Death by Tartar Sauce: A Travel Writer Encounters: Gargantuan Gators, Irksome Offspring, Murderous Mayonnaise & True Love

By Jules Older

Death by Tartar Sauce: Welcome to my world.

Travel writing ruined my academic career. The day I discovered that other people were traveling the world and getting PAID for it, was my last day that teaching medical students the arcane Coolidge Effect and the mysteries of parallel play held me in thrall.

Since that happy day, my wife Effin (who also quit honest work for the writer's life) have traveled this wide world over. As a travel writing-shooting-filming team, we've test-tasted wine in California, skied and snowboarded in Colorado, fled from gators in Florida, witnessed a near-death experience with tartar sauce in Maryland, got punk'd in Montana, drove wayyy too fast in New Hampshire, discovered ancient dirty pictures in New Mexico, got kicked out of an opera in Australia, retched at the national dish in Iceland and had bodily encounters in Japan.

I've also lost my wallet New Zealand, my swimsuit in Switzerland, my shirt in San Francisco, my heart in the Virgin Islands.

It's all here in Death by Tartar Sauce; rambunctious kids, weird food, insane skiing, nightmare at the opera and too fast cars racing along too narrow roads.

They're my strangest, wildest, funniest, most humiliating experiences as a travel writer. Plus, observations on ethics, Arizona, censorship, and the ways I love Colonel McBurger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9780984858019

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KIDS ONBOARD

Constitutional

As a father, I was forever introducing my twin daughters to fire engines, mud-bog racing, and other things that make loud noises and go fast — let’s call them boy things. Even as wee tykes, they could barely contain their absolute lack of interest.

Me: Say, kids! Will ya look at that Jaguar XKE convertible with the mag wheels and low-profile tires? And just listen to that V-12 engine — pretty sweet, eh?"

Daughter One: Yady dwiver yook pwetty.

Daughter Two: Maybe her a PWINCESS!!!

But if they showed no interest in the subjects that enthralled me, there was one particular subject they greeted with absolute horror. Boats. While I was fascinated with anything nautical, they shared the deeply held belief that to venture even a foot offshore was an invitation to a sharkfest. With them as the fest.

So when I was invited to sail with my family on the Queen Elizabeth 2 in exchange for a series of nightly lectures, I broke the news to my daughters in a carefully preplanned way.

Before picking them up at school, I took the precaution of buying a pair of Snickers bars, their favorite candy, and folding back the wrapper on each bar. In the school playground, I said, Kids, I’ve got some great news. We’re going on a trip on a big, big ship.

As they opened their mouths to let out screams of utter dismay, I popped in the candy bars, giving me time to explain just how big the ship really was and how unlikely that it would be consumed by an even bigger shark.

In the end, we didn’t sail on the QE2. But, on a trip to Boston, I gave terror a second chance. Say, kids, guess where we’re going today?

Silence. They continued to comb their dolls’ platinum hair.

OK then, I’ll tell you. We’re going to visit the USS Constitution, one of the greatest warships in the history of the Navy and a histor—

The sound of their wails drowned out my voice. Even the Barbies were crying.

Still, after a series of bribes, threats and admonitions, there we stood on the deck of Old Ironsides. A young sailor, decked out in a uniform from 1813, was to be our guide.

He handled his duties strictly by the book; that is, he delivered every word in a monotone and at full bore. Like this: WE ARE NOW STANDING ON THE DECK OF THE USS CONSTITUTION. IT IS THE PRIDE OF THE AMERICAN NAVY. ANY QUESTIONS?

In addition to their certainty that we were about to sink to the bottom of the shark-infested waters of Boston Harbor (despite my repeated reminders that this floating museum hadn't budged from dockside in their lifetimes), my daughters were now convinced that this strangely dressed man was yelling at them, and would shortly toss them overboard into the shark-infested waters of etc., etc.

They broke into the kind of stereophonic scream that only identical twins can produce without a lot of expensive, high-tech amplifying equipment.

The sailor looked startled but bravely carried on. THE KEEL OF THE SHIP IS MADE OF SOLID OAK. OAK IS THE ONLY KNOWN WOOD THAT BECOMES HARDER WHEN SOAKED IN SALT WATER. ANY QUESTIONS?

The phrase SOAKED IN SALT WATER accomplished what I had thought impossible. It increased the volume and intensity of my daughters’ cries. Their tears flowed so copiously that I began to wonder if the oak on the deck would also become harder when soaked in salt water.

The others in the tour group glared at me as if I were torturing these innocent children.

At that point, I realized I was. Excuse me, I announced, but I believe this family is about to walk the plank. Girls, good news. We’re heading for dry land. Your sailing days are over.

Night[mare] at the Opera

What's the point of being a parent if you don’t use it to inflict on your children all the cultural advantages you hated when you were their age?

That’s my adage, and that’s why I use every family trip as an opportunity to enrich my daughters’ lives with things I know they won't appreciate. We live in a town of under 200, so even a trip to Podunk is a cultural adventure. "Oh, look, kids — that’s a McDonalds!"

But it’s on family vacations to the big city where parental cultural hegemony really kicks in. And, as in school or the Army, there's not a darned thing the little ones can do about it.

Or so I thought. But that was before I gave my daughters the ultimate Believe-Me, You'll-Thank-Me-Later cultural experience: opera. In the fabled Sydney Opera House.

Oh, and not just any opera — "Kids, we got lucky. You're not gonna believe this, but I managed to get us tickets to Madame Butterfly!"

They continued to jump from one hotel-room bed to the other, completely ignoring the tone of false heartiness I was trying so hard to pass off as enthusiasm. My wife threw me a look, which despite its brevity, managed to convey without so much as a misplaced comma, You lugnut, when are you ever going to learn? If I’ve told you once, I've told you a thousand times — they're too young to be dragged kicking and screaming into high culture.

But opera tickets are non-refundable. And thus, we found ourselves sitting front and center when the curtain went up. At first, the majesty of it all sent the kids into a dazed, hushed silence. But even majesty wears off, especially when people are singing/screeching very loudly in extremely high voices. And even more especially when, from a strictly visual viewpoint, the romantic leads are so poorly matched.

Madame B. was no slender Asian reed. She was, in fact, a rather large Teutonic type who might be better cast as someone named Brunhilda and more comfortable wearing a horned helmet rather than a kimono. By contrast, the lovestruck Lieutenant — well, here’s how Daughter A (I use the A to protect her identity, which is Amber Older) loudly reacted to him: "Why is that man so little?!"

In a voice that rivaled those onstage, Daughter W (a.k.a. Willow Older) asked, "Is he supposed to be her boyfriend?"

I shushed them both and nodded. In an even louder voice, Daughter A bellowed, "He’s too old for her!"

Matching her decibel for decibel, her sister hollered, "And too small. Way too small. He’s just a teeny-ween —"

My wife and I reached over to silence our progeny, but not before everyone sitting within a 20-seat range did exactly the same. Between my daughters’ critiques and a chorus of "Shhhhh’s," you could no longer hear the singers.

But as so often happens in these situations, things rapidly got worse. Despite the threat of The Death By A Thousand Shhhh’s from the surrounding seats, plus a rapidly escalating series of parental warnings (If you don’t behave, we’re leaving right this minute! "Yeaaa!" OK, if you say one more word, you're grounded for the rest of the century! "How long’s a century?"), my progenies’ loud commentary continued unabated throughout the entire first act.

When we made for the exit at intermission, so did most of the people sitting around us.

I never did figure out whether they were leaving because of my daughters… or because they too were only there because someone made them go.

Hippie Bob

Sure, I wanted to go to San Francisco. Cable cars, Chinatown, Golden Gate… and something more. Daughter Willow had moved to the Haight district, which in my day was the hippie epicenter of the world. What a chance to introduce Willow to her dad’s own, personal history! So I signed us both up for something called the Haight-Ashbury Hippie History Bus Tour.

Along with four 20-year-olds who looked like history students at San Francisco State, Willow and I climbed aboard the bus — the psychedelic VW bus — owned and operated by tour leader, Hippie Bob.

H.B. was in his fifties. He wore a long, graying ponytail and those little, round John Lennon glasses. He had on enough love beads to serve as a flotation device, and he smelled of a familiar herb; maybe it was patchouli. Maybe not.

Just the guy to teach my daughter modern American history.

Hippies like me came out to the Haight for the Summer of Love, Hippie Bob began. We lived in communes in big old houses like the ones on this street.

"When was the Summer of Love, Bob?" Willow asked.

In the sixties, man. Definitely in the sixties. And call me Hippie Bob. That’s my handle, you dig?

Willow looked puzzled. "I, uh, dig, but when in the sixties, Bo — Hippie Bob?"

I dunno. We weren't all hung up with numbers and dates and stuff back then. If it feels good, do it.

I piped up, trying to help the history lesson progress. Wasn’t that 1967, Hippie Bob? And weren't there many famous rock stars and other cultural icons living right here in the Haight?

Yeah, ’67. Whatever. What was that second thing?

The famous people who lived in the —

Right. I was just coming to that. First, there was Janet Joplin, the great Beatnik blues singer from Cleveland. Then, there was—

I couldn’t let it pass — this was my history on the line. "Uh, Hippie Bob? Don’t you mean Janis Joplin? From Texas? Who was much too young to be a beat—"

That’s what I said, man. Janet lived in that house right there with her boyfriend, Jefferson Airplane.

The 20-year-olds were nodding and taking notes. But Willow looked puzzled. Jefferson Airplane? Wasn’t Jefferson Airplane a —

A great, groovy musician, Hippie Bob answered. Used to set fire to his guitars in the middle of a show. He fronted a band called Phish.

I couldn’t resist. Phish? Hippie Bob, Phish is a band from the nineties, not the sixties.

H.B. glared at me and pointed a multi-ringed finger at my chest. "Yeah, well that shows how much you know about hippie history, man. Jefferson’s band was the original Phish — Country Joe and the Phish. They were a