Tag: travel with kids

zoe does europe

Our friends and family are not surprised that at one-year-old our daughter has already traveled more than many adults. With a great-grandmother in London who was anxious to finally meet her first great-grandchild, a trip to England within Zoe’s first year was a given. We decided while we were over there why not make an adventure out of it. So, as a friend of mine put it, at nine-months-old Zoe “did Europe.”

Our first stop was London and of course introducing Zoe to her G.G. Nita for the first time was truly amazing. Of course all Zoe knew was that she was getting lots of attention from a lot of people in London who had been waiting to see her.

We moved on to Vienna where we visited an old friend of mine and her Austrian husband and their 22-month-old son. They live in a house with another family with two small kids and have a steady stream of friends with little children coming and going. Zoe had a blast playing with all of the “older” kids. Best of all we got to see Vienna not only with locals but with local babies. The Vienna zoo and the kiddie pool were not only highlights for Zoe but for us too. As New Yorkers with a baby it was great to see how Austrian babies spend their days.

In Prague we realized some of the limitations that go along with travel with baby. After a long lunch in the main square during which Zoe sat in her stroller for a little too long we attempted to take a tour of the Jewish quarters. I don’t know what we were thinking! No more than five minutes into the two hour tour Zoe made it clear that sitting in her stroller inside a temple with nothing to entertain her other than an old lady telling the history of the Jews in Prague was just not going to happen. We left and gave ourselves the abbreviated version of the tour –basically we walked in and out of a few of the temples and museums.

Considering how young she was, I don’t know how much Zoe got out of the trip. But for her mom and dad this trip was a major step in reclaiming our sense of adventure post-baby. The trip was the proof we were looking for that we can still get out and do the things we love to do –at least many of them. Not only is travel with a baby possible, it was even enjoyable. We plan to continue to take family adventures and know that each year Zoe will take a little bit more from the trip.

Friends with older kids have told us that we lucked out because Zoe was at an age where she happily sat in the stroller –that travel will only get harder (we’ll let you know if this is true later this month when we take her to Costa Rica). But the way I look at it travel was never about easy –staying home is easy. So why not grab the umbrella stroller, throw some diapers (and Daily Tea clothes) in a suitcase and get on that plane!

play time

Every day after naptime, my two-year-old and I made the short trek to the local spielplatz (playground). It was a popular time of day for the toddler set. As soon as the castle-like climbing structure came into view, we could see other kids running amok, their mothers holding court at one of the many picnic tables. One particular group of Moms was a constant, a Queen-Bee-type clique led by one of those tall, blonde, perfectly-put-together German mothers. She and I never exchanged more than a “Guten Tag,” my obvious American-ness making me feel too conspicuous to say more.

 

My son, Chet, had no problem ingratiating himself with the local children. Despite the language barrier, as soon as we stepped foot on the playground’s gravel, he’d find himself surrounded by other children, sharing their toys and games. But me? Despite my fledgling German, I always seemed to be on the outside looking in. The lone outsider.

 

Until the day after Fasching, the German equivalent of Mardi Gras.

 

On that day, as we approached the playground, I saw Mrs. Lead-Queen-Bee standing near the swings, holding her small daughter at bay. Once near, we saw the problem. Fasching’s partygoers had visited the playground the night before and left behind a mess of broken glass and party favors. Worse, they had done mischief, throwing dirt and water all over the slide and swinging the swings up out of reach. The other regulars must have seen the mess and turned tail back home. But Mrs. Lead-Queen-Bee and I had two children who would not be dissuaded. They wanted to swing.

 

What else could two mothers do? We cleaned up the glass as best as we could. But that didn’t solve the swing problem. Mrs. Lead-Queen-Bee handed me her daughter and then tried to jump up and dislodge it. But even at nearly 6 feet tall, she couldn’t quite reach. So instead, she turned to me and asked a question.

 

At first, I couldn’t quite make out what she wanted. At just over 5 feet, I had no shot of knocking it down on my own. What could she be asking? I looked at her quizzically and said, “Wie bitte?” She repeated the question, this time with hand motions. She wanted me to climb on to her shoulders. She said we’d have more luck zusammen (together).

 

Our children laughed at the sight of me climbing on to her shoulders. But that laughter soon changed to cheering as, together, we got both swings around and down.

 

As we spent the afternoon pushing our kids on the swings, listening to their attempts at communication. Going by their example, Mrs. Lead-Queen-Bee and I started our own talking. There were a lot of words we couldn’t explain around, a fair amount of topics shut down with a shrug and confused look. But we kept trying.

 

And the next day after nap time, Mrs. Lead-Queen-Bee waved me over to her table and introduced me to as her Amerikanische Freund (American Friend). I was never on the outside again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a different kind of culture shock

It was early October. We had only recently arrived in Stockholm, but the days were already shorter than in the States. By half past six, the sun was officially gone. And every day sunset came three minutes earlier, not enough to notice right away, but quickly do and you know in 30 days we would lose an hour and a half of daylight.

By the time we “fell back” from Day Light Savings Time, sunset was right about when my kids would wake up from their afternoon nap. My kids would sleep until 3:30 or 4 p.m. and when they woke up, it was dark. Really dark. If you’ve been to Boston or Seattle, you can say you know dark, but this seemed different than anything I’ve experienced. It’s strange to see children walking to school in the dark at 8:30 a.m. and coming home from school at 2:30 p.m. in the same darkness.

Winter in northern countries means a change in lifestyle with, oh, six hours or so of daylight. While my Swedish neighbors would use this opportunity to bake and spend time together as a family, I found it strange to have it pitch dark at 3 p.m., and needed some life around me. I had two young children under the age of two. They were driven by schedule and light helped tell them determine when it was dinner or breakfast time.

We learned to adjust. They would wake up from their naps when other mothers of toddlers back here at home were setting out to do afternoon errands or playdates. I found it difficult to pack up the diaper bag and head out to grocery shop in the dark. But I did my best to reset my internal clock; or perhaps it was my mental clock. Perhaps I should have done the “when in Rome ” thing and retreated inside like the Swedes did, but I didn’t. The kids would wake up from their naps, and to help expose them (and me) to some kind of light, we’d head to the mall. Lots of fluorescent lights do wonders to help establish daylight. Why else do airports create this “hey-it’s-day-time-somewhere” feel at international hubs? We would zip to a grocery store, department store or indoor play area that was fully lit and full of life, even if only for a little while. I soon discovered we were not the only ones going this route. I actually made a few friends with this game. (Side note: I saw first hand why people centuries ago needed a winter solstice celebration in the darkest of dark days. I craved lights for six weeks.)

This was definitely a lesson in learning to adjust to what you are given–a different kind of culture shock for me. It was, perhaps, just an introduction to the next four months of snow that would cover our front yard. You can’t fight Mother Nature. I realized I had to just get in there and do what I could to make darkness fun for all of us. It gave me new appreciation for those who forged this path a century ago without electricity.

The good news is that daylight comes as quickly as it wanes. Once December 21 passes and each day gets lighter, it’s back to 6:30 sunsets sometime in March and a few months later you’re back to round-the-clock daylight. Which I have to say is even weirder than the darkness.

vermont b&b tailor-made for toddlers

If mixing a New England B&B and a toddler doesn’t strike you as a match made in heaven, you haven’t been to Lyndonville, Vermont’s Wildflower Inn yet.

Just picture it, agreeably worn-out kids, fresh from a day of fun activities on the farm, drinking apple juice from rocket-shaped sippy cups while their equally agreeable parents sip an “oaky” chardonnay and admire Vermont’s green countryside.

Located in Vermont’s rural Northeast Kingdom, the Wildflower Inn is just a twenty minute drive from St. Johnsbury, home of the Fairbanks Museum. In an hour, you can reach New Hampshire’s White Mountains, the Ben & Jerry’s ice cream factory or the Cabot cheese factory. If you want to save on gas, there’s plenty to do at the Inn — two hours of kids and teen activities daily, an outdoor pool, a petting barn with a charming miniature horse, wagon rides, a play room, access to bike trails and your choice of two modern play structures.

The Wildflower has a proven track record of doing whatever it can to make families comfortable and happy. Accommodations range from standard hotel rooms (all with great views) to private cottages. The restaurant caters to children but remains up-scale enough to make parents happy.

The Wildflower Inn is family owned and operated. The views from the Inn, especially during foliage season, and the personal, friendly service is a guaranteed to be worth the trip!

east coast whirlwind

We’re just back from a fantastically chaotic 5-week travel binge- Boston, Cape Cod, New York, Chicago, a lake in Wisconsin, home (with a double-case of RSV caught somewhere in the germ-swamp of OHare).

Cape Cod: a whirlwind of parents and grandparents and children and sandy feet and beach crabs. 9 grown-ups looking after 6 kids, all under 4. Milo taught Alastair how to eat shells. Eeek.

Which was all a far cry from New York City, where we spent two glorious weeks in that perfect end-of-summer balmy – but not baking-hot – weather. It was a fun routine of elevators (“Mino push the buddon please to go down down down?”); cheerful doormen (“Mino say heddo to friend man?”); stroller rides to Washington Square Park for its plaza where the men drink from paper bags and play chess; and lots and lots of taxis, policecars, firetrucks, and other vehicles of New York’s Finest, including a fine horsie with tickly whiskers who says Neigh.

The lake in Wisconsin was the pinnacle of kid craziness. We had 10:11, with no child over the age of 6, and only one other over the age of 3. We stayed in our friend’s great-grandmother’s chalet-style rambling lake house, with a massive lawn sloping down to the lake, a rowboat, sailboat & motorboat, on-site tennis, and a huge porch that afforded the adults some wine-drinking and politics-talking time (Sarah Palin…really???) while the kids careened around the yard. Milo learned about bumblebees and spiders, and why we should only look and not touch. Alastair learned how to say “guh, glerrrrramph” and whack at the other babies.

Home via Milwaukee, where we stopped by Calatrava’s amazing bird-ship-like art museum sailing out over Lake Michigan for some play in the lobby. A magical white, windowy, watery open place with shocks of sculpture color, perfect for running and gazing and wearing out kids before our long (delayed) flight home.

straight from the blogger’s mouth

One of the best ways to help your child become a true citizen of the world is to travel as often and far as you dare. It helps them learn to love adventure, open their mind to new ideas and cultures, and break out of routine.

Of course, traveling with children is not always easy. It’s dirty, filled with cumbersome gear and, for me, often involves wearing way too much of whatever my son had for dinner. Sometimes regurgitated.

But the secret is that those hardships are a small price to pay. In fact, I would argue that any discomfort or annoyances are, at the end of the day, completely and totally worth it. The advantages of traveling with my son — what he learns, what I learn — makes any angst about the process seem silly by the time we return home. And I’m not alone. There are plenty of other Moms out there who are traveling all over the world with their kids and blogging to tell the tale.

Looking for the best places to visit? Great hotels that won’t mind if your child stomps up and down the stairs while you check-in? Funny stories of just how much a four-year-old can barf on an airplane? Commiseration? Inspiration? Look no further than your browser. There are plenty of great Mama blogs that explore the where’s, why’s and how’s of traveling both near and far with young’uns with experience, poignancy and, most importantly, humor. Here are some of the best:

Wanderlust and Lipstick

Traveling Mamas

Travel Savvy Mom

Backpack to Buggy

Mother of All Trips

MinneMom’s Travels With Children

Delicious Baby

Kids Go Global

SoulTravelers3

Two and a Half Travelers

What about you? Know any great blogs that examine the good, bad and funny of traveling with kids? We’d love to hear about them.

haggling by the pound

My husband tapped his foot impatiently as my son started to squirm in his stroller. It was time to move on — the morning was getting late and Cairo’s famous open-air bazaar, the Khan-al-Khalili, was becoming crowded. The alleys of the market were filling with tourists, fresh off the tour bus, and over-ambitious baksheesh men looking to take them to the “best” stalls for a small fee.

But I wasn’t quite ready to leave. No deal had been struck.

The shopkeeper, sensing my family’s irritation, looked at the small, ornate brass teapot in my hand and magnanimously said, “I can see your family is waiting. So I will give you a good price. Usually, this is 150 pounds. But for you, I can offer 100 pounds.”

It wasn’t a shocking sum. One hundred Egyptian pounds is less than $20 U.S. I would pay much more at the hotel gift shop or a store back home. And I could certainly afford to spend the money. But I knew I could get a lower price. I couldn’t walk away now. The competition had only just begun.

“Too much. But I can give you 20,” and then giddily waited for the expected outraged rebuttal.

I love to haggle. Whether it is in the bazaars of the Mideast, the open markets of South America, or just the guys selling fake designer bags on Canal Street, I cannot resist the heated back-and-forth price negotiation that transforms shopping from leisure activity to sport. Ever since my father introduced me to bargaining as a little girl while traveling in western China, I’ve been enamored with any situation where I can negotiate my own price. I love the feeling of having some say over whether an item costs too much, to assign my own value to the things that I want to buy.

And yes, I am not too proud to admit that I also enjoy the fight — with all the tricks, guilt trips, and fast talking that come with it.

So now, as my husband looks on with annoyance — and quite often, embarrassment — I am all too willing to insult merchandise, ignore tales of woe and throw small tantrums for monetary discounts that, in the country’s home currency, usually amount to only a few dollars off asking price.

The shopkeeper twirled the end of his mustache thoughtfully. “I can see you drive a hard bargain. You are a mother. You must appreciate value. But only 20? I am a poor man. And look at the fine work of this teapot. You will not see such quality in another shop. But maybe I can give this to you for 80 pounds.” He opened his arms and smiled widely as if he were bestowing a great gift.

I raised my eyebrow. By Cairo standards — a poor city at best — the shop seemed fairly prosperous. But by mine? It is unquestionable that the few dollars I would save on the exchange would mean much more to him than to me. And despite knowing this, I still could not relent. At least, not by more than it would take to keep the game going for a bit longer.

“Twenty-five. And I can go no higher. My husband and son are waiting,” I said with little remorse as I put the teapot back on the display case.

“Not enough! 70 and no less! Do you think I am Ali Baba?” he asked, raising his arms in mock offense. This is a phrase I heard often as I traversed the market, an allusion to the story in The Book of One Thousand and One Nights, an insinuation that the shopkeeper is a thief and can therefore let go of his merchandise for less than it’s worth. I smiled every time I heard it.

“No, no. But 70 is still too much,” and raised my offer to 30 pounds. He glared at me, tapping his fingers edgily on the counter, expecting me to become uncomfortable enough in his silence to increase my price. But I would do him one better. I nodded, thanked him for his time, and turned to walk out of the shop.

Before I reached the alley, he called after me, begrudgingly accepting my offer, his face fixed in a frown. I happily returned to receive my prize, trying not to look too smug in victory.

As I walked on to the next shop, ignoring my husband’s remonstrations so I might begin a new match over some papyrus and a small perfume bottle, I thought again of the shopkeeper’s reference to Ali Baba. Of course I didn’t think he was a thief.

But maybe, every now and again, I can see the attraction in thinking myself one.