| Nature, Here I Come |
| The Travel Snob Confronts His Worst Fear -- the Great Outdoors (aka Patagonia) -- and Lives to Tell About it |
They just don’t get it.
No matter how many times I’ve said I don’t do nature, I’m repeatedly
invited on scary sounding press trips that begin with terms like “eco,”
“green” and my new favorite BS adjective “sustainability,” which I’m
convinced is a ruse invented by the restaurant industry so they can
continue buying cheap produce.
The only thing I want to sustain is a bar tab at the Gilt Bar in New York’
s fabulous Palace Hotel, where I will discover its decadent $30 Gossip Girl
truffle-oil grilled cheese sandwich while everyone else goes whale hunting.
Sometimes I think it’s my mom pulling the strings, and this campaign to
embrace the great outdoors is just warm up to her eventual goal of
converting me to Catholicism so I can spend the afterlife in the warm
bosom of the blessed Mary and not raking coal in hell with Anderson
Cooper. Surely, if she can get me to embrace birds, grass and bugs then
eternal damnation is not a foregone conclusion, though it is close. I mean, I
did enjoy “The DaVinci Code.” Which gets me thinking: how good is Dan
Brown with a shovel, anyway?
And yet it wasn’t the fear of burning flesh (or manual labor) that
inspired me to accept a trip to Patagonia, but the realization that I might
have become a bit of a diva over the years. But I ask you, am I the only
one who considers roughing it a night at the Holiday Inn, whose aqua and
orange color scheme once sent me into full blown seizure (well, that and
shock therapy at Bellevue, but those records are supposed to be sealed)?
I’m the guy who was kicked out of Boy Scouts for inquiring about the
sleeping bag’s thread count so maybe there’s something to this diva thing
after all.
It’s that kind of attitude that will most definitely not get you invited to
take part in the next Ocean’s 11 score, where I so want to be, if only for the
opportunity to wear form-fitting Tom Ford suits and hang out with the guys
at The Bellagio, then stay behind in the penthouse suite while they go do
whatever it is they actually do. My only role will be to answer the phone
when Don Cheadle calls and send Adam Arkin to room 604 with the Nasal
Spray. Oh, and if Angelina rings, Brad is “rehearsing.”
That’s the kind of madcap adventure I want to take part in, so you can
just imagine the shivers running down my satin pajama’ed covered spine
when the opposite landed in my in-box: an invitation to an “eco”-tourism
cruise in Patagonia, which I was surprised to learn is not just a line of
trendy fleece sweaters favored by granola eaters. It never dawns on me
these things are real, like when I learned the jingle “Do You Believe in
Magic” did not solely belong to new Lemon Fresh Dash but is an actual
song by the Lovin’ Spoonful.
So in interest of providing a different perspective than from that of my
signature Pratesi feather bed I agreed, after days of contemplation and
maybe a black out or two, to take part in the adventure. And lest you think I
went into this without doing my due diligence let me assure you that I put in
many minutes of hard work into inquiring of the journey’s suitability … on
the plane down to Patagonia, where I white-knuckled the 12 hour flight on
LAN Airlines in fear I’d signed on for some tragic, backwoods, Deliverance-
style camping excursion and not the luxurious yacht ride I envisioned. That
particular delusion finds me sunning atop David Geffen’s super cruiser
while watching Ellen Barkin throw Ron Perlman’s Berlutti shoes into the
Red Sea. She’s a total nut-job and yet I’m strangely attracted to her, which
is impossible for many reasons.
Fortunately, this trip is not impossible nor in the Red Sea, which is
now crowded with Somali pirates who can’t be bought off with custom made
Italian shoes no matter how good the craftsmanship, but in the Pacific,
home to not only Patagonia but that missing island from Lost, if it would
stay still for a second.
Sponsored jointly by The Ritz-Carlton, Santiago and the Nomads of
the Sea cruise-ship, the eco-tourism trip, dubbed the “Save the Blue
Whale” package, is a $15,000 vacation of a lifetime, featuring seven days
of outdoor activities while cruising the Patagonian seas on a multi-million
dollar boat with four decks, 28 cabins, 32 crew, and, most importantly, a
fully-stocked wet bar.
So here’s the back story (we’ll get to the wet bar later, promise).
Apparently there is something known as the blue whale, and it’s not just an
entrée at BLT Fish but a real life sea animal that was discovered in 2005
among the Chilean fjords, which marks the first and last time I will ever use
the word “fjords” in a sentence. This “discovery” excited preservationists to
no end because a) they have no life and tend to get excited about such
things and b) it was thought to be extinct. And so what does a
preservationist do with such information? Why, market it as a promotion to
high end tourists, who can watch from the comfort of a big splashy yacht
and not get their Manolos wet. Hence, the “Save the Blue Whale” package,
featuring a week’s worth of outdoorsy but still affluent activities, like whale-
watching, wave-running, glacier-hiking and even horseback riding. How we
were going to do any saving was never quite explained, which was fine by
me. One less excuse to leave the yacht was welcome.
Now the important thing to remember is not to go the first week of
February, when these nasty, soul sucking bugs come out of hibernation for
one week every year and make life miserable for pasty skinned Irish
people like me. Oh, and you don’t want to go when the Russians are
aboard, either. They’re very abrupt and bring their own liquor, which
Consuela told me all about each morning as I plied her with pesos to get
the skinny on all the other guests. I’ll admit to finding the Bea Arthur shrine
in Cabin 5 a bit unsettling, and Cabin 7 may be in the beginning stages of
a Miley Cyrus abduction, which I’m not entirely against.
While not sleuthing, which some may mistake for rummaging through
the guests’ luggage, I managed to participate in most of the trip’s activities,
which is a new concept for me, and enjoyed at least some of it, like
kayaking. Although those disgusting sea lions got a little too close for my
taste and really didn’t like being talked to in an exaggerated Irish brogue
and told to eat their Lucky Charms.
Participants will also revel in the glacier hiking, which is really cool if
only for the opportunity to top at your next dinner party Bob and Cindy’s
harrowing frozen yogurt machine mishap aboard Carnival Cruise lines.
Also not fun, and I’m not holding this against anyone who thinks
otherwise, is fly-fishing, regardless of what Tom Brokaw thinks. I just have
too many more important things to do than stand comatose for hours,
bobbing some stupid string in the river for fish to bite while being eaten
alive by mosquitos. “A River Runs Through It” didn’t get me excited about
fly-fishing and that had Brad Pitt, air-conditioning and Twizzlers.
So the morale of the story is … oh, who am I kidding? You’re reading a
snotty travel book with few practical tips on traveling. There are no morals
here, unless you count the Faustian bargain you’re about to make for that
Hermes Birken handbag. Go ahead, do it. You have my permission.
Muwahaha!
When you’re done, though, book yourself on this excursion. Just don’t
bring the bag. Hermes and nature do not mix, regardless of what Nina
Garcia is peddling.
No matter how many times I’ve said I don’t do nature, I’m repeatedly
invited on scary sounding press trips that begin with terms like “eco,”
“green” and my new favorite BS adjective “sustainability,” which I’m
convinced is a ruse invented by the restaurant industry so they can
continue buying cheap produce.
The only thing I want to sustain is a bar tab at the Gilt Bar in New York’
s fabulous Palace Hotel, where I will discover its decadent $30 Gossip Girl
truffle-oil grilled cheese sandwich while everyone else goes whale hunting.
Sometimes I think it’s my mom pulling the strings, and this campaign to
embrace the great outdoors is just warm up to her eventual goal of
converting me to Catholicism so I can spend the afterlife in the warm
bosom of the blessed Mary and not raking coal in hell with Anderson
Cooper. Surely, if she can get me to embrace birds, grass and bugs then
eternal damnation is not a foregone conclusion, though it is close. I mean, I
did enjoy “The DaVinci Code.” Which gets me thinking: how good is Dan
Brown with a shovel, anyway?
And yet it wasn’t the fear of burning flesh (or manual labor) that
inspired me to accept a trip to Patagonia, but the realization that I might
have become a bit of a diva over the years. But I ask you, am I the only
one who considers roughing it a night at the Holiday Inn, whose aqua and
orange color scheme once sent me into full blown seizure (well, that and
shock therapy at Bellevue, but those records are supposed to be sealed)?
I’m the guy who was kicked out of Boy Scouts for inquiring about the
sleeping bag’s thread count so maybe there’s something to this diva thing
after all.
It’s that kind of attitude that will most definitely not get you invited to
take part in the next Ocean’s 11 score, where I so want to be, if only for the
opportunity to wear form-fitting Tom Ford suits and hang out with the guys
at The Bellagio, then stay behind in the penthouse suite while they go do
whatever it is they actually do. My only role will be to answer the phone
when Don Cheadle calls and send Adam Arkin to room 604 with the Nasal
Spray. Oh, and if Angelina rings, Brad is “rehearsing.”
That’s the kind of madcap adventure I want to take part in, so you can
just imagine the shivers running down my satin pajama’ed covered spine
when the opposite landed in my in-box: an invitation to an “eco”-tourism
cruise in Patagonia, which I was surprised to learn is not just a line of
trendy fleece sweaters favored by granola eaters. It never dawns on me
these things are real, like when I learned the jingle “Do You Believe in
Magic” did not solely belong to new Lemon Fresh Dash but is an actual
song by the Lovin’ Spoonful.
So in interest of providing a different perspective than from that of my
signature Pratesi feather bed I agreed, after days of contemplation and
maybe a black out or two, to take part in the adventure. And lest you think I
went into this without doing my due diligence let me assure you that I put in
many minutes of hard work into inquiring of the journey’s suitability … on
the plane down to Patagonia, where I white-knuckled the 12 hour flight on
LAN Airlines in fear I’d signed on for some tragic, backwoods, Deliverance-
style camping excursion and not the luxurious yacht ride I envisioned. That
particular delusion finds me sunning atop David Geffen’s super cruiser
while watching Ellen Barkin throw Ron Perlman’s Berlutti shoes into the
Red Sea. She’s a total nut-job and yet I’m strangely attracted to her, which
is impossible for many reasons.
Fortunately, this trip is not impossible nor in the Red Sea, which is
now crowded with Somali pirates who can’t be bought off with custom made
Italian shoes no matter how good the craftsmanship, but in the Pacific,
home to not only Patagonia but that missing island from Lost, if it would
stay still for a second.
Sponsored jointly by The Ritz-Carlton, Santiago and the Nomads of
the Sea cruise-ship, the eco-tourism trip, dubbed the “Save the Blue
Whale” package, is a $15,000 vacation of a lifetime, featuring seven days
of outdoor activities while cruising the Patagonian seas on a multi-million
dollar boat with four decks, 28 cabins, 32 crew, and, most importantly, a
fully-stocked wet bar.
So here’s the back story (we’ll get to the wet bar later, promise).
Apparently there is something known as the blue whale, and it’s not just an
entrée at BLT Fish but a real life sea animal that was discovered in 2005
among the Chilean fjords, which marks the first and last time I will ever use
the word “fjords” in a sentence. This “discovery” excited preservationists to
no end because a) they have no life and tend to get excited about such
things and b) it was thought to be extinct. And so what does a
preservationist do with such information? Why, market it as a promotion to
high end tourists, who can watch from the comfort of a big splashy yacht
and not get their Manolos wet. Hence, the “Save the Blue Whale” package,
featuring a week’s worth of outdoorsy but still affluent activities, like whale-
watching, wave-running, glacier-hiking and even horseback riding. How we
were going to do any saving was never quite explained, which was fine by
me. One less excuse to leave the yacht was welcome.
Now the important thing to remember is not to go the first week of
February, when these nasty, soul sucking bugs come out of hibernation for
one week every year and make life miserable for pasty skinned Irish
people like me. Oh, and you don’t want to go when the Russians are
aboard, either. They’re very abrupt and bring their own liquor, which
Consuela told me all about each morning as I plied her with pesos to get
the skinny on all the other guests. I’ll admit to finding the Bea Arthur shrine
in Cabin 5 a bit unsettling, and Cabin 7 may be in the beginning stages of
a Miley Cyrus abduction, which I’m not entirely against.
While not sleuthing, which some may mistake for rummaging through
the guests’ luggage, I managed to participate in most of the trip’s activities,
which is a new concept for me, and enjoyed at least some of it, like
kayaking. Although those disgusting sea lions got a little too close for my
taste and really didn’t like being talked to in an exaggerated Irish brogue
and told to eat their Lucky Charms.
Participants will also revel in the glacier hiking, which is really cool if
only for the opportunity to top at your next dinner party Bob and Cindy’s
harrowing frozen yogurt machine mishap aboard Carnival Cruise lines.
Also not fun, and I’m not holding this against anyone who thinks
otherwise, is fly-fishing, regardless of what Tom Brokaw thinks. I just have
too many more important things to do than stand comatose for hours,
bobbing some stupid string in the river for fish to bite while being eaten
alive by mosquitos. “A River Runs Through It” didn’t get me excited about
fly-fishing and that had Brad Pitt, air-conditioning and Twizzlers.
So the morale of the story is … oh, who am I kidding? You’re reading a
snotty travel book with few practical tips on traveling. There are no morals
here, unless you count the Faustian bargain you’re about to make for that
Hermes Birken handbag. Go ahead, do it. You have my permission.
Muwahaha!
When you’re done, though, book yourself on this excursion. Just don’t
bring the bag. Hermes and nature do not mix, regardless of what Nina
Garcia is peddling.