Souvenir Shopping

I used to collect eggs from all over the world during our travels - ceramic, crystal, stone, beads, etc. But I ran out of space on our glass shelf.

So I started buying gifts for family members and friends during our travels. That really mounted up, with siblings (Charley was the oldest of seven), parents, sons, aunts, uncles, etc.

Now I try to take at least one quality photo on each trip that I can blow up to 11" x 14." We have two walls full of them, but at least they're conversation starters and memory prods.

On the South African trip, the only things I bought were small Christmas presents for the immediate family. Our tour operator hadn't scheduled shopping time. We found items in hotel gift shops and managed forty-five minutes in a craft market in Johannesburg. I discovered a 250-pound wooden hippo there, which would forever remind me of the "Danger: Hippo Crossing" signs along the Zambezi River in Zambia. Charley insisted I curb my enthusiasm!

I observed we had different kinds of shoppers among the fourteen of us. Grandmothers like me were always on the hunt for kids' outfits, headbands, books, toys, and girls' accessories.

The die-hard shoppers rushed from shop to shop in the airports and at the craft market. They compared prices for items on their lists (like African fabrics) and returned them, when possible, if they found a better price. They knew the managers in each hotel gift shop on a first-name basis.

The professor who accompanied us from Brown University had lived in Johannesburg and planned to grab a taxi to her favorite shop as soon as our plane hit the ground. Unfortunately, a traffic jam (perennial, in South Africa) prevented her excursion that day, but eventually she sneaked away and did some damage.

Then there were those who needed a second (or third) opinion before coming to a decision. A choice between two heavy stone necklaces necessitated a lengthy discussion. "Do you think she would wear something this heavy?"

"Yes, but the stones are more neutral in this one, and she could wear it with more."

"True, but the colorful necklace is less expensive."

"Do what you wish!"

In the shop at Thornybush Game Lodge (next to Kruger Park, South Africa), I pointed to a woven blue and brown handicraft hanging on the wall. "I love that basket!" I told the sales lady. "Would you mind getting it down so I could look at it?"

She was snickering as she handed it to me. "That's not a basket! It's a Zulu woman's headpiece!"

I looked at the loose weave and realized anything small in this "basket" would fall right through. So I put it where it belonged - on my head. Just then Charley walked into the shop. "Why do you have a basket on your head?"

Phyllis and Gert Check into the Westcliff Hotel

The following is a composite of calamities that befell several of our group checking into the Westcliff Hotel in Johannesburg. For purposes of this blog, I have combined the incidents into one story and attributed them to two travel companions.

The Westcliff Hotel cascaded down a hillside, with pool and terrace overlooking the majestic Magaliesberg Mountains and the forests (none native) of the northern suburbs. The brochure we received prior to departure described the Westcliff as having "an understated elegance, holistic spa, palatial marble baths, and individually furnished guest rooms decorated by South Africa's premier designer, Graham Viney."

The brochure failed to mention that the accommodations had previously been apartment units, some smaller than others. In fact, some much, much smaller than others. And some not fully reconditioned.

The fourteen of us arrived via air from Zambia in the late afternoon and checked in. The abundant staff (in uniform) shuttled us up the hillside to our rooms on golf carts. "See you tomorrow morning," Gert yelled to us, as she and best friend Phyllis disembarked. A staff member in the black pants-black jacket-white shirt uniform walked in front with their key.

Phyllis and Gert entered their boxlike room and saw piles of crumpled sheets and towels strewn across the carpet. An open container of lotion and a used razor accessorized the "palatial" marble bathroom. Splashed water darkened the marble floor. At least there were two beds, but no space to walk around them. The "premier" designer Graham Varney had screwed up in this one!

Phyllis, being the more assertive, turned to the black jacket-black pants-white shirt carrying the luggage from the golf cart. "Put those back, please. We don't want this room. We need to go back to the lobby!"

Upon arrival at the front desk, three receptionists (same uniform, skirts, no pants) consulted their computer screen. "You see, ladies, we are booked with two conference groups. There is no other room to give you. We will have yours made up immediately!"

Phyllis was quick on her exhausted feet. "We'll go have an early dinner in the pub," she replied. "Please come get us when the room is ready." Gert nodded in agreement. A drink sounded delightful! The same black pants-black jacket-white shirt that had brought them down the hill carried them back up.

The two ladies enjoyed a leisurely dinner and a couple of frosty pink martinis. Black pants-black jacket-white shirt appeared to escort them back to their room.

This time it was clean. Although the outside temperature had dropped into the fifties, the room still smelled musty. Gert went over to get the air conditioning going. No luck!

Phyllis got right on the phone to the front desk. "Could you have someone come right away to fix the air conditioning? It won't go on!"

They began to unpack. A knock on the door and the air conditioning man appeared (dark pants, white shirt with logo, no jacket). Some fiddling and sometime later, VOILA! Cool air began to circulate.

Gert went into the "palatial" bathroom first. "Phyllis! You're not going to believe this! There are no towels!"

Phyllis jumped back to the phone. This time she asked for the manager. Every inch of her 5'2" frame was rigid, down to the tips of the hairspray on her blond coiffure. Only her voice shook. Soon, another knock on the door and a woman (you guessed it - black skirt, black jacket, white shirt) appeared with towels and washcloths.

"Gert, we'd better not try to get around the side of these beds," Phyllis warned. "We'll get stuck!"

"I don't think I could slide in there soaking wet!" Gert responded. By now, she had a towel around her and was looking forward to a hot, soaking tub. She leaned over, adjusting the water temperature in the spout. Like a statue, she leaned and leaned.

"Phyllis, I can't get any hot water in the bathtub!"

"OH MY GOD!" was the response. "What next??"

Back on the phone with the manager, an enraged voice came from a petite lady. "This is Ms. Gotkin again! This is supposed to be a five-star hotel and we have no hot water. We're exhausted and we need a plumber here immediately! We've run out of patience!"

Another knock on the door (black pants, white shirt with logo, sans jacket). By this time, Gert was fully dressed again.

Eventually, Gert got her long bath. Afterward, she wrapped herself in the warm terrycloth robe hanging on the back of the "palatial" bathroom. She put on her slippers and quietly shuffled between the two beds, so she wouldn't wake up her good friend. "Ahhh!" she sighed, gratefully sliding under the clean sheets.

There was a knock on the door. Gert couldn't believe her ears. She willed her swollen ankles from under the covers and found her slippers. "Who is it??" she asked through the door.

"Something for you from management," was the response.

Gert peered around the chain lock to see another black pants-black jacket-white shirt holding out a tray. On the tray were two bottles of red wine, four wine glasses, and two boxes of chocolates. "Please accept our profuse apologies," the note read. "The management."

"Thank you," she said to the uniform, taking the proffered tray and relocking the door. Gert looked around for a place to put it. Their nightly necessities covered every inch of the small bureau and nightstand. Balancing the tray in one hand, she began to push earrings, watches, and bracelets to one side. A wine glass teetered against the edge of the tray, then toppled over against the hard metal suitcase beneath. Glass shattered around her slippers.

Phyllis sat up. "Pour me a glass," she muttered.

Ferryride across the Zambezi River

We were at the mercy of the tour guides that the company operator assigned us at each location. We had become skeptical, after Wendy had more than a few "senior moments" around Cape Town.

Leaving C.T. and the wine country, we flew to Johannesburg, then into Livingstone, Zambia. There we were, plopped in a corner where three countries intersected: Zambia, Namibia, and Botswana. Pushing our luggage carts in the searing heat, we scanned the airport for someone who looked as though he/she could speak English. Turned out everyone did - they were taught English in school!

Then there she was! Mary turned out to be an incredible spokesperson for her adopted Zambia, as well as a superb guide. Raised in England and transplanted to Rhodesia by her mother and father, she married and stayed till Rhodesia became nonexistent. When the government took over the farm she and her husband owned, they headed to Zambia.

The next day she warned us, "Don't expect a customs and immigration office like you're used to!" We were about to take a "ferry" from Zambia across the Zambezi River to Botswana for a safari into Chobe Park.

We had an inkling of what to expect, having passed through the town of Livingstone, Zambia, on the way to our hotel at Victoria Falls. In town, red clay surrounded chicken-wire fences, which surrounded the schools, boarded factory, tin-roofed shops, and "Fawlty Towers." "That's the best hotel in town," Mary pointed out, "and the only one!" The one-story structure looked like it was constructed of fiberboard, and did, indeed, lean.

Our road was paved all the way to the ferry crossing, unlike the one we'd taken to board the Sunset Cruise the previous evening. About a mile from the ferry, we began to see eighteen-wheelers parked along the side of the road. They were fully loaded with copper and other goods leaving Zambia. Beside many of the trucks were tables and chairs, set up under small tents. "Is it a strike, like in Italy?" someone asked.

"No," Mary answered. "There's a hoe-down up the road, so they all stopped," she quipped. "Just kidding! Really, the ferry that carries these trucks across the River can only load one at a time. So some of the truckers wait days, even a week, to get across. They have full living arrangements in the cabs of their trucks."

"Aren't there roads or bridges?" someone asked.

"The fee is too expensive. And it would take even longer to drive all the way around than to sit in this lineup."

Like dutiful sheep, we got off the van, following our leader. Hundreds of native Zambians stood in a queue inside another chicken-wire fence. The queue led to a one-room wooden building, the customs office. On the other side of the building the dirt road became muddy, as it neared the River.

"Just follow me!" Mary instructed. "We have to get our passports stamped, then we'll get on the ferry."

We wound our way past the waiting Zambians, then cut in front of them. "This is going to be trouble," I thought to myself. Still, they kept smiling. "Where you from?" they yelled in English.

"U.S." we replied.

"Obama! Obama!" they began chanting.

We kept moving. One at a time, at a single window inside one room, we got our passports stamped and filed out. By this time, all of us white people were sweating profusely in the heat and humidity.

"Just keep moving toward the ferry," Mary advised. "You'll have a lot of hawkers trying to sell you wooden carvings and things, but as long as you keep walking, they'll walk with you. No-one will stop you or touch you."

I spotted our "ferry" - a pontoon boat that may or may not fit all fourteen of us. Were they kidding? Mud squished around my sneakers. As we moved down the bank, the hawkers descended. Still chanting, "Obama!" they held out wooden crosses, giraffe carvings, bracelets, or necklaces.

"What your name?" they asked each of us. Suddenly, they spied Mary, their savior who brought tour groups to them each week. From, "Obama!" the chant changed to, "Mary!" "Mary!"

All of us successfully boarded to cross the River. None of us had spent a dime. As we were pulling away, I noticed the black tee shirt on the hawker nearest us. It read, "Get Every Dollar." He raised his arms in triumph. "See you later - afternoon!" he yelled across the water, as we pulled away.

The other side provided more fanfare in Botswana. We were met by uniformed guards and our passports brought to an office and stamped. Guides whisked us away in two vans. Botswana was more developed with substantial shops, paved roads, and luxurious developments along the River. At a beautiful safari hotel we embarked upriver for the morning. Hippos and their babies swam alongside, followed by herds of Cape buffalo, impala, and more pachyderms than we'd thought possible. The giraffes simply ignored us, as we approached in open jeeps in the afternoon. Still, we had to return to Zambia.

The reverse crossing proved more costly. "G.E.D." tee shirt positioned himself at my elbow when we hit the wire mesh laid across the embankment. He insisted on knowing my name. I avoided eye contact, then felt guilty, as he walked with me. Finally, I wilted under his gargantuan smile. "What's yours?" I asked.

"Thabo," he responded. "Your name, missus?"

"Pamela."

"You like necklace, Pamela? You must have!"

OK, OK, one more trinket wouldn't kill me.

Out of Africa: Overview

There are some trips you wait a lifetime for, and they disappoint. And then there are some that exceed your expectations. And more.

South Africa fit the "more" category. Though it was not for the faint-hearted. The flight to Frankfurt was eight hours, with hotel rooms waiting for us there after our early morning arrival. That same night we flew another ten hours to Johannesburg, then connected to Cape Town. The trip back was seven hours by bus out of "the bush" to Johannesburg, with reverse plane trips to Frankfurt and on to Boston, after a six-hour layover.

Our group of fourteen alumni from various colleges went under the auspices of A(lumni) H(oliday)I(nstitute). The tour company handled visa and shot procedures, all modes of transportation, tickets (with better airfares than we could get individually), itinerary reservations, and suggested reading. With us for the entire trip was travel director Joanie, our "mother-hen." It was a good thing, since one of the group fell getting off the escalator with her luggage in Johannesburg, and ended up in a hospital with sixty stitches. This fearless traveller rejoined us the next evening in CapeTown.

Also with us was Nancy Jacobs, Associate Professor of Africana Studies and History from Brown University. Nancy had lived in Africa and been a U.N. observer during the 1994 elections. She was insightful and funny and a wonderful companion (also a mother of two who left the kids with her husband while she travelled with us on sabbatical, doing resesarch). She provided three fascinating lectures, in addition to those of local experts in various destinations.

Did I mention the average IQ of the group was probably 150? Apologies if I got this wrong, but I counted seven PhD's among us, one LLD, one retired surgical ophthalmologist, one retired city planner, among other degrees. Everyone was an experienced traveller and really cared less about degrees. We all bonded well, laughing till I peed in my pants, helping each other with luggage, pushing from behind onto high jeeps or buses, getting the lighting just right for couples' photos, identifying birds and wildlife so Kay could check them off in her Guidebook, counting heads when Wendy miscounted, and sharing insights.

At each destination, we picked up local guides who stayed with us until we departed for the next location. Wendy, Mary, Mark, had full days planned in the Cape Town region, the Victoria Falls area of Zambia and Botswana, and Johannesburg. There was no sleeping in on this trip, unless you wanted to miss a tour...which Charley and I did in CapeTown. We skipped the wine country tour in favor of spectacular Kirstenbosch Botannical Gardens and, as it turned out, that was the ONLY morning we slept past 7 a.m. In the South African bush, we were on a jeep every morning at 5:45 a.m., followed by breakfast at 10 a.m., followed by a lecture, then lunch. Back out on the jeep at 4 p.m., unless you wanted to miss tracking the elusive leopard. Why did they think we had to eat so much?

Neither was there any shopping time (except at hotel gift shops), or time to wash out our undies, or shower (except maybe 5 a.m. or 10 p.m.), or answer all our emails. Somehow, though, the shoppers among us managed to bring back enough souvenirs to claim "VAT" (shopping for souvenirs will be the subject of another blog post).

Amazing what we accomplished in two weeks!! We stood in Nelson Mandela's prison cell during a tour of Robben Island with one of Mandela's prison contemporaries as a guide; we cablecar -zipped to the top of Table Mt., then whisked out to the Cape of Good Hope; sampled wineries' products; stayed at Victoria Falls, Zambia, then crossed via "ferry" into Botswana for a daylong safari along the Zambezi River; lunched at a private home/restaurant in Soweto (Johannesburg), then planted a tree in front of another home not far from Mandela's and Desmond Tutu's first residences on Vilakazi Street; toured the Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg, followed by four days in a private game preserve on the edge of Kruger Park (northeastern So. Africa). Not only did we see all of the "Big Five," we told our guide to "Drive On!" when impala herds or kudu passed by. They became mundane!?

What didn't I do that I wanted to (besides sleep and shop)? I wanted to take an outdoor shower in Thornybush Game Preserve, but it would have been 5 a.m. or 10 p.m., with the monkeys and who-knew-what-else accompanying me. And I wanted to swim in one of the gorgeous pools at our hotels or venture out of the hotel in Johannesburg (only by vehicle!) for dinner. Too tired...

Stay tuned for humorous glimpses of group travel in future posts. We're still reliving the experience!

50th H.S. Reunion Recap and DON'T Rules

I didn't want it to end! The weekend started Wednesday with six ladies at my home for a "mature" slumber party. Weather perfect for long walks along Buzzard's Bay and sitting on the deck. Didn't count the wine bottles in my recycling! Charley made a smart move - to his sister's for the duration.

The ladies followed each other in a caravan to Greenwich, met up at a private cocktail party (have you gotten the impression that even the tea drinkers were drinking a lot of tea?), followed by the reunion dinner, and brunch on Sunday. Of the 130 attendees (including significant others), I think almost 100 of us were out on the dance floor at one time or another. We grabbed anyone close to the wooden platform and formed big circles. Didn't have to recognize the person we were dancing with - in fact, probably couldn't! The "oldies" kept our hip replacements gyrating and new knees bending. "Primo" and "secondo" platters of Italian food kept coming and coming and I kept taking and taking. Finally I gave up trying to hold my stomach in. Was so wound up, I didn't sleep a wink all night, and neither did my friend who'd driven down with me. Both husbands decided to stay home (wonder why??).

Here's a list of DON'T RULES, if you plan to enjoy yourself at a 50th reunion. I had lots of help putting together. Here goes!

1. Don't assume you can ignore the questionnaires during the year preceding the blessed event. If you don't respond, nobody will care if you come or not by then.

2. Don't refuse invitations to pre-reunion gatherings. You might not recognize people when you get to the actual reunion (you won't!!).

3. Don't lean in to squint at someone's nametag and photo. You will look like the old fart you are, instead of the hipster who sticks out his hand and asserts, "I'm ______________."

4. Don't ask people if they remember you. You might not like the answer!

5. Don't ask someone you've just met, "Are you wife number two or three?"

6. Don't introduce your second wife as "Mary Two" and attempt to explain that she has the same name as your first wife.

7. Don't answer the question, "How are you?" with, "My last surgery was a total failure."

8. Don't answer the question, "How are things?" with a monologue about your bitter divorce, lack of funds for a vacation in the last five years, and necessity to work till hell freezes over!

9. Don't french-kiss your old boyfriend.

10. Don't put your hand on your old girlfriend's butt.

11. Don't assume the best-looking in the class is still the best-looking.

12. Don't assume the nerds are still the nerds. Or that they are poor.

13. Don't eat garlic bread before dancing.

14. In the event you disregard rule number 11, don't leave your TicTacs at home.

15. Don't ask someone to dance if he/she has a walking stick propped against his/her chair.

16. If you suspect someone had several facelifts, don't stand next to his/her ear, searching for surgical scars.

17. If someone is wearing a hearing aid, don't continue to shout in that ear. Move to the other one, dummy!

18. Don't dance for three hours in a pair of heels you just bought.

19. If you ignore rule #18 and must remove your shoes, don't point out how grotesque your bunions have become.

20. Don't assume that you will look like a dance instructor after a few sippies. It is not a life-altering event, and no-one cares if you make a fool of yourself on the dance floor! Everyone else out there is doing the same thing.

LAUGH TILL YOU CRY, DANCE AS THOUGH NO-ONE'S WATCHING, AND LOVE AS THOUGH YOU'VE NEVER BEEN HURT. That's what our reunion was all about! Any other contributions? Write them under "Comments." Thanks for the memories. Will post following our So. African trip.

My New Devices

I know. I'm a little late joining the 21st century! But I'm trying to catch up.

I just ordered an e-reader, which the manufacturer promises will still be visible in direct sunlight (and there will be a lot of direct sunlight in Africa!). Charley and I usually lug five paperbacks each on a trip. I did not get an IPad because it would duplicate what my new phone will do, and we needed an international calling device. Hope that wasn't a mistake!

I had to get rid of my beloved old Sony Ericsson pink cellphone. The back kept falling off and I had to hit each letter three times to find the right one. Typing a text message took forever.

So I got the simplest Iphone available. It is pretty ugly - black and industrial-looking. The cost was $49. Of course, tax is charged on the retail value, which was $424. Then I needed some kind of special ap (short for "application" - I'm learning) for $69, a charger for the car, a service agreement, and most importantly, an indestructible case and film over the glass (I don't want an elephant trampling on the thing, but maybe it would survive?). The only feminine choice for a cover was white, but that would get black, anyway. I walked out of there with a $245.41 bill.

Well, I didn't exactly JUST walk out of there. Lovely Ashley spent two and one-quarter hours with me. First she had to call Charley to get HIS permission to add my cellphone line under my own name, since his was on there as the primary account-holder. That was not pretty, as Charley not only won't touch computers, he won't touch cellphones and doesn't understand why any company needs six security questions answered to change an account. Finally Ashley turned him around.

Ashley should have sized me up when she saw me walk in the door with my pretty pink phone. Nevertheless, she persevered and answered my every question. Even downloaded all my photos and address book from the old phone and then gave me a demonstration by calling me. I was put to the test and passed (answered my own phone)! And then she wrote Pam's "To Do List." No kidding!

I felt like a kid in kindergarten, but at home I was eternally grateful. I had to download ITunes to set up an account. I had to create a password and username and then plug my white cord into the new device and download the info onto my computer (so I never lose any information). Then I had to mark in my calendar the date to remove the International Traveller plan in November, when we return from our trip. Oh yes, and I have to remember not to answer emails on my new phone overseas. That would cost me around $200 more. I'll find WiFi (I know what that means, too!) at the hotels.

Lastly, Ashley printed out the charges on my first and second phone bills that will be coming in, and showed me that the third bill would be the constant one.

Little did Ashley know I wasn't finished! When I got home, I emailed her with two more questions, since I couldn't view the tutorial that AT&T sent me about using the thing. She told me to email her anytime. And guess what - she answered my questions that day.

And the next day, when I had to email her again with another question.

So I guess I got my money's worth. I've already deleted all the worthless emails on my IPhone, but have to go out on my deck to do it. We don't get decent reception on the coast of Massachusetts!

Forty-six Years and a Few Compromises Later

One of my husband's favorite stories about his ability to compromise actually took place way back in 1975. On a Friday evening when he wasn't travelling, I had arranged for a vacuum-cleaner salesman to come to the house after dinner to give a demonstration. We needed a new vacuum desperately!

The last thing a tired husband wants to do is to sit through the demonstration of an appliance at the end of a long week of work! Especially if he played baseball in college, is a devoted Red Sox fan, and there is a game on tv...

Like GAME SIX OF THE WORLD SERIES!!! Little did I know I had arranged the salesman's visit the same time that the Red Sox played the Cincinnati Reds.

As the salesman threw dirt all over the family room floor, Charley dodged and bounced around him, trying to follow the plays. He couldn't hear a thing. After the salesman left, I lit into my weary husband.

"How could you be so rude to that man?" I demanded.

"You were lucky he got in the door!" was the response.

Thank goodness Carlton Fisk hit his game-winning home run in the twelfth inning at 12:33 a.m., not while the salesman was there. I can't imagine if Charley had missed seeing Fisk's arms willing the ball fair, or the ricochet off the pole. I have no idea whether we bought the machine!







Another compromise situation is still in progress. Our Kenmore refrigerator in Massachusetts is 27 years old. It is still functioning perfectly, which I regret every day. However, I have learned to pick my battles!

We have had Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's Eve, July 4th, and Labor Day parties at the house, not to mention graduation and birthday parties. We added another small set of three refrigerated drawers to accommodate the larder and the preparations.

The refrigerator is under a service agreement, since parts are no longer available. That means that if Sears can't replace the part, I get a new refrigerator.

It just isn't going to happen. The thing keeps going and going....

The repairman who checks it out every year keeps telling me the same thing. I am sick of hearing it. "They don't make them like this any more! Don't ever get rid of this machine!"

Sounds like Charley's philosophy: "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." To put it another way, "A new kitchen? Not in my lifetime!"