After considering several Halloween costume ides this year,  I made a last-minute decision to go with a little shameless self-promotion.

Now, I am all for thinking outside of the box, but when you actually have to wear the box, it gets a little tricky (and slightly claustrophobic).

Key Learning – If considering wearing a box as a halloween costume, always measure the distance between your wine glass-holding hand and your mouth.  This turned out to be a major oversight on my part, hence the removal of the suitcase 10 minutes into the party.  But it was remarkable while it lasted!

Don’t Do What I Did!  Another Oops! Travel Moment.

There is a deliberately unassuming little club on Staunton Street in Hong Kong called Feather Boa.  From the outside, you would never know it existed.  There is no sign, indeed no indication whatsoever that a popular bôite can be found within.  The curtains hanging in the storefront establishment are thick velvet and always drawn.  The front doors are always closed. Entering the Boa, however,  is like falling down the rabbit hole and landing in someone’s odd and jumbled living room.  On any given night, ex-pats and those-in-the-know can be found packed like sardines in the ramshackle chic, salon-like interior, with its tattered rugs, retro couches and funky chandeliers – a  charming little den of iniquity smack dab in the heart of Hong Kong.

Among other things, Feather Boa is known for is its signature drinks.  One is the chocolate martini, which consists, more or less, of a lethal dose of vodka garnished with a handful of malted milk balls.  Now, in my experience, mixing chocolate with alcohol is never a good idea and frankly, a waste of vodka.  However, add in highly-launchable mini chocolate cannon balls floating in a sea of combustible bad judgment, and you’ve piqued my interest.  This is a glass of hijinks.

Anyone who knows me or has read my story, “The Battle of the Beignet”, will know that when it comes to doing battle with food items, I am short on restraint.  I attribute this to the fact that I grew up with three older siblings who would blast me – the youngest – the “brat” – with anything they could get their hands on when Mom wasn’t looking.  Call it self-preservation, but I quickly learned the necessary dining room “tricks of the trade” to protect myself.  For example, a well-syrup’d flapjack flung at the head of my brother would generally stop him in his tracks.  A handful of spaghetti worked equally effectively.  Even now, I find it difficult to suppress those instincts, and tend to view everything on a dinner table as a potential item in my arsenal.  Mix alcohol into the equation, and there is absolutely no hope of a last-minute reprieve of good judgment.  Duck and cover quickly becomes the order of the moment.

Sure enough one fateful night, for reasons that I cannot begin to remember, though am sure were not adequately considered at the time, a chocolate martini – specifically – those floating balls of malted goodness, became not just a garnish, but that evening’s weapon of choice.   Backed up by my trusty wingman Koko, who is always ready for a good battle, I thrust my hand into my chocolate martini and scooped out one of the already-melting chocolate cannon balls.  My targets?  Two unsuspecting Cathay Pacific pilots standing across the packed room.  With a fast movement, I launched the first milk ball, which traveled with surprising speed and landed with a heavy “thomp” on pilot #1’s chest, just above the “Cathay Pacific” logo embroidered on his uniform pocket, and giving it a Rorschach-like quality with its brown, chocolaty stain.  The second milk ball hit pilot #2 in the back of the neck, uncomfortably, no doubt, lodging inside his collar. Targets hit.

Normally after propelling food items at high speed across a crowded bar, it is best to quickly turn in the opposite direction and feign innocence.  Unfortunately, Koko and I were caught up in the humor of the strike, and could only convulse with laughter – out-of-control, voices squeaking, faces red and contorted, tears just pouring out of our eyes, hysterical laughter.    A dead giveaway, and probably why we didn’t notice that pilot #1 had stopped talking and was staring right at us, a crazed look in his eye and God help us,  a chocolate martini in his hand.

What happened next is a blur of whizzing brown objects and screams of laughter as the battle launched into full swing.  While it wasn’t “Animal House” in scale, it did extend to include a small group of patrons, who enthusiastically thrust their fingers into any chocolate martini they could find.  Quickly, our reserves ran out, and due to the steep price of replenishing them with another chocolate martini, the battle finished.  Now officially bonded with the group, we ordered drinks, peeled squished milk balls off ourselves,  and chalked the whole thing off to just another night at the Boa.

The next morning, I awoke with only a sketchy recollection of the night’s activities.  As I stepped into a hot shower, I caught my reflection in the mirror and suddenly the evening’s antics came rushing back to me.  There, smashed and stuck to the skin on my lower back, was a lone malted milk ball, a melted and misshapen chocolate testament to the decadent influence of a hidden little club in Hong Kong.

Author’s Note: While I am not proud of this blatant act of recklessness and immaturity, it does make a great story.  And if you are planning a visit to this iconic establishment,  I would strongly recommend you wear brown.

Don’t Do What I Did!  Another Oops! Travel Moment.

Anyone who has been to Kenya is familiar with the Carnivore restaurant in Nairobi. Known as “Africa’s Greatest Eating Experience” it is an institution for locals and tourists alike – a must visit. For my husband, son and myself, it was a novelty and a convenient stop for Sunday brunch prior to grabbing a domestic flight from Nairobi to the Mara. What we didn’t count on was the Dawa, the Carnivore’s own special brew – a liquid of such immense pleasure and lethal toxicity, it can make even the most organized of travelers lose all credibility in a matter of  hours. And that’s just what happened to me.

The Carnivore is famous for meat of the all-you-can-eat variety. Here, the fun is in trying the game meats, which include zebra (not striped, as my astonished son remarked), giraffe, impala, wildebeest and alligator (chewy, but good). For our PETA friends, the game meats come from eco-friendly game ranches, which support local conservation efforts. The atmosphere is open and warm, with tables inside or on verandas, overlooking lush gardens or the famous fire-pit, where the meats cook on skewers over an open flame. The skewers are passed around table to table by waiters, who expertly slice off a portion of the steaming meat onto your plate, and point to the enormous Lazy Susan on your table, gesturing which sauce or condiment goes with which flesh delicacy.

And because this is a family place, if you follow the path beyond the garden, you will come to a large bamboo gate that when opened, reveals a child’s version of Nirvana – the most fantastic play yard ever imagined, where a bed of wood chips provides the necessary soft foundation to a truly remarkable assortment of kiddie amusements – from tire swings dangling from an authentic jungle tree house to a carnival stage set up and ready for acting. The Carnivore, it must be said, is a restaurant focused on a seriously long customer experience – where the grown ups tuck into pounds of flesh while the little darlings are encouraged to play for hours only a few short, overfull hobbles away. I knew immediately this was our sort of place.

A lesser-known feature of this famous restaurant is their signature drink, called the Dawa, which in Swahili, means medicine. First warning. It is a concoction of sugar, honey, lime and something akin to jet fuel, all of which is ceremoniously hand-blended at your table and garnished with a short straw.  It is the mission of these devil waiters to troll from table to table in search of unsuspecting tourists, with all the necessary ingredients to make your life enjoyable for at least an afternoon, until the medicine wears off, and you are left wondering if anyone got the description of the rhinoceros that ran over your head. Needless to say, they found a very willing victim in me.

After two of these liquid ruffees, I was buzzing, giggling uncontrollably and chatting to everyone and everything. This continued on the short flight to the Mara until just after we checked into our lodge. I remember specifically because that’s when we realized I had left the video camera on the plane. Which wouldn’t have been that big of an issue – except for the fact that the plane didn’t come back until the next afternoon, which made it extremely unfortunate that on the morning game drive of that same day, we experienced the ultimate, elusive African safari experience – the kill.

We were lucky enough to have caught the entire sequence of events, from beginning to end, at a distance of maybe four feet away. It was an awesome thing to experience – to watch a lioness take down a wildebeest is horrifying and majestic all at once. But as furiously as I snapped both still cameras, there was no means of capturing the motion and sound of the kill. No way of recording the satisfied, guttural purring of the victorious lionesses, as they prepared the breakfast for their hungry, playful cubs. No way to capture the slow loping gait of the lion, who showed up to take his share only after all the work had been done by the women. No way to capture the sound of the bone breaking when the lion ripped at a leg or the gurgling sound when an eyeball was removed. And worst of all, no way to capture the hyena which, coming home from a night of hunting, stumbled upon the incident, and began frantically running in circles, peeing – as much from fear as from the excitement of realizing he was on clean up crew.

In my defense, as the designated family photographer and videographer, I take my job very seriously. I’m the one out in the bush with a spider web of cameras slung across my chest and torso. There’s the video camera for action; the old-fashioned Nikon loaded with black & white film for mood and landscapes and the Olympus digital for everything else. I look like a pack mule half the time, and frankly, the sound of my voice played back during the video re-hashes, with its grating, supercilious non-stop narrative and embarrassing attempts at humor is enough to make me watch with the sound completely off. This is the first and only time I have ever been deficient in my camera duties – before and since. Admittedly, it was not great timing, as my husband, who had been to Africa seven times prior and never seen a kill, takes great pleasure in reminding me. Of course, I blame it on the Dawas.

Don’t Do What I Did!  Another Oops! Travel Moment.

I am thrilled, though appropriately embarrassed, to introduce my first “Don’t Do What I Did” (DDWID)  oops! travel moment.  While this little gem is a new addition to my fairly extensive body of work, I confess it’s grown on me.

One recent afternoon in Phnom Penh, my husband and I were wandering the streets when we came upon a “club” with the name of “LOVE ORANGE”.  Given my love of all things orange, I took this as a good omen, and asked my husband to take a quick photo of me standing next to the name on the front door.  Oops!

Posing in front of the club entrance, I’m running through this manic, stream-of-consciousness internal monologue that goes something like this, “How random to have stumbled across a place called “LOVE ORANGE”!  What a coincidence!  I mean, hellooo!!  I love orange!  I have orange luggage, for God’s sake.  It’s definitely a sign from the universe.  Maybe it means I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be in my life.  Maybe I was destined to come to Phnom Penh at this exact time in my life, and stand in this exact spot.  Maybe I’ve been here before in a past life.  No, maybe I’m supposed to do something in Cambodia.  That’s it.  That’s my destiny.  I’m supposed to move here and…and  start a non-profit and… and help kids.  That’s what it is! I’m sure of it!  I’ll call it “Orange Aid”.  Hey, that’s a good name!  Like Orange Ade, but a-i-d.  God, I’m so clever.  Maybe…Jesus, I’m melting here, take the goddamn photo already, Stuart.”

As I’m standing there, this insane ranting going through my head,  I am completely oblivious to the fact that the bouncer (one can only assume), who apparently is not keen on having photographs taken in front of the club, has opened the door behind me and is angrily gesturing at us to get the hell out of there – at the very moment I am furnishing our new, fabulously-chic  Phnom Penh apartment, no house, no apartment, in my head and trying to appear fresh in the 200% humidity.

While we still don’t know why the whole episode caused such a kerfuffle, we certainly wouldn’t dream of suggesting that the row of black Mercedes parked in front of the “club”, with their tinted

windows, official-looking government plates, and drivers suspiciously watching us like a hawk while waiting for their clients to finish up their delightful, as in sky rockets in flight delightful, afternoon activities, could possibly have had anything to do with it.  Love orange?  Hmmm.

In front of Love Orange

When it comes to traveling, I like to think I become a senses-heightened, fully-engaged version of my normal self.  That is: high-functioning, buttoned-up, sharp as a tack, in control without being controlling, street smart, friendly yet cautious, culturally sensitive, forward-thinking, spontaneous and always – always – prepared.  Did I mention verbose?

Given my completely delusional sense of reality, it always feels particularly jolting when I tumble off my self-erected pedestal, as I frequently do when traveling, and onto the cold, hard floor of reality  in whichever destination – this time – I have made yet another error in judgment.  My Mom is the undisputed Queen of these embarrassing moments, which she calls, “walking in the room with an elephant on your head”, or something like that, which I’ve never actually understood, but applaud her enthusiasm nonetheless.

Thankfully, only one of my traveling missteps (thus far) has resulted in actual violence – a small matter of a guy pulling a gun on us while taking the MARTA back to our hotel one night.  My husband – to his enormous credit -  calmly diffused the situation and overpowered the guy, while I sat engrossed in conversation with a friend, completely oblivious to what was taking place right next to me.  No shock that I was the one who had assured my husband, against his better judgment, that of course the MARTA was perfectly safe to take at night.  Travelers to Atlanta, take heed.  Don’t do what I did!

In homage to the “Oops!” travel moment we’ve all experienced, some with more frequency than others, I have decided to suck-it-up and regularly feature some of my more embarrassing or “seemed like a good idea at the time” travel hiccups with the hope that other travelers wont make the same seriously-stupid gaffes that I continue to make on a regular basis.  If nothing else, I am optimistic it will be a cathartic process.

Stay tuned.