the Sierras that we realized there was a real and quite normal metropolis just beyond these lights.

“Statue” with offerings at the Venetian’s version of St Mark’s Square

Looking out our hotel window the next morning was like taking in a view of each “land” at Disneyland. You had your Italian Renaissance Land courtesy the Venetian across the street, Francoland as seen by the Paris’ iconic Eiffel Tower replica, and Ancient Rome Land at Caesar’s Palace. My nine year old daughter immediately announced “It’s better than Disneyland!”

We had intended to go to Hoover Dam while in the area. But after experiencing the canals of pseudo-Venice and “St. Mark’s Square” at The Venetian, we wanted more of that man-made reality. So we spent our two days walking from casino to casino, marveling at the wonders of the Sphinx at the Luxor, the skyline of New York, New York, and the white tiger at the Mirage. We must have walked 15 miles that first day.

It wasn’t all fake postmodern pastiche. Our need to keep our feet in reality took us to an exhibition of Picasso’s ceramics and stopped us in wonder at Dale Chihuli’s glass sculpture installation (my wife studied with Dale), both at the Bellagio. And I took the opportunity to teach my oldest, a budding photographer, how to use fill-in flash to bring out detail when taking pictures in hotel lobbies. Yes, Las Vegas can provide some educational opportunities if you try.

We topped off our first day with a performance of Cirque du Soleil’s Mystère. There are five different Cirque venues along on The Strip. I was interested in “O” and their underwater staging while my ten year old was interested in Love, their tribute to the Beatles. But invoking our first rule of family vacations: thou shalt be sensitive to others’ phobias, we went with Mystère. Our oldest, after viewing each show’s promo video, thought this performance would be the least likely to scare her younger sister who claims to suffer from coulrophobia, a fear of clowns (ok, but are there any traditional clowns at any Cirque?).

At 6:30 the next morning our youngest woke us gently reminded us we owed the girls a visit to the pool. She had miraculously overcome her “deep-end” aquaphobia earlier in the summer and was eager to demonstrate her swimming prowess. Given the heat of Las Vegas in July, we decided early morning would be best. Shortly after breakfast we made our way poolside. The girls swam while I showed my wife how she could effortlessly chart her stocks via my iPhone all from the comfort of her lounge chair (part of my devious wonderful plan to get her hooked on this tasty bit of technology).

Susie and I are always on the lookout for the consummate souvenir. We like kitsch, but it has to be good (so bad it’s good). We had very high expectations for this city. If you can’t find quality kitsch here, where can you? We were dumbfounded when, at the Luxor, we discovered they didn’t have a pyramid-shaped snow globe (a family of collectors, my nine year old has a neatly arranged and catalogued case of them from our travels). A pyramid or sphinx with gently falling snowflakes would have been a natural and wonderfully ironic keepsake. Come on guys, get with it.

Kitsch nirvana at the Liberace Museum.

Our hopes and souvenir dreams were realized, however, when we arrived at the Liberace Museum. The Liberace Museum IS so bad it’s good. The whole place is one big beautiful nexus-o-kitsch. Of course, look who they had to work with. It resides in a strip mall and I took the best picture of the trip at its entrance, something that summed up my experience perfectly: the camp of the performer with the backdrop setting in which he is remembered.

That, in itself, is a great souvenir. I bought a chocolate Liberace “CD” (in a jewel case, natch) as an ephemeral remembrance of our visit, hoping to get it home intact. But when I next pulled it out of my backpack to show my sister a few days later it was a melted mess.

While Vegas has submerged its seedier side in an effort to draw families, it still exists. Hawkers pass out handbills for strip shows on the street. That was pretty easy to navigate. And the “adults only” bars and lounges are clearly marked. However, the nightly “Sirens of TI” caught us off guard.

Our girls were eager to see this free extravaganza which takes place four times a night in front of our hotel. The story is simple (and I wished I had read this on the TI Website before our visit):

The Sirens of TI ® begins with a 17th century clash between a group of beautiful, tempting sirens and a band of renegade pirates. With their mesmerizing and powerful song the Sirens lure the pirates to their cove, stir up a tempest strong enough to sink a ship, and transform Sirens’ Cove into a 21st century party. Experience music, dance, excitement and seduction…

Like these renegade pirates, Las Vegas’ Disneyfied edifice had lured Susie and I into forgetting what had built this city. We were surprised that such a stereotypical sexist message was so blatantly displayed in the amusement park-like atmosphere at street level. We assumed it was family-oriented since it was in a public area directly in front of our hotel. To be honest, the girls enjoyed the show for its special effects. But it wasn’t the Las Vegas we expected to see. We’ll stick with the Cirque du Disney version for now.

–Jeff Gates

Stay tuned for the next installment of Jeff’s family vacation, “The Eastern Sierra: Gateway to Yosemite,” coming soon.

Editor’s Note: This is the first in a series of posts from Jeff Gates, the New Media Lead Producer for the Smithsonian American Art Museum and Managing Editor for its blog, Eye Level. Jeff is on a family vacation, which sounded like a great excuse to publish his trials and tribulations from the road. You can read Jeff’s original post on his Life Outtacontext blog.

A cryptic photo-op at the MGM in Las Vegas

As a boy family vacations were always an exciting prospect: traveling on adventures to the great unknown in the comfort of our 1953 Pontiac. No seat belts and open windows, the early morning desert air blowing in my face (no air conditioning of course). The 1950s and early 1960s were indeed an era of post-War American expansionism and hegomony over my small world of the San Fernando Valley. It was a prosperous and exciting time for a ten year old. Of course, I didn’t have to plan the trip, just totally immerse myself in it.

As a parent, I now know the truth. Putting together a family vacation is hard work and even torture if you wait too long to make reservations. Getting four people out of the house and on their way, which seemed so much fun as a boy in the 4 am darkness of pre-dawn, can simply be hell when you’re now the responsible one. They never taught this in any parenting class (well, if we had taken a parenting class). We only know what we knew. Now I know what I know.

Susie and I had wanted to take our nine and ten year old girls on a road trip out West for a while. But the thought of driving across country for five days just to get to the West was never an option (we were naive but not dumb). My wife wanted to show the girls the Grand Canyon. The West. She suggested we fly into Las Vegas, rent a car, and go. Simple. Sounded good to me. In April I made plane reservations and counted our four free frequent-flyer seats a major planning coup and a very good omen.

The last time I was in Vegas was 30 years ago with my father and stepmother. Highlight of that experience: coming upon a failed gambler who had jumped from the heights of a downtown hotel. A lot had changed in the city and I was eager to see the sights (and erase that ugly memory).

Only after the reservations were set did we realize the Grand Canyon was a five and a half hour drive in the wrong direction. We needed to end up in San Francisco for the wedding of my BFF-from-the-first-grade’s daughter 10 days later. Wife and I reconnoitered for new plans: we would instead go west through another scenic icon, Yosemite, then head to Gilroy for a couple days with my sister before heading up to SF.

Our itinerary seemed to have it all: the glitz of The Strip, the beauty of the Sierra Nevada, the garlic of Gilroy (by sheer coincidence our arrival would coincide with the annual Gilroy Garlic Festival), ending up at the classy Fairmont Hotel in the City by the Bay.

–Jeff Gates

Stay tuned for the next installment of Jeff’s family vacation, Living La Dolce Vegas, coming soon.

Editor’s Note: The following blog post is by Don George from his recent trip to Kenya & Tanzania. Don, a pioneering travel writer and editor for 25 years, is the host and creator of the adventure travel web site Don’s Place and the editor of the literary travel magazine RECCE. His seven books include “Travel Writing”, “The Kindness of Strangers,” and “Tales from Nowhere.” You can read Don’s original post here.

We’ve just stepped off an 18-seat Air Kenya propeller plane onto the airstrip at Amboseli National Reserve. Vast brown savannah surrounds us. A nearby herd of ungainly, big-horned wildebeest stares at the noisy, propeller-beaked bird that just disrupted their grazing. Beyond them sleek-striped zebra munch, flanks twitching, on the grass. To their distant left a trio of Thompsen’s gazelles leap toward the green foothills of Mount Kilimanjaro, whose flanks disappear into masses of gray clouds.

I look at the three others on my safari and blurt out the only words that come to mind: “This is so – Africa!”

We climb into our minivan and set off for the tented camp where we will spend the next two nights. We’ve been driving for about 15 minutes when we come upon a swamp. Lewela, our safari director, suddenly points to the far shore, “Look! Over there!”

Four heads swivel. And there it is: Three feet from the water’s edge, a lioness is lying next to the bloody half-carcass of a zebra, the remains of the pride’s dinner. “They had a big party last night!” Lewela laughs as we stop to absorb the scene.

Another lioness is lying down about 20 feet away, sated, so exhausted from the effort of eating and digesting that we can hear her labored panting and see the bellows of her tawny body moving in and out. Soon a great African drama begins to unfold. First wiry jackals come on the scene, cautiously approaching the carcass, smelling the air, anxious in their hunger, waiting for an opening when they can dash in and make off with some lunch. Then two hyena come loping across the savannah, eyeing the lions, warily working their roundabout way toward the glistening kill.

For a long time the lioness lets them approach, head on paws, eyes closed, seemingly oblivious. Then she slowly raises herself, turns, and begins a purposeful stride in the direction of the jackals and hyenas. After a few taut seconds they scoot away, followed closely by the lioness’s eye. Then she returns to her resting place and curls up again next to the carcass. One of the jackals gives a disappointed yelp. Lunch will have to wait.

Another drama begins to play out in the swamp as the wildebeest and zebras start to cross. They enter the water in a line, following the leader across the depths and out to the opposite shore. But suddenly, about a third of the way into the swamp, one of the wildebeests begins to flail wildly. It has strayed off the path into deeper waters and bucks in terror for a few seconds before it finds its footing and splash-charges into shallower waters and onto the land. “During the Great Migration a lot of wildebeest die this way,” Lewela says. “Either they drown or they get separated from the herd and become easy prey. The lions wait by the rivers like they’re at a buffet.”

As he speaks, the next wildebeest in line hesitates, confused, then looks around, snorts and gallops back onto the land he’d just left. The one behind him stands still for a second, then belligerently wheels around and follows him back. Soon the entire line of wildebeest and zebra has beaten a retreat onto land, and the animals graze and gaze placidly, now on both sides of the water, as if nothing has happened.

In the foreground a flock of long-beaked, white-winged great white pelicans erupts as one into the sky, swerving over the sweeping brown-golden grass-plains and toward the line of hazy green-purple hills beyond. Acacia trees thrust their thorny branches into the sky, and giraffe, elephant and Cape buffalo materialize in the distance. The smell of fresh dung carries on the breeze, mixing with the dry dusty earthy smell of the land. And Kilimanjaro broods over it all, massing in the clouds.

Africa!

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Now it’s 3:15 and I’m sitting on my verandah, looking out on the snow-topped crown of Kilimanjaro – well, I would be, if the mountain would deign to appear – and the dry swaying grass of the savannah. A mid-afternoon torpor has settled over the scene. A slight breeze barely stirs the branches of the tortillis acacia trees that tower around my tent, casting long shadows over a dense tangle of green, insect-loud vegetation. The most energetic beings are the buzzing flies and the calling birds. There’s an amazing, sweet cacophony of bird calls – one that has a sandpapery grate to it, others high branch-strung tweets, others that woo-woo-woo… To the east of cloud-massed Kilimanjaro rain sheets down in the distance.

A whiff of wetness is borne on the breeze, and the insects shrill with even greater intensity.

I look around and shake my head: It’s almost impossible to believe that this is just our first day in the bush. Who knows what wonders await?

–Don George, guest blogger

Planning a trip? Head over to Don’s Place to browse his recommendations, or browse Viator’s own tours and safaris in Kenya.