An early morning, a baby on a bus, and a whole lot of ice cream

Tuesday was my birthday. And Quinn, ever the early riser, wanted to make sure he saw me for every possible minute of it. Thanks, buddy. But after last night, I was just happy to not be cleaning partially-digested quesadilla off the ceiling. He could do no wrong that day.

But in a small apartment with two kids, when one rises, they all do. So Aimee and I made the most of it and headed out for a little early morning walk. It’s always fun to see big cities wake up. Of course, it’s more fun to sleep in. But that ship set sail three and a half years ago.

Our neighborhood is particularly charming in the morning (and so are our kids, for that matter), so the early walk wasn’t as painful as it could have been.

As it did the perviously mornings, our walk ended at the historic town square. We saw thirty-somethings heading off to work, young families out for a stroll, garbage trucks and street sweepers cleaning up from the night before, and police officers heading out on their beats. And Quinn saw a car, or a truck, or another car, or maybe a bus.

Nothing gets past that guy.

With our morning routine thrown off by jet lag and Quinn’s early wakeup, I completely forgot to put Mimi on the potty. But she remembered, when we were about twenty minutes away from our apartment, and before most of the cafés in el centro opened up. Slightly panicked, I scanned the horizon for one of the American franchise restaurants I subconsciously ignore under normal circumstances. There! Starbucks! Ahoy! I guiltlessly walked my three year old right past the counter, straight into the clean, unlocked bathroom I knew would be there.

I’m fully aware of the hypocrisy of me grumbling about cultural homogenization while gleefully taking advantage of the perks. We can have a longer discussion about that when my three year old isn’t about to soil herself.

Over the city-provided free WiFi (Mexico City, you’re too much) we coordinated breakfast plans with Nona and Grael, and met them at one of our neighborhood cafes as it was opening up. And as if this city couldn’t get any more charming, the troubadour at the cafe that morning serenaded our kids with Spanish-accented Beatles covers.

Too much.

Our activity for the day was a hop-on, hop-off bus tour of our corner of Mexico City. It seemed like the easiest way to see things beyond our immediate neighborhood. Mexico City has a pretty robust subway system. But it’s the type of shoulder-to-shoulder chaos you’d expect from a city of thirteen million people. Aimee and I took it on our pre-kid visit to Mexico City, and the thought of doing it again with strollers and diaper bags (to say nothing of kids that stay still for seconds at a time) seemed like way more trouble than it was worth. I’m sure literally millions of parents take literally millions of kids on the subway every day. But we had nowhere to be, and the only fixed item on our agenda that day was nap time. So we went for the more leisurely option.

And not to be overly sentimental, but the look on our kids’ faces when they realized that we actually get to go inside a bus was all the birthday present I needed.

Until that morning, didn’t know that riding inside of a bus was even an option. It took him five minutes just to settle down enough for us to take his picture. The kid absolutely lost his mind.

With a relatively narrow window between breakfast and nap time, we couldn't take much advantage of the hop-on, hop-off aspect. It was more like hop-on, go up the stairs with Quinn, go down the stairs with Quinn, keep Mimi seated, go back up the stairs with Quinn, get Mimi back to her seat, see one thing, go back down the stairs with Quinn, “Oh look, we’re back where we started,” hop-off. But it was a nice little peek into more of Mexico City.

We ended our tour at the historic church on the south end of Coyoacán’s town square. There also happens to be an ice cream shop right across the street.

Sure, Mimi. It’s my birthday after all.

But ice cream is to Mimi what bus rides are to Quinn. An hour and a half of pure joy left him absolutely wiped out. The ice cream shop was literally across the street from where we got off the bus, and he didn't even make it that far.

Mimi and Conrad still had about an hour’s worth of energy to burn off, give or take an ice cream cone. So we made our way across the town square into Parque Frida Kahlo.

It’s a beautiful little Park with fountains, a small garden, and of course a playground.

I’m up, guys! I’m up!

Mimi had told me that she needed to go potty right before we were about to get off the bus. But both of us became quickly distracted by the prospect of getting ice cream for lunch.

We both remembered at exactly the same time, somewhere between her thirty fourth and thirty fifth trip down the slide. She made it abundantly clear that there would not be time for a thirty sixth.

So we hoofed it outside of the park. Not a Starbucks to be seen. I typically feel a little guilty using a small business restroom without being a customer, but there was no time for feelings. So I asked the maitre’d of a nearby restaurant if la niña could use their restroom. He, of course, graciously let us in. I made a mental note to come back as a customer to thank them, but as soon as I walked past the ten foot high shrubs marking the entrance, I saw immediately that there was no way we could afford this place. Through the hidden gardens was the fanciest restaurant I had seen in any country. And here I was, barging in wearing a sweaty T-shirt and a squirming three year old. I suddenly became very self conscious. But this being Mexico, a dad helping his kid on emergency potty run was more charming than disruptive, even in a super fancy restaurant. People barely even looked up.

Following our second close call of the day, we made our way back to the park and rejoined the gang. Then trips thirty-six through fifty-two down the slide, and eventually we all headed back to the apartment for family nap time.

Aimee had found a nice little restaurant in downtown Coyoacán for my birthday dinner that night. Most restaurants were closing early for New Year’s Eve, but we found one that would be open just late enough for us to sneak in at our usual toddler-friendly dinner time. But as we walked up to the front, the hostess told us that they weren’t serving anymore. The three small children we were carrying may have played a role in her decision, but I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt. Mexico City loves kids. But it also loves leaving work on time to be with friends and family on holidays. The latter won out that night.

It took us just a few minutes to find another restaurant where we could celebrate New Year's Eve and my birthday. It was a super nice seafood restaurant, and quite a bit fancier than what we would have picked under normal circumstances. But the exchange rate was quite favorable that month, so I said yes to the bottle of wine. Happy birthday to me.

We wandered around the square after dinner, and watched some musicians, a clown show, and a handful of celebrity impersonators. It was a delightful evening.

Not content with letting a peaceful evening remain peaceful, we decided to take a group photo to commemorate the day. That misguided decision was followed by no fewer than 15 minutes of child-wrangling, and a partial fountain extraction.

Mimi, Conrad, please stop being so adorable.

Quinn, please wait until after our photo to be incredibly friendly.

Mimi, watch where you’re...ah!

Ok, everyone! Chee..

Oh well. We'll just have to remember this one.

And of course it wouldn’t be a birthday without a second trip to the heladeria.

There’s something in the air here. Or it was the wine. Or the ice cream. Either way, it was an absolutely wonderful birthday. Even if it means that Mimi’s first conversation of the New Year will be asking for two trips to the ice cream shop again. But we’ll cross that bridge tomorrow.

Closets, cafés, and quesadilla consequences

Dear Grandma, Grandpa, Ya Ya, and Pop Pop, 

Greetings from Mexico City. Mom and Dad look rough, but I got us all here in one piece. Our apartment is nice, even though I have to sleep on the floor. At least I’m not sleeping in the closet like Quinn. Mom and Dad seem to think the big bed is for them, but we'll see how things play out. 

Please send chocolate. 

Love,
Mimi

Completely unsurprisingly, we all collapsed into our beds after dinner. Everyone slept great. Mimi was too tired to protest her air mattress on the kitchen floor, and Quinn could sleep on top of a moving rail car. So, yes, we put him in the closet. But he’s slept in far worse.

In all seriousness, the sleeping arrangements seem to be working out well. It's really nice to not have two kids sleeping in cribs anymore. That had been a limiting factor for us in the past, since it's hard enough to track down one crib while traveling, let alone two. To complicate things further, Quinn sleeps like an old horse, grunting and neighing throughout the night. So sharing a hotel room with him can be extremely painful. Even a slight sound barrier between him and us adds hours to our sleep.

We all slept better than expected, even if the kids did get up at the crack of dawn. As per normal, they showed no signs of our extremely late bedtime. Aimee and I, however, were going to need some coffee.

When traveling with kids, going to a park after breakfast totally counts as the day's activity. Low expectations and nonexistent itineraries are the keys to successful travel with toddlers. So it was back to the same café as the night before to get some coffee and breakfast, and then we wandered the streets of Coyoacán to look for some parks.

Let me tell you, Coyoacán is delightful. Cafés on every corner, cyclists and dog walkers on every sidewalk, and well maintained city parks every half mile or so.

A morning like this one makes traveling thousands of miles to spend the day at a city park seem slightly less ridiculous.

And the kids of Mexico City aren’t the only ones who get to take advantage of the parks. In addition to the occasional basketball court and soccer pitch, there is workout equipment for the grown ups at nearly every park we found.

Speaking of grown ups, this passes for a vacation now.

While Mimi and Aimee napped, Quinn and I wandered through the neighborhood and ran some errands. In the chaotic 72 hours leading up to our departure, I managed to forget baby wipes. We knew that we'd easily be able to find some in Mexico City, but it was a little terrifying to make the flights without them. Aimee had three in her purse, and I managed to find a package of eight wet wipes in an airport bookstore. One good blowout could have made our flights very uncomfortable for all parties involved.

So off we went to the neighborhood grocery store for some baby wipes, shampoo, and a half-dozen other things I wouldn’t have even considered buying on any vacation prior to the last three and a half years.

But a dude carrying a baby while carrying a bag full of diapers always gets a warm welcome anywhere on the planet. So we had a delightful walk, meeting every single grandmother within a three mile radius.

Quinn is never one to turn away gratuitous cheek pinching, but the real attraction for him on our walk was every single car, truck, bus, and streetcar we saw on our journey. And there were plenty. Mexico City has thirteen million people and eight million cars. Soak that up for a minute. And I’m not talking about the environmental impact. I’m talking about a one year old who lives on the Apache reservation absolutely losing his mind every time he sees something that he previously thought only existed in Highlights Magazine. This isn’t his first trip off the reservation, but he’s now at the age where he is infinitely more aware of his surroundings. I don’t know if I can really capture that experience in words. Every time a car drives by, he would point both of his index fingers, kick out both of his feet, bounce around in the child carrier, and squeal in disbelief as if he hadn’t already seen another 7.9 million cars over the past 24 hours. And don’t get me started about the semi-trucks.

It was hard to capture a photo of this, because typically I’d have to steady myself on a wall to not tip over. This is as close as I was able to get.

We eventually made our way back to the apartment, since I knew Aimee and Mimi would be up soon. As the rest of the gang staggered out of bed, we all made our way back to another neighborhood park, and then eventually set off for dinner. There are a dozen incredible restaurants in our neighborhood, but not a single one of them was in the direction we chose to walk that evening. We had our only non-amazing meal of the trip that night at what Grael aptly called the Subway of Mexico City quesadilla shops. A couple of twenty-something dudes behind the counter were plenty friendly, but gave us a look of “Are you sure about this?” as we walked in the door. There was a striking number of quesadilla variants on the fluorescent-lit wall menu, but they were completely indistinguishable when they arrived at our table. I did a mental inventory of how many Pepto-Bismol tablets I packed, and felt a mixture of parental guilt and gastrointestinal relief when our kids absolutely inhaled all of them, leaving just a couple of grease-soaked bites for Aimee and I. Grael, Nona, Aimee, and I wordlessly acknowledged that we would never mention this meal again, and we made our way back to the apartments.

Exhausted again, every one of us collapsed into our beds/closet. But as tired as I was, I quite literally jumped out of bed at 1am. I had heard something concerning from our bedroom closet, and was absolutely convinced that Quinn was having a catastrophic diarrheal event. I knew we should have passed on the quesadillas.

Aimee heard me get up and she stirred in bed. I told her that this was the big one, and I was going to go change his diaper, the sheets, and possibly our apartment. Aimee said through closed eyes, “Are you sure? I think he just farted.”

I stood silently in our concrete walled apartment on the outskirts of Mexico City to take stock of the situation and reconsider several of the decisions that led to where we were at that exact moment in time. Silence. A couple of crickets. A city bus on the street outside. And then an adorable, perfect little “pfffftt” from the closet as I heard Quinn roll over. As I stood in my underpants in the middle of the night, thousands of miles from home, still questioning if we should even be here, with not much more than a couple of band-aids in our medical kit, I felt an incredible wave of relief come over me.

As always, Aimee was right. I didn’t think the smell of a baby fart could bring so much joy. Or any joy for that matter. But that cheesy, greasy, heavily-fibered gust of wind was the turning point I was waiting for. We should be here. This is fun. The trip was worth it.

Thanks, Quinn. I owe you one. Now say excuse me.

Deja Vu

Our alarm went off at 5 am. That's early under any circumstances, but especially with Aimee getting back from South Dakota just a few hours prior. We tiptoed around my parents' house to get as much packed up as possible before our kids woke up and demanded water, food, clean clothes, or some other luxury we had no time for that morning.

But thankfully we had the car pretty much ready to go by the time we heard the first "mamas" and "dadas" creeping out from under the bedroom door. We simultaneously put on their clothes and fed them breakfast before they could wake up enough to generate any resistance. Out the door by six, and on our way to the airport!

After a quick and easy drive through the early morning streets of Tucson, we parked the car and hopped on the terminal shuttle.

The coffee was beginning to kick in by that point, but this was still very much a posed photo. Quinn hasn't learned to smile for the camera yet, so his face is by far the most accurate representation of how we were all feeling.

We breezed through check-in and security, taking advantage of several lessons previously learned, as well as my still novel military perks.

I realize that I haven't really gone into any detail about that on the blog yet, so here's the quick version of why my face suddenly became clean shaven. Last year I joined the United States Public Health Service. We respond to hurricanes, infection outbreaks, and other public health disasters that overwhelm the local public health and medical infrastructure. We're a branch of the military, but we're under the Surgeon General, not the department of defense.

So in exchange for being available to respond to a Coronavirus outbreak, I can check up to three bags for free, skip the line at security, and get free admission to frequent flier lounges. I'm good with that. In fact, right before I signed my commissioning paperwork, Aimee asked me (not entirely tongue in cheek), "Are you joining the military for free Chex mix at the airport?" It may have played a role.

The Tucson airport actually has a small military lounge, but it's outside of security. So we got some civilian cappuccinos and bagel sandwiches while our kids checked out the airplanes.

We boarded the plane in a half-asleep stupor, being that our flight took off at the time that we would otherwise just be waking up. Aimee and I were split between two different rows, but thankfully a small child and her mom were seated next to Aimee and Quinn. All three kids kids read and played with a handful of small toys that we brought along, and the flight was over before we knew it.

We had a two hour layover in Dallas, which has dozens of military and frequent flier lounges. But our kids could have cared less, because it also has a giant escalator.

We rode the escalator in both directions for easily twenty minutes before I convinced our kids that there were some more comfortable options available to us.

"Yes, Dad, the Admirals Club mac and cheese is surprisingly tasty, but my heart remains with the escalator."

In addition to some nice coffee, and yes, free Chex Mix, the Admirals Club even had a little children's room. Although with nothing more inside of it than two desktop computers, it's apparently only for toddlers on business travel.

Quinn protested having to think about work at a time like this.

I could have spent the whole day there; our kids were not quite as enamored. But by the time they started to get antsy, we needed to start walking to our gate anyway. When we got there, we were pleasantly surprised to be upgraded to the comfort economy section of the airplane. The gate agents had clearly taken pity on a family with two small children, and this was the only section where they could sit us all together. I'm never one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

We boarded early, and got the kids situated with plenty of time to spare. I played with the wide angle lens on my phone while our prenager looked out the window, apparently embarrassed to be traveling with her family.

Or maybe she was just tired.

We were fortunate to have both kids take naps on that flight. It was barely three hours long, and they slept for half of it. But unfortunately the second half had quite a bit of turbulence. It wasn't "put your affairs in order" turbulence, but it definitely was "can't go to the potty" turbulence. That's a tough concept to explain to a three year old. So instead I just tried to distract her with magna-tiles and airplane pretzels. It worked in waves that likely corresponded to her bladder contractions. But she made it! She's come along way since our epic transatlantic flight last year, and made it through the flight without any accidents or breakdowns. That said, I can't remember the last time I was so happy to land. Once we reached the gate, I gathered our bags while Aimee and the kids made a beeline for the forward lavatory.

By the time I got off the plane, Mimi had long since finished using the restroom and was taking advantage of being free from the fasten seatbelt sign. Disembarking from an airplane at a foreign airport is always a nice mix of exciting and terrifying, but is especially so when your three year old has a knack for running down unmarked, Soviet-era hallways.

Thankfully, it turns out she has a knack for navigating foreign airports. Immigration and passport control was right where she had led us. But unfortunately, our slow exit from the plane put us in the back of the line. Quinn was strapped into his carrier on Aimee's back, but Mimi required a bit of redirection every few seconds. Mimi, please come back. Mimi, please don't play with the barricade ropes. Mimi, please don't antagonize armed law enforcement in a foreign country.

It didn't take much more than that to convince me to toss her up on my shoulders for the thirty minutes we were in line. A bit of back pain tomorrow would be infinitely better than the alternatives.

After that, the only event of note was yet another immigration agent who didn't comment on how amazing Quinn's passport photo is.

For crying out loud. I think I'm going to write his supervisor.

After our passports were stamped and our visas were issued, we made our way to customs and baggage claim. Mimi wanted to "help."

If nothing else, it slowed her down a bit. That's something.

We got our bags, and breezed through customs. Then it was off to the taxi stand. Aimee and I were in no condition to pre-plan for this trip, but thankfully Nona was. She had reserved a taxi to be waiting for us at the airport. And let me tell you, seeing your name on a paper sign after an international flight with small children never gets old.

But by the time we got off our already-delayed flight, waited in line at immigration, and collected our outrageous amount of gear, the taxi driver had long since given up on us. In all fairness, it was well over two hours later than our arranged pick up time. But thankfully, Aimee and I both speak Spanish, and are plenty comfortable navigating around Mexico. So I didn't have any trouble arranging another ride. The taxi process at the airport was nicely organized, and well designed to decrease the risk of trouble.

But I was questioning all of that when our taxi was nowhere to be found when we went outside. And to make matters worse, the taxi drivers that were there just kept telling us to keep walking. The lights got darker, the crowds got thinner, and all we got from them was, "Keep walking!"

We're adventurous, but not reckless. Especially with a couple of kids in tow. But just as the hairs were starting to stand up on the back of my neck, I saw a car pull around with the proper logo on its side door.

Phew. So at least we weren't going to be kidnapped. But I was not optimistic that we'd all be fitting in that go kart.

Physics apply differently in developing countries, and somehow the driver was able to make six feet of luggage fit into a four foot trunk. With room to spare.

While he was doing that, I locked down the car seats with less confidence than I'd have at home, but more than I needed to get into that cab. Aimee, however, was going to have to sit in the footwell.

Grael had arranged our apartments through an online broker. They were roomy and conveniently located, but like most vacation rentals, don't have a front desk. So when the taxi driver pulled up to the unmarked steel door on the dark street at the address we gave him, even he gave me a look to say, "You sure about this?"

Those hairs on the back of my neck were about to get another workout when thankfully Nona came running around the corner. It's always nice to see a friend on vacation, but this one takes the cake. We made it! Still not kidnapped!

Were we happy to be there? Of course. Were we past the point of questioning this decision? Absolutely not. But Nona and Grael knew exactly how to nurse us back to health. They took us out for beers at a charming little place that, get this, Aimee and I had been to four years earlier!

Aimee and I had fallen in love with Coyoacán, the neighborhood surrounding Frida's house, when we visited Mexico City on our pre-kid jaunt a few months before Mimi was born. There was a specific cafe in that town that was so charming that Aimee and I decided we would live near it if we ever found ourselves in Mexico City again. And without even a hint of knowing that, Nona and Grael had stumbled on the exact same place when they arrived the day earlier. In fact, they were just as enamored with it, and this would actually be their third visit in 24 hours.

This trip, at some point in the foreseeable future, possibly, just barely, may be worth the effort to get here. Maybe. Another round of beers won't hurt.

Adelante!

Traveling with two small children is exhausting. That's a given. But so is living with them, so we might as well take advantage of some time off of work and visit somewhere new.

That said, the lead up to this trip was particularly exhausting. This was our kids the morning before we left:

We were in the midst of another big snowstorm, and had experienced several prolonged power outages during the last few weeks. The hospital was crazy busy through the holidays, so Aimee and I were slammed at work. And worst of all, Aimee's grandma passed away at ninety nine years old the week before we were scheduled to leave. Thankfully, Aimee was able to trade a few shifts to be able to make it to the funeral, but it meant that she'd be coming back from a whirlwind trip to South Dakota the day before we were scheduled to fly to Mexico City. We lost track of how many times we asked ourselves if this trip was going to be worth it.

Even the decision to go on this trip was pretty impromptu. Not quite two months earlier, our friends Nona, Grael, and Conrad were visiting us in Whiteriver. As we always do when we see each other, we were reminiscing about our Vietnam and Greece trips, and commiserating that we didn't have another one planned. We talked about going to Puerto Peñasco for New Years, but then realized it'll be a bit cold for a beach trip. And then--no one quite remembers how--we all had tickets to Mexico City booked within the next seventy two hours.

It's slightly painful to admit, but I was already questioning our decision to go on this trip as I clicked "Purchase" on the airline tickets. International travel over the holidays is never a cakewalk, keeping newly-walking Quinn seated on our lab for 6 hours was going to be extremely painful, and is Mexico City really the type of environment for the kind of relaxing New Years celebration we were looking for? But as Aimee and I have learned several times already, if traveling with kids doesn't make you question every life decision that brought you to this point, you're not trying hard enough.

So with absolutely no idea if we were doing the right thing, Aimee and I hugged goodbye. She went off to her grandma's funeral, and I stayed home to pack through one big snowstorm and two small hurricanes.

I kept reminding myself, "Four passports, two kids, lots of diapers. Four passports, two kids, lots of diapers." As long as I remembered to bring that, we could figure out the rest.

Not wanting to risk a critical oversight, I pretty much packed up the kids' entire rooms. And let me tell you, there's nothing heavier than a suitcase full of art supplies and board books.

Saturday morning, I loaded the kids into the car, and took advantage of them both being in five-point restraints to make a final pass through the house. I had packed quite a bit more than four passports, two kids, and lots of diapers, so I felt pretty good about our situation. At least the packing situation. I wasn't particularly thrilled about driving across the reservation during an uncharacteristically heavy snowstorm. But I had a decent amount of emergency supplies in the car, and it was early enough in the day that visibility wouldn't be an issue. And by emergency supplies, I mean raisins, pretzels, and a Frozen coloring book.

The drive took almost twice as long as it usually does. A few of the mountain passes were ominously dark, but there wasn't any ice on the road, and the kids did great in the back seat. We made it to Tucson without any issues more serious than a couple of ill-timed potty requests.

Aimee was not quite as lucky. Her flight from South Dakota was delayed multiple times due to the weather, and she didn't get in until about 9:30 pm. And that was just to Phoenix. She still had to make the two hour drive to Tucson. But she's pretty resilient, and had adequately caffeinated herself that day. She made it to my parents' house in Tucson around midnight, and got the bare minimum amount of sleep required for international travel with children.

I'm not sure if "too tired" is a valid reason to file a trip cancellation claim with our travel insurance company, but it crossed my mind more than once that night.

The Rest

I usually write the last post of each trip the week after we get back. Or occasionally the next month. Life with toddlers doesn’t often lend itself to casually writing at a coffee shop.

But this post takes the cake. It’s now a solid four years after I last wrote about our Folks Fest road trip. I took some notes, snapped a few photos, and figured I’d write the rest after I got back. On-site camping at a folk music festival isn’t exactly the take-out-your-laptop vibe. But work was busy when I got back, then the holidays came around, and then the world fell apart. Remember the winter of 2019, everyone? Remember how we just walked around without masks thinking we’d have some extra free time once January gets here? Hoo boy.

But I won’t belabor the point. That story has been written. The months turned into years, and I remembered in the back of my head that I had left the road trip blog unfinished. Then “wasn’t there something I needed to do with the blog?” Then, (crickets chirping) as life moved on.

In fact, I don’t think I would have even noticed that these posts were unpublished if I hadn’t pulled up the blog as we got ready for another trip (Belize, more on that later).

I probably would have just read the posts, smiled, maybe sent them to Aimee, and then deleted them. The only reason I’m finishing it up is because those next couple of days introduced us to some of our best friends to this day.

So there we were, four years ago almost to the day. We rounded out our roadtrip through some sleepy ghost towns in New Mexico and a surprisingly delightful Best Western in Raton, CO (seriously).

By the time we rolled up to Denver, everyone was in good spirits. We paced the trip slowly and made sure we consumed no fewer than 200 calories an hour. I had reserved an RV rental for the rest of the trip, since we weren’t sure how a one year old would nap in the tent we usually take to the festival.

After we secured the RV (with Aimee a safe distance away with the kids, since I wasn’t sure if my carseats-buckled-into-the-couch plan was entirely legal), we needed to drop off the car somewhere. I asked at the RV counter if they had any suggestions about where I should leave my car. They said, “Absolutely! There’s a lot right behind us that’ll store your car for $10 a day.”

So we transferred our gear and pulled up to the lot. This was greeting us.

On one hand, I was a little terrified. On the other hand, I figured the owner (inhabitant? Squatter? Last man on earth?) had no fewer than three shotguns in his trailer. No one would be messing with our car.

$30 later (cash only, of course), we were in the last hour of our road trip up to the music festival.

Of course, an hour was really more like three. Although we did get one our favorite photos ever of the kids, so all the stops were worth it.

But that did mean we’d be getting in after the sun went down. For those who have never been to a Planet Bluegrass festival, people plan their trips there years ahead of time. The campsite opens two days before the festival, and most people are set up before the first star is out. So when we rolled up at 10 pm the night before the music started, the place was packed to the gills. Tents were up, guitar circles were formed, and there was a very particular scent wafting through the air.

It took two laps to even find a site, and even then, I was 90% sure I couldn’t fit our 17 foot RV in it. But after a third lap to confirm it was the only option, I slowly nudged my way in, trying not to blind more than 30 or 40 people with our headlights.

Here’s my note from that next morning.

Got in late. Every site set up. Cool neighbors.

At least that’s how I remembered it. To hear our now-friends tell the story, some A-hole stunk up the campsite with their exhaust fumes, woke up everyone, rolled over the guy-wires on our tent, and then had the audacity to be from Arizona!

They were not wrong. But after a full charm offensive over the next 24 hours (they were the only campers to bring a kid younger than ours), all was forgiven.

The festival was a delight. We listened to three days of wonderful music, caught up with lots of old friends, and turned our neighbors into the type of friends we shared a beach house in Mexico with not two months ago. An absolutely wonderful experience all around.

That would have probably been a nice point to wrap up the blog for this trip. My memory is fuzzy, the notes are sparse, and we do have another trip this week to get ready for. But there was one more story of note on the way home.

On a tip from our new friends, we took a different route home through Colorado’s peach-growing country (Who knew? But they’re amazing.) and spent the night at a hotel built next to a natural hot spring. We spent our last full day of the trip splashing around in 80 degree water and loved almost every minute of it.

But Mimi and I thought it would be fun to go on the lazy river ride before we called it a day. I wasn’t as alarmed as I clearly should have been by the three flights of stairs you had to climb before you reach the mouth of this “lazy” river. Nor did I turn around when multiple groups of people ahead of us changed their minds and headed back down. How hard could it be?

After the 19 year old at the start of the ride looked at Mimi, shrugged, and handed us our figure-8 float tube, I put her in the front hole and launched us down the slide. Of course, the hole was twice as big around as she was, so after a valiant effort holding her in with my feet for the first 10 seconds, she shot out  of the tube and I was barely able to grab her before getting launched myself. 

All I remember about the next part is thinking, “She’s 3 years old and can’t swim, just hold her out of the water.” So I did. Arms outstretched through just enough water to fully submerge my nose and mouth as we slid down the concrete “river.” I was eventually able to slow myself down enough after three more turns to stand up and place her on the ground that we had mercifully worked ourselves down to.

Through the adrenalline, I couldn’t feel a thing. But the crowd at the top started to point and ask if I was ok. Then the 19 year old running the ride saw us and went ashen. Mimi was clearly fine (I actually think she was giggling at that point), but he asked me to go to the first aid station while another 19 year old admirably tried to apply a few little Band-Aids to this.

I still have a few scars to this day. But I also have a few stories. Worth every bit of it.

And with that, I think it’s time to turn my attention back to our next trip. I want to get that blog done before 2027.