peskypippi.comBecause I have a lot to say…

My seven-year-old son is learning geography at school. He hums the theme song to Indiana Jones…and wants to be him when he grows up. So that he can travel and study old things.

My young son’s latest interest is India. (Hmmm…I wonder where he got that idea?)

He has added up his dollars–they make quite a pile. He proclaimed that he needs $10 more and he’ll have enough to buy his own passport. With a passport in hand, he thinks that he will instantly start traveling. Like Doc Brown’s time machine. Zap! Calcutta!

May my dreamer–and future world traveler–get lots of stamps in his passport.

And I just may get myself a passport too…so that my son and I can zap off to India.

Don’t sweat the small stuff.

Unless it’s a button that just went up your daughter’s nose. A few years back, when we were vacationing in Canada, my daughter quickly located the miniature sewing kit in the bathroom, with the oh-so-pretty, shiny buttons.

And she promptly stuck one up her nose. Way up.

Yikes. So far up did that button travel, that we hesitated to prod with a finger.

Crap. Do they have 911 in Canada? Didn’t we pass an Emergency Room en route to our hotel?

We were sweating the small stuff.

Fortunately, my oldest son suggested she blow it out, like a booger.

Out it came. And off to dinner we went.

The end.

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I was raised primarily by my mother, who divorced my father when I was still in diapers. I was raised by a dreamer, a world traveler, a romantic.

My mother taught high school English and Social Studies. And when I was in sixth grade, she won a six-month paid sabbatical to travel to Europe. Off we went. My mother and I. To explore Europe. I left the learning-of-fractions and A Tree Grows In Brooklyn and the entry-into-adolescence behind.

We were off to visit France, England, Ireland, Spain, Portugal, Italy, Germany, Switzerland, Scotland, Belgium, and Holland. Those countries became my classroom.

Upon our arrival in London, with our eight suitcases–not joking–we were the vision of tourists gone bad. I mean, does an 11-year-old know how to pack for six months in Europe? No. Upon discovery, my mother found that I had packed roller skates and horseback riding boots. Just in case. I mean, who knew what adventures Europe would bring? We ended up lugging our suitcases to a post office and shipping more than half of the crap home. By boat.

Now much lighter and freer, we were ready to explore. With our passports and Eurail passes in hand, we were the jet-setting duo.

Maps were studied. Train schedules were examined. Pretty soon, itineraries and schedules were abandoned. We were the wanderers and walkers, logging in dozens of kilometers of walking a day.

One plus is that I spoke fluent French. I had attended a private French school through fifth grade–remember that I told you my mother was a dreamer, a traveler, a romantic? Yeah that. So here I am. A lanky, honey-haired, 11-year-old, who spoke impeccable French, taught by native French speakers. So my bad-ass 11-year-old self attended school in Aix-en-Provence, France. And made friends. I was “La Americaine.” I was sorta famous. And I was sorta loving it.

But, then, I was plucked out of school. School was too limiting! We had adventuring to do and pastries to sample! We…

• Picnicked at Champ-de-Mars in Paris.
• Sampled Gouda cheese in the village of Edam, outside of Amsterdam.
• Listened to cuckoo clocks in the Black Forest region in Germany.
• Wandered the canals in Venice.
• Are shepherd’s pie in County Kerry, Ireland.
• Visited Beatrix Potter’s home in the English countryside.
• Explored the beaches of Portugal.
• Watched the Changing of the Guard in London.
• Stayed with a Swiss family in a thatched farmhouse, where they milked the cow to serve fresh milk at breakfast.
• Learned to order gelato in Italian. “Una copa de mille cinq de stracciatella y cioccolato, per favore.”
• Viewed the paintings at The Louvre and the Sistine Chapel.
• Ate tripe in Germany. And it was delicious! OMG. I later learned that tripe means a cow’s stomach lining. I am now a semi-vegetarian.
• Attended matinee plays and musicals in London.

Castles. Villages. The Alps. Markets. Beaches. Cities. Restaurants. Train rides. Foreign languages. Foreign money.

It was the best experience I could imagine. I will always carry that with me. That trip and those experiences widened my scope and view of life. It opened my eyes. It made me aware. It made me appreciate. My mother made it possible. She exposed me to a huge, amazing world…far beyond the little town where we lived in California. With her love of travel and dreamer-like senses, my mother gave me the world.

Happy Mother’s Day!

When planning air travel with children, wouldn’t it be funny if you walked down the aisle single file with your…

…tubas?

Then, maybe, the other passengers on the plane will wish you had brought along a crying infant instead.

Have you ever boarded an airplane with your baby/children in tow and have the other passengers give you the:

• Stink eye
• Eye roll
• Exasperated sigh

Sheesh. When you are traveling with children, it’s bad enough that their little ears get aggravated by the altitude, that babies are impossible to change in the tiny airplane bathrooms (I can barely fit my own fat ass in there), and little children need constant activities: books, mazes. stickers, video games, snacks, drawing.

Oops. The crayons drop and roll all the way to the back of the plane.

When a child travels, the child deserves respect. And so does his mother.

Who says the extra-large guy who takes up more than his share of the seat is any better? You know, the guy who hangs over the arm rest and spills onto YOUR side?

So, the next time you are boarding the airplane and you and your children get the stink eye, eye roll, or exasperated sigh, just smile back.

Karma.

Maybe the stink eye-givers will get hit with the 24-hour flu bug and need their in-flight barf bag.

Uh, no. I don’t. See, you can’t bring your kids home snowglobes–even 3 inch ones–when you go on vacation anymore. At least you can’t get through airport security with them.

So when your little guy is hoping for a snowglobe from New York City like in the movie Elf? He’s outta luck. Because the mean lady at airport security confiscated them and smashed them in the trash.

So he’ll have to settle for a Statue of Liberty you bought in Terminal B for $9.99.

Because, well, you can’t cry over smashed snowglobes.

I am becoming a global traveler—making connections with the locals—all through Twitter. Oh and if you are visiting Alaska from any other part of the United States, passports are not required, Silly. If you do visit, check out Erin’s blog at www.AKontheGo.com/, the resource for all things family travel in Alaska, or follow her on Twitter @akonthego. She is a witty one, I tell ya.

Oh, and if you’re really traveling to Alaska (not virtually like me): the six months of snow has already begun. So pack a jumbo parka and some boots. But not the furry mukluks because those scream “tourist.” Erin says so.

So, here we go, continuing with Pesky Pippi’s highly popular interview series. I asked Erin to tell us a little bit about her favorite state.

Pippi: Is that a totem pole or are you happy to see me?

Erin: Totem poles tell an incredible history of southeast Alaska Native tribes. Sitka National Historical Park is excellent.

Pippi: Do all Alaskans wear mukluks?

Erin: Mukluks are big, clumsy, but they work in the Arctic. If you wore them here in Anchorage, people would talk. And stare. And laugh.

Pippi: (Note to self: must return mukluks. Pronto.)

Pippi: Do you own a Husky dog?

Erin: I used to own a Husky/Golden Retriever. Mushers race hybrid dogs now, hardly anyone uses Huskies. Sled dogs are scrawny running machines.

Pippi: Do you live in an igloo?

Erin: No igloos. Not even among the Eskimos. They have dug into the hills of their homeland and lived fine that way, thank you very much.

Pippi: (Disappointed.)

Pippi: Do moose walk through your neighborhood?

Erin: Moose are everywhere. They were outside last week eating my leftover Jack-O-Lanterns. They all prefer expensive shrubbery.

Pippi: Do all Alaskans work on the pipeline?

Erin: Tons of folks work for BP, ConocoPhillips, Alyeska pipeline. Dark, cold, isolated work; good pay though.

Pippi: Do you drink Alaskan Amber Ale? I do.

Erin: Alaskan Amber, Midnight Sun, Panty Peeler, Sockeye Red. Yep. Beer snobs, we are. Oh, and I make a mean crowberry cosmo.

Pippi: (Note to self: must Google “crowberry.”)

Pippi: Does everyone in Alaska go to the Iditarod?

Erin: Most Alaskans stay away from the Iditarod, at least, the start of it in Anchorage. Too crowded, too full of out-of-town volunteers. I go to the ReStart in Willow, all-business. Mushers are kick-ass ready for 1,100 miles of Alaska wilderness.

Pippi: Final question, for today at least. Can you really walk to Russia from Alaska?

Erin: Not unless you are Jesus or Sarah Palin. But sometimes the folks on Little Diomede Island can see Russia from their houses.

Pippi: Thanks so mush (I mean much) for participating, you, Snarky Alaska Girl, you.