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Family travel experts who start young

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Next week, we'll be here.

Next week, we’ll be here.

As Powerwoman and I make final preparations for next week’s road trip from our home in Northern California to Yosemite National Park, we’ve come up against a rather opinionated family travel expert: our own 4-year-old.

Apparently, since L has amassed multitudes of experience on the road, she has developed firm particulars about what she will and will not accept during a long haul in the car.

On the whitelist: Taylor Swift music, goldfish crackers, Etch-a-Sketch, and playground stops.

On the blacklist: Naps, male singers (including Mumford & Sons, unfortunately), uninterrupted drive times of more than two hours, and carrot sticks.

Our daughter also has shared deep thoughts about hotels over the last few weeks, seemingly in the hopes that we will base our planning decisions on her wants and likes (we won’t; we’re staying here). Some of the more notable statements: 1) Hotel rooms with extra space are better because that way the two sisters can run around “like maniacs,” 2) Sometimes the “toilet seats in hotel bathrooms are too big,” and 3) It is annoying when Daddy has to spend time talking to his “friends” who run hotels.

Yes, these statements are completely ridiculous (especially No. 2). But they’re also true. And they’ve led Powerwoman and me to marvel at how insightful our jet-setting preschooler has become in her short time with a frequent flier number.

We’re not the only parents to marvel at this type of precociousness.

Friend and fellow travel blogger Katie Wood Dillon, a.k.a., La Jolla Mom, recently posted on Facebook about a similar experience with her 6-year-old. With Katie’s permission, here’s the snip:

“I just had the option to upgrade/re-route our mileage flights so thought I’d run the options by [my daughter]. She rejected international first class (!!!) on American Airlines for business class on Japan Airlines citing cold green tea, Pac-Man on the inflight entertainment and beef curry at the Narita lounge. In the same breath, she stated that American Airlines planes smell worse and that she’ll do anything to avoid flying a regional jet unless we’re going to Hong Kong on Cathay Pacific which is the best airline ever. At 6-years-old, all of this is so incredibly accurate that I can almost not handle it.”

When did these little humans become so smart? When did they become so perceptive? Are the ins and outs of travel THAT obvious? Most important: What else can our kids teach us about the vagaries and eccentricities and realities of travel we have come to accept as normal?

I’m not sure I know the answer to any of these questions. But I sure as heck am going to turn to the family’s newest travel expert to try and figure things out.

Taking the family on a solo trip

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Like thunder.

Like thunder.

This weekend marks my annual pilgrimage with a bunch of guy friends to Las Vegas for the opening rounds of the National Collegiate Athletic Association men’s basketball tournament. That means I’ll be spending the next four days traveling solo, for fun.

In our family, where the four of us usually travel together, this is big news. And to commemorate the occasion, L made me a present to bring with me on my trip.

She calls it “The Love Book.”

The book is a compilation of drawings she made over the course of the week—drawings that, according to my daughter, demonstrate how much she loves her daddy. Some of the pictures are age-appropriate: Pictures of trees and birds and princesses and butterflies. My personal favorite, the one pictured above, depicts L’s heart full of love for me—when she described it, she said the love was “like thunder.”

As she presented the book to me, L told me to take it with me on my trip, to look at it every day, and to think of her every time I do.

It was the first thing I packed. And I plan to carry it with me wherever I go.

Technically, L and R and Powerwoman will be back at home this weekend while I (gamble and drink and smoke and) hang with the boys in Vegas. Because of The Love Book, however, they’ll be with me the whole time. Which makes me the luckiest guy in town.

Five funniest family travel moments

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The human pretzel-napper, a.k.a., Little R.

The human pretzel-napper, a.k.a., Little R.

Spend enough time traveling with youngsters and (in between those inevitable meltdowns) you’re bound to accumulate a handful of hilarious anecdotes. I scored a new No. 1 with Little R this week. It involved an F-bomb. That she uttered. In a crowded locker room.

We were on a daytrip here in the San Francisco Bay Area. The baby—who has become quite a water kid—wanted to go swimming, so I obliged her by tracking down a family-friendly gym with a pool we could use for a few hours one day. We showed up at the gym and she was super-excited to get in the water. As I led her into the men’s locker room, she decided to blurt out a new word.

“Fuck!” she yelled out in her 2-year-old voice. A bunch of (half-naked) men turned around. Then she yelled it again.

By the third time—the only time she yelled, “Fuck me!”—most of the guys were razzing me about the things kids learn these days, etc. Sure, I was mortified. But considering that she almost certainly picked up that language from me (after all, people, I *am* a transplanted New Yorker living and driving in California), all I could do was laugh (on the inside; thankfully I did not reinforce her comment positively by letting her see me laugh about it).

The incident got me thinking about some of the other incidents on my funniest family travel list.

No. 2 would have to be back in London this fall. The girls and I were on the 187 bus coming back from St. John’s Wood, and the two of them had just pigged out on their favorite frozen yogurt. They were happy. They were hyper. And they were in the mood to sing.

Simultaneously, the sisters broke out into a rollicking version of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” They belted it at the top of their lungs. And when they were done, all of the passengers applauded.

No. 3: The time L found a stash of “Gold Squares” (that’s my oh-no-gotta-think-of-something-quick nickname for foil-wrapped condoms) in my bag and used them to build a fort for a plastic dinosaur—at the dinner table in a hotel restaurant. (Pretty sure I don’t need to elaborate on this one.)

No. 4 takes us back to Maui, during the summer of 2012. We had gotten up early and left our hotel in Kaanapali to drive the Hana Highway. By the time we checked into our room at Travaasa Hana, the kids were zonked. L face-planted on her bed and passed out instantaneously. R, on the other hand, fought the nap valiantly for about 35 minutes.

Powerwoman and I listened to the entire episode from the lanai. Finally, when we heard silence, we went into the room to see what was up. We found the baby hunched over her own legs like a pretzel, fast asleep (see the image above). She slept like that for nearly 90 minutes.

It’s tough to settle on a fifth-funniest item for my list. Maybe it’s the time the Big Girl started talking to Bruce Willis (yes, THAT Bruce Willis) about flowers while in an elevator. Or the time she escaped the changing table at the California Academy of Sciences and went running around an aquarium naked. Whichever anecdote we decide to put in the No. 5 slot, one thing is certain: With our girls, we’ll never be wanting for new material.

What are some of your funniest family travel moments of all time?

All Princesses, All the Time

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My girls, en route to Kensington Palace

My girls, en route to Kensington Palace

Princesses are a big theme in our house these days. The girls are obsessed with “Sofia the First.” Every morning, they come up with princess nicknames for themselves—nicknames that Powerwoman and I are supposed to honor until we hear otherwise.

Of course L and R each also have (far too many) princess dresses, which they wear with pride.

There are days when the princess theme is so prevalent in our house that I think the children truly see themselves as royalty. What this means to them, however, is something we grown-ups still are trying to divine.

Clearly it means something. During our time in London, L requested special trips into Kensington Gardens so we could gaze upon Kensington Palace. The way she spoke of these trips, it seemed she was convinced we were going to run into Duchess Kate Middleton, strike up a conversation with her and get invited in for tea. (In case you’re wondering, no, oddly enough, this never happened.)

I’d be lying if I told you I haven’t spent time wondering what our daughters would do if they ever actually had the chance to be princess. These waking fantasies have increased in anticipation of the upcoming DreamWorks Animation film, Mr. Peabody and Sherman.

In the film, P&S take a most excellent, Bill and Ted-like adventure and travel through time with the help of a device called a WABAC (pronounced “way-back”) machine. DreamWorks is partnering with one of my clients, Expedia, on a promo for (and giveaway in conjunction with) the film; as part of that, I and my ExpediaViewfinder team members have gone from travel bloggers to time-travel bloggers until the movie debuts March 7.

Some of my colleagues have written on the blog about using a WABAC to travel to Paris in the 1920s, Egypt in the 1950s and Klondike Alaska in the heart of the Gold Rush. My post, about transporting back to 1850s Lahaina (on Maui), is here.

In the meantime, I’ve got another time-travel daydream: Because of my girls, I’d take the family back to Medieval times, to the era of princesses.

Back then (we’re talking the 1200s, people), just about every daughter of a high-ranking noble was considered a princess. They practically lived in fancy dresses. They had tea. They lived the high life. And they lived privileged lives at court—dancing and laughing and doing all the stuff my girls (likely) think princesses do.

Upon returning to this era, I’d hope to find a princess who would be willing to take L and R under her royal wing and teach them how to dance the carol, survive a formal dinner and treat others with dignity and respect.

Of course I’d also hope to connect my girls with a princess who had lots of dresses with lots of tulle (preferably in their sizes).

Heck, it’d be swell to find a princess willing to share her chambermaid and give my kids a makeover.

I know, the chauvinistic and misogynistic Middle Ages were no place for a modern girl. And I’ve done enough research on the subject to understand that most of these princesses were horribly unhappy—with their fathers, with their husbands (or their betrothed), and with their lives. But here’s the thing: I wouldn’t use the WABAC to transform my kids into Medieval princesses forever; I’d just want them to experience a taste of princess-hood. For a finite period of time.

I’d hope that like Peabody & Sherman (or Bill and Ted, for that matter), my kids would return from their time-travel extravaganza with one-of-a-kind insight and knowledge into the past, and a renewed appreciation for the present.

After all, if they’re going to be this into princesses for the next few years, we might as well put them in a position to base their passions on fact.

If you had a WABAC machine, where would you visit, and what time period would you visit there?

Wanderlust, Sesame Street Style

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The song that sparked decades of wanderlust.

The song that sparked decades of wanderlust.

We humans never are too young to experience wanderlust. Which means it’s perfectly understandable that Sesame Street incorporated “Travel Tips” segments into its shows from the 1980s and 1990s. And that it’s perfectly reasonable for a modern-day family travel blogger to play them for his kids.

This, of course, is what led me this week to share with the girls “Antarctica,” a classic Sesame Street jingle off the “We Are All Earthlings” record from 1990.

I admit it, I’m a HUGE fan of old-school (Jim) Henson stuff. So when the girls expressed interest in them after we got back from London, I hit the archives to find some of the best bits I remembered from my childhood. “Earthlings” was No. 1 on the list. A close No. 2: The tune about the continent at the South Pole, a ditty that originally was advertised as part of the “Sesame Street Travel Tips” series.

Think of the song as a kid-oriented advertisement for a trip to Antarctica. In it, two Anything Muppets team up with a group of penguins to sing about the snowy, icy, and chilly destination where people “dine on blubber spread on toast” and “nights…are six months long.”

All the while, Wolfgang the Seal provides background trumpet music.

In the end, after the warning to not “be left out OF the cold,” all of the characters are blown away by cold arctic winds.

While this may not be a perfect picture of what life on Antarctica is really like, it certainly teaches kids about the destination, and certainly will pique their interest. Just like all age-appropriate travel stories should.

In any event, my girls have heard the song and they love it. Here (embedded) is the video. And below that, in all of their glory, are the lyrics.

If you’re sick of being hot,
Why not try a place that’s not: Antarctica.
Where all you see is snow and ice
The new vacation paradise: Antarctica.
Let seals and penguins be your hosts
And dine on blubber spread on toast
You’ll love the icy barren coasts of Antarctica
 
Don’t get much sun, it doesn’t matter,
You’ll love the way your teeth will chatter in Antarctica
Nightlife’s great, you can’t go wrong
‘Cause nights down here are six months long in Antarctica
If you like it when it’s snowing
And the icy winds are blowing
Just head south and keep on going to Antarctica
 
Well there’s no hotel here, hey, just bring a tent
It’s really swell here on the frozen continent.
Want to shudder, shake, and shiver
Come to us, ‘cause we deliver…Antarctica
 
Put your summer plans on hold
Don’t be left out of the cold of Antarctica
You say the kids are out of school
Forget the beach, forget the pool
It’s really, really, really cool in Antarctica!

All about Peppa

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Peppa, peeking out from her new playhouse.

Peppa, peeking out from her new playhouse.

Our girls brought back a number of souvenirs from our four-month stint in London: handmade fairy dresses, silly British accents, handfuls of two-pound coins and Nutella. They also returned with a completely maniacal obsession with an animated swine, Peppa Pig.

While the intensity of their interest in many of these British treasures has waned over time, their love for Peppa has not.

To be blunt: My kids are still just as hog-wild for the old gal and her pig peeps as they were over there.

At first, this passion was a problem; though Peppa is HUGE in England (heck, there’s even a Peppa Pig World) she wasn’t nearly as popular here in the U.S. Now, however, it appears Peppa has arrived: We’ve spotted Peppa cartoons on cable here in Northern California (Nick Jr., to be exact) and have started seeing Peppa books and merchandise everywhere.

Naturally, then, then the girls got their hands on the Peppa Pig Peek ‘n’ Surprise Playhouse, they practically snorted with delight. When they got the Peppa Hug ‘n’ Oink Talking Plush, they couldn’t put it down. And when we managed to score some Peppa books, the kids practically were ready to burn just about everything else on the shelves.

What is the appeal? I will admit: The damn pig is funny.

For starters, she loves rolling around in muddy puddles, which rules. Second, she always gets herself into “I Love Lucy” type scenarios. One particular episode, about a parrot named Polly who learns to snort, almost always gets me chuckling—a reality that, in turn, gets L giggling uncontrollably. Another episode, about a cuckoo clock, triggers laughter that has sparked asthma attacks. (Seriously.)

But Peppa is genuinely good, too. She’s the perfect mix of sassy and proper, snobby but kind. Her baby brother, George, his hilarious in his affinity with dinosaurs (he says, “dine-sores”). And her parents, Mummy Pig and Daddy Pig, are brilliant in the way they caricature most of the British parents we met.

I’ll stop myself before this post becomes an essay on Peppa and the postmodern picaresque. Bottom line: The show is worth watching, and we’re stoked that it followed us home. SNORT.

What sorts of “souvenirs” do you like to bring home from a faraway family trip?

What’s in a Name?

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Didi Dragonfly Weath-Weath, running like a maniac.

Didi Dragonfly Weath-Weath, running like a maniac.

We’ve been taking a lot of road trips lately, and L and R have come up with a fun new game for the occasions.

The premise of this exercise is simple: The morning of a big drive, we each pick new identities to assume for the duration of our trip. From that point forward—at least until we reach our destination—we must refer to each other by these assumed names and personas.

Not surprisingly, because our girls are, well, girls, most of the alter egos revolve around princesses.

This weekend, for instance, on a drive from our home north of San Francisco to see friends who live south of the city, L declared she was “Princess Tulip,” while R assumed the name, “Didi Dragonfly Weath-Weath.” On a separate road trip, to see a fish hatchery nearby, L was “Princess Sunny” and R was “Princess Boomer.”

(In case you’re wondering, for both instances Powerwoman was “Princess Ladybug” and I was “Balaenoptera Dadificus,” or “B.D.,” for short.)

Generally speaking, the name game is a great exercise in creatively passing time.

For starters, it inspires the girls to draw pictures of who they’ve just become—these art sessions usually take place at the breakfast table, while Powerwoman and I furiously dash around to pack up snacks and load the car.

En route, the game also is a great conversation starter; we encourage both girls to tell us stories about their characters. (Often, they tell the stories simultaneously. Go figure.)

Still, the exercise has its drawbacks.

L is incredibly serious about all of us calling each other by the assumed names, and forgetting to do so can really piss her off. What’s more, even though I’m the only male human in the family, apparently I’m not allowed to pick a “Prince” name because there’s only one prince in the family, and that’s our cat (the girls call him, “Prince Coomer”).

These negatives are minuscule. The Name Game is a great (kid-driven) activity for road trips, and I recommend it without reservation. And if you’re worried about forgetting the names in your family (or if your family is bigger than ours), there’s always the option of name tags.

What are some of your favorite ways to pass time on a family road trip?

If Pants Could Talk

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Moments before the "Rose Incident"

Moments before the “Rose Incident”

Hey, you two little twerps, now you listen here:

We might be old. And we might be made of corduroy, one of the most durable materials in recent history. But we are tired—TIRED, we say!—of the way you two treat us when the Villanos hit the road as a family.

I know what you’re thinking, kids. YOU’RE the daughters and we’re the pants. You’re sentient; we are not. You’ve got hearts, brains, free will and all sorts of organs, while we consist of nothing more than fabric, thread, some zippers and a pocket or two. Well, we might be simple, but here’s a news flash for you: WE HAVE FEELINGS, TOO.

L, this means we’re tired of you spilling your milk all over us. Three times in the last three weeks, you’ve failed to grab your cup with two hands and carelessly knocked it over onto us. Sure, you’ve been stoked when you’ve realized the spills haven’t ruined the precious pictures you have colored during meals.

But, princess, those spills have gotten us SOAKED.

R, you are more of a solid-spiller. Mushy lemon cake, yogurt, cheesy (scrambled) eggs and tomato guts from Mommy’s salad are among the items you’ve dropped on us over the last few weeks. Then, of course, there was the incident earlier today, when, aboard a train (from England’s Lake District back to London), you knocked over a whole glass of rose wine onto our crotch.

The rose was the last straw. Especially considering how the wine seeped down the crotch and around the back, making it look as if your father had wet AND soiled his pants, we had to take a stand.

Which is precisely why we’re writing this note.

For whatever reason (perhaps it’s our good looks? Or maybe our versatility?), your father likes wearing us on travel days. He counts on us. And if you girls keep dumping and spilling stuff on us, he might opt for another pair. Because the one thing we don’t do is dry quickly.

And so, kids, we are begging you: SHOW US SOME RESPECT! We’re not rags! We’re pants, and your daddy’s favorite pair at that. We look forward to having the opportunities to ride horses in the Sahara, watch whales in the South Pacific and circumambulate Manhattan Island. Please don’t spoil our chances by ruining us first.

Sincerely,
Dad’s green cords

Like a Virgin

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Little R, loved every minute on the high-speed train.

Little R, loved every minute on the high-speed train.

We’ve relocated to Northern England for the better part of the next week. Some of the items on the agenda for the coming days include hiking, reconnecting with (some of my wife’s distant) relatives, and baaaa-ing at the sheep in the pasture out our door.

Of course our girls also will spend significant amounts of time talking (and, undoubtedly, drawing) about how we actually got here: One of the high-speed trains up from London.

We took the ride with Virgin Trains, from Euston Station up to Penrith, a city in the heart of England’s Lake District. Because we sat in First Class, we had reserved seats, a table, all-you-can-eat food (including a stellar breakfast service), and porter help with the bags. Because it’s Virgin, the girls also received “Kids Bags”—backpack-sized satchels full of games and puzzles to do while we were en route.

To say the girls made the most of the experience would be an understatement.

R was the bigger fan; she spent at least 90 minutes of the 3-hour trip peering out the window or asking about Thomas the Tank Engine (a natural association, given our activity).  L liked the train too, but was scared a bit by the rocking.

(Overall, we managed to survive just fine until about ten minutes before departure, when R threw a tantrum and knocked a full cup of tea into my crotch, and L threw a tantrum just go be like her sister.)

Still, the verdict is that train travel trumps airplane travel because a) you can walk around as much as you’d like during your ride b) you can look out the window and see more than simply clouds, and c) first class is something average families actually can afford (it cost us a grand total of about $300 for all four of us, round-trip).

Don’t get me wrong, traveling by train isn’t perfect.

In Europe, where railroads can go up to 125 mph, motion sickness can be a real issue; L felt sick pretty much every time she looked out the window. In the U.S., where we (inexcusably) lack the same sort of high-speed rail they have here, train travel can take a while.

From our perspective, after two consecutive excursions from London involving train travel, the rails provide a nice alternative to airplanes.

Beside, trips are always better when the getting-there is part of the fun.

From the perspective of a family traveler, what do you like best about train travel?

What a Pisser

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Where does the urine go anyway?

Where does the urine go anyway?

We saw so many memorable sights this weekend in London: Families frolicking on an ice-skating rink near the Tower of London, little boys and girls marveling at holiday lights in Old Spitalfields Market, even “elves” working overtime at Hamley’s toy store.

Oh, we also saw a bunch of grown men urinating in public.

Sorry if that last sentence struck you as a bit of a shock. The reality is that it shocked the hell out of me and my wife, too. Especially since the urination was happening at a fiberglass urination station with four urinals, set up in the middle of the sidewalk across the street from a popular bar near Leicester Square.

Thankfully, we were sans kiddos when we witnessed this debacle. Still, the scene raises some questions:

1. What would we have said to our girls if we had seen the urinators with them?
2. Why was there a place for grown men to wee in public anyway?

I could go on and on with my outrage about these things. I also could write pages about my ire over the gender bias they represent. (Why don’t women get a place to wee on the street? I mean, when they drink beer they have to wee as well. Are their bladders not worthy of such convenience?) Heck, you could even argue that these public pissers are so improper that they actually are anti-British.

I’ve chronicled my complaints in a letter to the Westminster Council. I’d share it here, but, trust me when I tell you: The missive ain’t pretty.

Instead, because this is a family travel blog, in these pages I’ll stick to the bigger issue: When you’re traveling with the entire family, it can be *really* uncomfortable to explain certain sights and sounds to your kids. Even if you are the most quick-thinking human on Earth, there usually is no easy way to do it. Nor should you have to.

Powerwoman and I are big supporters of tackling issues head-on; if we had seen the urinals with our girls, we likely would have justified the scene as some sort of overflow bathroom.

Still, I must admit: This is NOT the kind of thing I wish to have to explain to my little girls. Ever.

To my knowledge, these public urinals haven’t made their way to the U.S. yet, and that’s a good thing. If and when they do, we’ll be ready to fight them and keep urinals where they belong: In the men’s room.

How do you explain uncomfortable and inappropriate sights and scenes to kids while traveling?