“How the heck are they going to work women and minorities into the Star-Spangled Banner?” asked Mrs. O. The answer was around the corner in an interactive display devoted to the seamstress Mary Pickersgill: “Her daughter, two nieces, and an African-American indentured servant helped piece together its ‘broad stripes and bright stars.’” A plaque by the exit proclaimed that the principal donor for the Star-Spangled Banner installation was Ralph Lauren. If his company were based in Canada, with its “time to rake the leaves” ensign, he’d be shit out of luck with his logo.
We poked around in the museum for a while, a very little while, longer.
“That was boring,” said Muffin as we left.
“Really boring,” said Poppet.
“Really, really boring,” said Buster.
We could persuade the kids to visit no further tourist attraction. Muffin and Poppet (and Mrs. O.) were more interested in shopping opportunities—something rural New Hampshire offers in the variety of animal fodder available at the feed store. Even Buster preferred the mall to the Mall. And we all wanted to see our friends. Some of these friends have swimming pools, an unheard-of thing in the Beige Mountains, where it would require the output of the Vermont Yankee nuclear power plant to heat one to fifty degrees in August.
As I floated in the pool, a gin fizz balanced on my paunch, I reflected that a liking for free enterprise, civil society, and material comforts as opposed to a liking for august institutions of democratic government indicated that none of my family will stray far from the GOP verities of life.
On our way to the airport, as we turned onto Memorial Bridge, Muffin asked, “What’s the point of the Washington Monument?”
“Five hundred and fifty-five feet, five and one-eighth inches,” said Mrs. O., consulting our guidebook.
19
HOME UNALONE
New Hampshire, March 2011
School break loomed and the children were agitating for a vacation trip. Mrs. O and I are tired of traveling with kids. They get peevish, bored, and quarrelsome, and they never want to go to where we want to go to, such as out for a late dinner at the Brasserie Lipp in Paris followed by a stroll across the boulevard and a nightcap at Café Flore.
“A cruise ship with an indoor climbing wall!” demanded Muffin.
“Disney World, Sea World, and Hogwarts at Universal Studios!” insisted Poppet.
“We should go to Nickleodeon!” declared Buster, who gets confused about geography.
“We have Nickleodeon at home,” said Poppet, giving Mrs. O and me an idea. Home is a fashionable watering hole for the elite these days. High-powered executives brag about working from home. A stay-at-home mom is a status symbol. Home entertainment centers fill the cathedral-ceilinged great rooms of America. Why not home travel? Reservations aren’t a problem; the mortgage company has us booked for thirty years. No need to pack light; we all bring everything we own home. And meals are absolutely guaranteed to be had in a comfortable, homey atmosphere.
We lined up the children in the front hall and had them march shoeless through the door frame four or five times while emptying their pockets. “Gummi Bears are allowable only in containers of three ounces or less and must be sealed in a ziplock bag,” said Mrs. O., giving the kids a sharp frisk. Meanwhile I repeatedly droned, “Please report any suspicious objects to police or TSA representatives” and “Curbside is for active loading and unloading only, unattended cars will be ticketed and towed.”
We squeezed the kids into the third-row seat of our SUV, piling their laps with iPods, DVD players, Game Boys, and coloring books. I drove up and down our long, bumpy driveway for hours with occasional halts outside the garage for “minor maintenance delays.” Mrs. O. grudgingly passed out peanuts.
“Time zone change,” announced Mrs. O. when we were back inside. “It’s four PM. Everybody go to bed.”
In the morning we dialed the thermostat to “Florida.” The Orlando Amusement Park experience was easily evoked. Line up the kids again and leave them standing there for ages. Eventually they expect something in the way of a ride. Fortunately ours is an old house. There’s a large, loud, and scary nineteenth-century toilet in the guest room bath. Our children were greeted by big, furry, overfriendly animal characters. “Dad,” said Poppet, “those are our dogs.”
“Yes,” I said, “and you can have your picture taken with them. As for evening fireworks, don’t get your father started about Harry Reid.”
Going on a cruise with children means seasickness and sunburn. We convinced the kids to spin themselves around 100 times, then stand too close to the fireplace.
Mrs. O. emptied all the leftovers from the fridge onto the dining room table, creating a twenty-four-hour free buffet with authentic tourism-style discolored slices of lunch meat, wilted lettuce, and melted frozen yogurt. No cooking for Mom for a week!
We don’t have an indoor climbing wall, but the ascent to our second floor is steep. We put ropes and bike helmets on the kids and let them climb the stairs. “Take some laundry with you when you go.”
“Real cruise ships have hot tubs,” Muffin complained.
“Get in the water,” I said. “It’s hot, it’s a tub. What’s the problem?”
Our children turned out to be every bit as peevish, bored, and quarrelsome during home travel as they usually are when traveling. But we saved money. In fact, Mrs. O and I saved enough money to hire a very reliable, if somewhat strict, professional nanny to stay with the kids. We’ll be at the Brasserie Lipp.
P. J. O'Rourke, Holidays in Heck
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