Our Gorilla Dilemma: How a Dream Trip to Rwanda Became a Daily Debate

It’s hard to let go of a dream.

Ever since our trip to Tanzania and Kenya nearly 20 years ago, Barb has had one item at the very top of her bucket list. While a meet-and-greet with Neil Diamond would rank a close second, number one has always been to follow in the footsteps of fellow occupational therapist Dian Fossey and see the mountain gorillas of Africa up close.

So when friends asked if we would like to join them on a tour of South Africa, we immediately recognized an opportunity. We could safari with them, and precede the trip with gorilla trekking in Rwanda’s Volcanoes National Park. Through a travel agent in Cape Town, we were matched with an outfitter in Rwanda, and soon the permits, accommodations, and travel arrangements were all in place.

But as the saying goes, “Man plans, and God laughs.”

Two weeks ago, when Barb first mentioned Ebola virus to me, I missed the significance. Since then, we have carefully scoured the news and public health announcements each day for any potential impact on our trekking plans.

The outbreak appears confined to specific areas of Uganda and the Congo, and there have been no reported cases in Rwanda. Our Cape Town travel agent has urged us not to cancel. In YouTube videos, tour guides implore viewers to ignore what they describe as hysteria from the Western media. ChatGPT and I have had daily discussions about the low likelihood of a larger outbreak. But Rwanda shares a border with Uganda, and the current strain of Ebola is quite deadly.

For the past week we have changed our minds daily, and sometimes hourly, about whether to risk the trek. Barb finally reached out to a friend who owns a home in Kenya. Her advice was to be very cautious, not because she thought we were likely to contract Ebola, but because if the outbreak spread across the Uganda-Rwanda border, our gorilla trekking permits could become worthless and stricter confinement rules might suddenly be imposed.

Our final decision is to continue with our plans is South Africa, but to cancel the gorilla trek. It has required a whirlwind round of emails and phone calls with our travel agent and the airlines. The Rwanda arrangements are non-refundable and our travel insurance excludes disease outbreaks, but we feel that with our permit fees, we have made a contribution to preserving African wildlife.

It’s hard watching Barb let go of a dream she has carried for nearly twenty years.

On the other hand, if anyone knows how to arrange a meeting with Neil Diamond, please let me know.

From Bedford Falls to Beyond: The Journeys of Our Beloved Travel Companion

You remember George Bailey in “It’s a Wonderful Life,” right? He needed a suitcase big enough to be his flying carpet, big enough for labels from Italy and Samarkand, big enough for 1001 nights. His old boss, the pharmacist Mr. Gower, surprised him with the perfect bag. Sadly, as far as we know, George never got to take that trip.

But Barb and I have had a flying carpet of our own. I can’t recall when we purchased it–it might even have been a wedding gift. But that big old black bag has been our companion as we have traveled the world together over the past 45 years. With the red “Raff” sash, a gift from some long-forgotten travel agent, it has greeted us on baggage carousels around the world.

That bag has taken us all over Europe, first as twenty-somethings on an “if this is Tuesday we must be in Belgium bus tour,” and in later days via more upscale means of travel. It journeyed with us to Israel, to Southeast Asia, and to the wonders of South America and Machu Picchu. We left it at home for our African Safari, only because the travel company required that we use the duffel bags that they provided.

Friday we returned from a three-week journey through New Zealand and Australia. Our bag supported us on seven plane flights and one long train ride as we visited wine countries, and salmon hatcheries, and geothermal springs. It waited for us in our hotel as we witnessed the Southern Cross. the Milky Way, and Orion’s Belt, star-gazing at midnight at Mt Cook, one of the darkest spots on the planet.

Our bag got us to Melbourne where we toured the street art scene, to a luxury resort in Tasmania where I took an unexpected tumble into an ornamental pool, and to the heights of Sydney’s magnificent Harbor Bridge which we ascended like alpine mountain climbers. Only the Cessna Constellation that Barb “co-piloted” from Milford Sound to Queenstown had no room for our rectangular companion.

Regretfully, while Barb and I have recovered from our voyage, our beloved suitcase has not. The zipper pulls are gone, the interior plastic shoulders are crumbling, and the cloth fabric is starting to tear. It is no longer willing and able to be our raft to a million far-off places.

We’ll buy a new piece before our next adventure–a case with a tough, light-weight, shell, one with better wheels, and a smaller turning radius. I’m sure many more travels await us. Japan and the Arctic are still on the bucket list. And if we are lucky, we might even find the way to Bedford Falls and a chance to invite George Bailey to come along.

Phon-etics. My New Career as a Cell Phone Finder

What are the worst five words in the English language? I thank you would be at a loss to find any more terrifying than “I can’t find my phone!”

I first heard that phrase a few years ago. Barb was opening every drawer and cabinet and poking behind every chair and sofa in search of her missing iPhone. I joined in the hunt, finally suggesting we see if we could locate it with the FindMyiPhone app on Barb’s iPad. (Yes, we are an Apple family.) We found the app on the tablet — a 10-minute search in itself) — pressed the button and waited to see what the app could tell us.

In a minute or so we had a location. The app was telling us Barb’s phone was at the entrance to our subdivision, where our local access road intersected the main thoroughfare. Barb was puzzled and unbelieving. “How could it get there?” she questioned. “It must be a false signal.”

I pulled Barb out of the house and we took the short walk to the spot the app appeared to be indicated. We stood on the sidewalk, and as Barb had predicted, no phone.

I looked into the intersection and saw something sparkle. As soon as the light was green, I sprinted down the crosswalk and retrieved Barb’s phone, cracked but still broadcasting its “Find Me” signal.

How did the phone wind up in the middle of an intersection? The most likely scenario–earlier in the day Barb had probably laid the phone on her car hood before going driving on a short errand. The valiant phone clung to the car before spinning to the pavement when Barb made a hard right turn to leave the subdivision. My first case was solved.

My next two lost phone incidents both occurred recently, and both in airports. Airports thousands of miles apart.

The first was about a month ago. Barb’s friend and high school classmate (we’ll call her Wendy) was arriving at O’Hare Airport from California to attend their high school reunion. Barb was volunteering at Lake Forest Hospital that afternoon; I was the designated pick-up driver.

I pulled up to the airport just as Wendy started texting me that she had landed and would be ready to be picked up shortly at Terminal Two. In the intervening minutes, Wendy also got a text from her husband Bill back on the West Coast. He had COVID! Distraught with Bill’s news, Wendy greeted me with a “No Hugs” warning and slid into the car.

We were just driving past Terminal Three when Wendy uttered those awful words. “Les, I can’t find my phone!”

With a hard pull to the left, I turned into the recirculating lane for a loop back through the airport. Despite Wendy’s urging to “Go faster” and “Don’t stop at that red light,” I kept my cool. Even so, it couldn’t have been more than 3 minutes before we were are the spot where I had picked up Wendy. She leaped out of the car, searched the curb, and held up her hand, triumphantly showing me her phone.

But I still didn’t get a hug.

Now let’s travel to our flight last week from Warsaw to Krakow. The Lot Airline hostess glowered at Barb and told her “You must put your little purse under the seat in front of you for takeoff. You must do it immediately while I stare at you and make you feel extremely uncomfortable.”

Barb scrambled to accommodate and the purse wound up under the seat in front of me. Two hours later we were in an Uber leaving the Krakow Airport when Barb reached into that little purse and said “I can’t find my phone! I’m sure it fell out of my purse when SHE made me stick it under the seat.”

This time it was the Uber driver who made the airport recirculation drive. and directed us to the Information Booth. The attendant there sent us to the Lost Luggage station. Barb picked up the connecting phone and spoke to a second attendant.

“I left my gold iPhone on the plane from Warsaw. It has a picture of a couple with two grandchildren.”

“Yes, we have it. I will bring it to you in a moment.”

It was the attendant who got a hug.

How about you? Are you a finder of lost phones? Let me hear about it at chidoc@post.com

From Göppingen to Auschwitz–We Must Always Learn From The Past

I don’t usually write travelogues, but those of you who have noted an absence of posts for the last two weeks may wonder where I have been. To unabashedly steal the title of a John Le Carre spy novel, Barb and I began our travels in a small town in Germany.

The town was Göppingen, a burg with a population of about 60,000, a 40-minute train ride outside of Stuttgart. The occasion was an exhibition of about sixty pieces of art created by my great-grandfather John Elsas. From about 1925 to 1935, Elsas created over 25,000 watercolor satirical paintings and collages, each approximately 8 inches x 10 inches in size. Each piece was adorned with a short statement or poem, many reflecting on the political situation in Germany, culminating in Adolf Hitler’s rise to power.

Barb and I attended the invitation-only opening of the exhibition where we were warmly greeted by Dr. Dominik Sieber, Director of the Städtische Museum im Storchenm. The introductory presentation was given by Dr. Dorothee Hoppe, the archivist who introduced me to my great-grandfather’s works and after years of investigation knows more about the German side of my family than I do!

From Göppingen we traveled to Berlin. Here we spent three days exploring Germany’s capital, including the political, historical, and Jewish aspects of the city where my father lived until immigrating to America in 1933. Throughout, remnants and memorials to the Cold War and the Holocaust were never far away. With our next stop, the full weight of the Holocaust bore down upon us.

We flew from Berlin to Krakow via Warsaw on Lot, the Polish national airline. While we enjoyed the sites and atmosphere of the lovely central Oldtown, our main reason for traveling to Krakow was an hour’s drive to the west; here we reached the gates of the Auschwitz concentration camp and its partner camp, Auschwitz II-Birkenau.

Visiting the camps there is no escape from the horrors of the Final Solution. We were surrounded by residual structures, photos of the dead, surviving confiscated shoes, and an emotionless recounting of the murder of over a million people by our tour guide. For Barb and I, it was a reminder of what we already know; we hope for the many other visitors it opened their eyes to what must never happen again.

We had to hustle to make connections back to Chicago when our direct flight from Krakow to O’Hare was canceled immediately before boarding, but we arrived home just one day late. As I write, I reflect on the places we visited, the international meals we dined on, and my great-grandfather’s art. But also on the wondrous people we met: the Moscow businessman who insured yachts and thought Putin was crazy, the Irish statistician who was in Poland to organize a juggler’s convention, our Uber drivers, our guides, and our hosts.

All in all, it was a trip well done.

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United Airlines Makes Me An Offer. Can I Refuse?

Like many of you, Barb and I have travel credit cards from a few different airlines. When we use them we accumulate an airline mile or two for every dollar we spend. When we purchase flights using the cards we enjoy perks like free baggage checking and slightly early boarding. And there is a nice extra that we always forget to use, once-a-year admission to a fancy airport lounge.

We carefully nurture our miles, hoping to earn enough for a big trip somewhere, someday. But I admire United Airlines for seeking out creative new ways for getting us to redeem our hard-earned credits. Today’s email from the airline invited me, as one of a select group of card owners, “to join us in our brand-new, state-of-the-art training facility in Houston as you spend a day in the life of a flight attendant.” At the amazingly low cost of 10,000 miles!

My pulse is racing as I envision the exciting day in Houston. The invitation promises not just a tour, but also chances to sit in on Flight Attendant Classes, to slide down evacuation slides, and even to simulate a water landing–what the airlines call “wet ditching.” Sure sounds like the most fun I have had since Disneyworld…not. And did I mention that “light breakfast items” and lunch are included? I bet there will be enough food to cover a whole tray table, while my neighbor hogs the armrest.

Sadly, I think United’s marketing people sent this invitation to the wrong person. With all the information they have on file about me they should know this 67-year-old retiree who has never been in the service industry is not all that interested in how United Airlines trains their in-air staff. This exclusive offer should have found a better offeree.

If I’m going to go for training in Houston, it will either be to learn how to cheat from the Houston Astros or get the hang of flying to the moon at NASA’s Johnson Space Center. I want to fly high with the big boys!

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Disney Devotees Divided. I Am Overwhelmed By Responses To My Modest Proposal.

Through the years, I have blogged on some controversial topics. With my tongue firmly in cheek I have bitten Biden, trashed Trump, grumbled for gun control, and campaigned for the Constitution.

But I bit off more than I could chew when I floated my feelings for the Manor of the Mouse.

Loyal readers will recall that a week ago I blogged an open letter to Bob Iger, CEO of the Disney Corporation. I let Bob know of my dream for Disney World, a dream where the Colossus of Disney Artificial Intelligence would create a free phone app that all park visitors would use to ensure easy access, shorter lines, and a better food experience. I named my app Disney Daze, and it is still Bob’s for the taking.

To my subscribers and other regular readers, the piece was a ho-hummer–a few comments and a thumbs up or two. No big deal.

But then, like a storm chaser hunting the next big tornado, I posted a transcript of my blog on the pages of two Facebook groups dedicated to visitors to Disney World. I found the storm I was looking for.

To be clear, the response was overwhelmingly positive. The Facebook posts received hundreds of smiles, hugs, and hearts. There were plenty of comments saying “Great Idea!” and “I wish this existed when I took my five kids to Disney.”

But I unleashed a horde of people who were not so happy with my idea proposal…

“Who wants to be tethered to their phone all day?” responded people who responded so quickly after I posted that they were obviously tethered to their phones anyway.

“Who says the lines are too long? We only spent 50 minutes waiting for Remy’s Ratatouille Adventure,” said people who apparently thought having to wait for almost an hour to go on the adventure was superior to not having to wait almost an hour to go on the adventure.

Some folks advised me to try Genie+, an app they claimed would do everything my app would do. After using Genie+ for a week in Orlando, I can tell you that this balky and confusing app that requires users to start pinging it a 7 am is not what I have in mind!

I was a bit surprised by people who claimed the food at Disney was already magnificent and memorable, virtually Michelin-star quality. And of course, I got the “if you hate Disney the way it is then you should never go there,” comments, the Mouse version of “America, Love it or Leave It.” So 1970s!

Perhaps my favorite comment was from the fellow who compared me to a 19th-century British economist, though not in a good way. Still, I consider the comparison a rare honor.

My conclusion is that Disney World, much like Donald Trump, has a hardcore base that will never ever leave it. And I wouldn’t be too surprised if the examination of a Venn diagram of those two bases would show a lot of overlap. But that is a story for another day and for a sociologist, not a 19th-century economist.

Our Australia New Zealand Trip May Be Rated X. Find Out Why!

Now that Barb and I are home from our family-flavored week of fun in Orlando we are looking beyond the simulator adventures at Disney and Universal towards authentic thrills on our post-retirement journey to Australia and New Zealand. We have researched online, chatted with travel agents, studied cruise line brochures, and read the literature from two guided tour companies we have dealt with in the past, Tauck Tours and Abercrombie & Kent. Despite our efforts, we are no nearer to piecing together our Perfect Month Down Under than when we started.

To try to resolve the issue I gave Google an audible request to once again search for “Tauck Tours in Australia.” Perhaps I was mumbling, perhaps there was too much background noise, or perhaps I was drooling over the thought of a Vegemite sandwich, but for whatever reason, my iPhone misheard me, and instead of searching for Tauck Tours it did a (very thorough) search for “Talk to whores in Australia.”

Shazam! I was given a whole new outlook on our future plans! Now admittedly, I had not anticipated talking to ladies of the night (or in Oz is it “ladies of the morning”?) on our trip. I don’t believe I have talked to hookers on any previous vacation. In fact, it is doubtful I have ever intentionally talked to one, at home or abroad. But this seemed like a Google challenge.

So did I dare to click on any of the provided links? With no wish to be immediately harangued with ads for every sex product under the sun, and no desire for Russian scammers to reveal my prurient searches to friends, family, and co-workers if I did not send them $10,000 worth of bitcoin by the end of the day, I decided not to click my way through to any of the beauties that I knew were just one small mouse click away. I let the opportunity pass.

I am sure that we will make our voyage sometime in the next year. By land, sea, or air we will see the wonderous sites of Australasia, from Melbourne to Wellington, from Ayres Rock to the Marlborough Wine Region. But have I passed up the chance to say to a stunning Ozzie Prozzie, “G’day Mate. Can I slip another shrimp on your Barbie?”

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