Happy July 2nd!

This is the day that Americans of all races and ages come together to celebrate the birth of a great big baby. It was on this day in 2005 that I came on the scene and the world -- at least for some -- has never been the same since. Picnics, parades and fireworks are the traditional way to celebrate and this year was a particularly big milestone: I finally hit the double digits, Roman Numerically speaking. The big eye-eye.


People celebrate the occasion in different ways. For example, here in Dakar we chose to commemorate the day with homemade cupcakes for my colleagues in the Mommy and Me play group. There were bubbles, games, and gifts. We also had balloons, but I think this was the last year for them because balloons are the paranoid schizophrenics of the toy world. They act all bucolic and floaty one minute and then BANG!!! blow up in your face the next.

Some observers will tell you that the ado this time of year is more for the 4th of July, American Independence Day. To these hair-splitters I say the distinction is negligible and in fact, the two days have really begun to coalesce into one great celebration of all good things born. Same thing happened to President's Day. If you doubt my claims, then perhaps you can explain to me why our nation's First Lady flew all the way to Senegal just to celebrate with me?

It was a thrill to meet Laura Bush even though my protocol office had requested top Democratic leadership. But not wanting to miss a photo-op with an adorable baby in the run-up to elections, the White House nixed the request and sent Mrs. Bush instead. I cannot complain, though. She was charming and gracious and actually quite human for a Republican.

I hope you all enjoyed your 2nd as much as I did! Until next time, peace to all.

Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler

Never Mind the Bollocks Here's Omi

I had mixed feelings about visiting Great Britain because of the whole war thing. I understand most people have gotten over the Revolutionary War by now, but believe me when I tell you I can really hold a grudge. Plus, as a legal resident of Washington D.C., that whole “taxation without representation” thing is not easily forgiven.

But I have to admit, I was pleasantly surprised to find there have been some significant changes over the past two hundred and some odd years. Now, the only marching that gun-toting, red-coated soldiers do is for the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. Such behavior used to send terrified colonists running for cover but now their descendents flock to the spectacle with cameras to document the adorable show of “force.” For babies and others of comparatively diminutive stature (i.e. my assistants) this is the view of the changing of the guard:

The only part I could see was the end when the military marching band broke into the theme from Benny Hill and the old guard exited out the palace gates chasing a blonde in a bikini.

Despite perpetually bleak weather warnings, we had lots of sun and only a few minutes of rain during the week we spent in London. There were many opportunities to take advantage of the beautiful parks and squares such as St. James, Regent, Hyde, and Trafalgar. I chased ducks and pigeons and sampled the ice cream in many of them. We did opt out of the “Taste of London” festival in Regent Park, however, because we thought it was a joke. Sadly, it was not. I also checked out Picadilly Circus, which, compared to other circuses, was quite tame.
Here are some of my favorite photos from the trip:

London calling… collect. It is the second most expensive city in the world and even a crappy plate of bangers and mash set my team back a pretty pence.

I tried to challenge conventional British propriety and stodginess with the creation of a Royal Pantsless Rugby League. No one else showed up.

Practicing some of my rugby tackles at the Princess Diana Memorial Empty Space.

A good adventure traveler records details of where and when her photos were taken. I snapped this one at Big Ben at 10:30.

As the only civilized nation that drives on the wrong side of the road, the British have to tell pedestrians which way to look when they cross the street. Apparently, they got tired of peeling Americans off the grills of their big red buses.

Impressive marvel of 18th century engineering with gothic flare or cheap Disneyland Magic Kingdom knock-off?

A note to my loyal fans: You may have noticed that my Baby Adventure journal entries are becoming more infrequent. Some of your fan mail has begun to ask the inevitable questions, such as “Are you hanging up the traveling shoes?”, “Have you become jaded with adventure?”, or the ominous, “You can’t stay a Baby Adventure Traveler forever and the whole cute schtick is going to wear off.” To these critics I acknowledge that the workload is heavy and the number of places to explore seems insuperable. I have not lost the passion for discovery, but I am coming to the realization that I need some support. I have already set my assistants on the task of bringing on a sidekick, someone younger who can keep the team focused with that fresh baby perspective. Please bear with us through this time of transition.

Until next time, peace to all.
Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler (I have not abdicated yet)

A Night in Tunisia

I took my assistants on a ten-day tour of Tunisia in Arabic North Africa. We stayed for a week on the beach at Hammamet in a resort that was filled almost exclusively with Iranian tourists who were taking a vacation from terrorizing the rest of the world with their backward policies.

You may be familiar with the terms “shuttle diplomacy” or “gunboat diplomacy,” important concepts in the foreign policy toolkit. Neither of them however were useful in resolving the latest crisis between Iran and Great Britain brought on when Iran arrested British soldiers for allegedly trespassing and would not release them. Working as an envoy for our close ally the Brits, I employed a new tool which I am calling “adorable diplomacy.” I used my charms on those Iranians and wooed them into reconsidering everything they thought they knew about us Westerners.

The breakthrough came after a game of “stop-go” on the terrace where Mama says “go” and I run as fast as I can until she says stop. Three Iranian women watching the match snorted mint tea through their noses from laughing as I slapped my butt and ran like a jockey on a horse each time Mama yelled go. After the barriers were down it was not difficult to get them to admit they were being meanies and the rest, as they say, his history.

Southern Tunisia is like another planet – Tatooine to be exact. Luke Skywalker’s home in Star Wars was really on the edge of the Sahara and the film’s director took advantage of some interesting Tunisian architecture. Berber homes, still used hundreds of years after being built, are holes dug into the earth. They have a center courtyard which is open to the sky and cavernous rooms all around for kitchen, bedrooms, living rooms and even apartments for their goats.

The rocky, barren Atlas Mountains also serve as backdrop where I did some freestyle rock climbing. The extreme sport may look dangerous, but this was actually less than a 500 foot drop.

But the real highlight was playing in the vast sandbox that is the Sahara desert. The Sahara is several times larger than the one Papa made for me out of a cardboard box which now looks pretty lame to me. Mine doesn't even have real live camels. I enjoyed sliding down the steeper dunes and digging my bare feet into the hot sand. Looking out over the seeming endlessness of it all can really make a person feel small.

Until next time,

peace to all.

Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler

Us and Them

Senegal is about 95% Muslim. Some people will tell you Jews and Muslims don’t play well together in the sandbox, but I take a longer view of history. I know we both come from the same ancestors, even though you wouldn’t think it to look at me next to my neighbors. Here at least, our similarities abound and our cultures are simpatico. Our core values are identical: 1. high fashion, 2. giving the “thank-you” wave when someone lets you in traffic, and 3. (tie) familial love and not paying retail. Therefore, it is the marginal differences that seem the most noteworthy.

For example, Senegalese are not time-conscious like Americans and the only thing devout Muslims here do punctually is pray five times a day. Many rely on the muezzin to tell them when it is time to pull out their portable rugs and prostrate themselves facing Mecca. The muezzin ascends the minaret tower of the mosque and chants melodious prayers over the loudspeaker. In the afternoon, the calls are a rich way to experience the heart of the local culture. However, when the first prayer pierces my skull at five in the morning, I find it somewhat less a-muezzin.

As part of their Koranic education, young boys are sent into the street to beg for money and food to defray the cost of their education. These talibes swarm cars stopped at red lights hoping to raise about a dollar per day. The best schools require kids to do this a couple of hours each day, but the worst schools are run like a business, bringing in kids from foreign countries and doling out harsh abuse for missed quotas. Begging is supposed to teach them humility. However, in a country with 50% unemployment and even more living in poverty, I posit that humility is not what they are lacking. One could argue that marketable job skills might be just as valuable to teach.

Perhaps the most significant difference in our cultures is how we choose our pop icons. In Western culture, our most important non-baby person is Paris Hilton. We love her because she is cute, rich, and slutty, all the things we value in our celebrities. In Senegal, their values are all backward. The most famous people here are the aged and wise religious teachers called marabouts. Their images adorn buildings, children have marabout trading cards, and their titles often appear scrawled across buses and taxis. I saw one marabout at the gas station who was mobbed by his excited, screaming public. I half expected to see panties being hurled at him in Elvis-like adoration. Imagine what a mixed-up state our own country would be in if we praised those who offered intellectual and spiritual guidance instead of what really matters.

The thing that gives me the greatest hope for world peace and inter-faith harmony is that often those same buses that pay homage to marabouts and talibes also have stickers in the back window of our own Madonna, circa 1984 from the "Like a Virgin" era .

Until next time, peace to all.
Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler

Keeping an eye out for good stories to report.

Terrible "Twos"

You may have heard the phrase, “terrible twos” referring to a period of time when a baby tests her boundaries, is given to short fits of rage, and is generally uncooperative for the pure joy of causing displeasure in others. The reason they call it “terrible twos” is because “terrible one and a half years” doesn’t have the same literary ring to it, but in fact, that is what it is. Either that, or I am extremely advanced for my age.

Previous impressions of me garnered from reading my exploits in this forum or, for the lucky few, from personal meetings no longer apply. My patience has been whittled down to a nub; the time I will politely and quietly wait for all my earthly wishes to be fulfilled has been slashed to fractions of a second; my inability to get a puzzle piece neatly in its place after a cursory effort is grounds for a spittle-flying rage equaled in fury only to Hurricane Katrina.

This journal entry is a full confession and was not coerced or edited in any way. I am Omi and I make no apologies about that. Anyone who can’t live with this truism will be disinvited to the opening night of my new play, The Elephant Says Ppppppphhhhhhhttt!!!, which Andrew Lloyd Weber keeps calling about for rights to do the score. Admittedly, the dialogue is still a bit weak and lacks verbs in some places, but if performed as written, I will actually be able to deliver all my lines as Penelope, the fetching baby debutante on safari with the Queen of Andorra (central casting is thinking Angelina Jolie for this role). Here is a snippet.


Curtain opens with Penelope, the Queen, and a guide in a safari buggy circa 1918 surrounded by lush African savanna.

Queen (after a jolt): Bloody hell! What on Earth was that?
Penelope: Turtle.
Queen: Oh, I thought they put a speed bump all the way out here.
Guide: I think it is still stuck under the…uh…how do you say it?
Penelope: Car
Guide (getting out to look under the wheel): Yes, car. Thank you, wise baby.
Queen: How long are we going to sit here? I’m hungry, don’t we have anything to eat?
Penelope: Apple.
Queen: Apple? I want some filet mignon with a bowl of spaghetti and a side of ice cream!
Penelope: Cow.
Queen: How dare you, I’m the Queen. You take that back or it’s off with your head.
Penelope: Moooo!!
Queen: Oh, that’s it. Wait here while I look for my guillotine.
Penelope (waving): Bye! (exit stage left laughing and running pigeon-toed on her chunky little legs, arms flailing)

I know many other words too, but couldn’t figure out how to work in “Mama,” “Daddy,” “up,” “please,” “agua” and all the others. Maybe in the sequel. Hopefully, by the time that comes out I’ll be back to my usual sweet, wonderful self. For everyone’s sake, let’s hope so.




Until next time, peace to all.
Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler