Desert Highways & The Big Ditch

There is something deeply humbling about strapping a toddler into a car seat and announcing, with misplaced confidence, “It’s only three and a half hours.” Or at least that’s what Emily tells me. 

We pointed the car north and began the climb from Phoenix toward the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. Joni did mostly well, (says the driver not the caretaker…) which is to say there were snacks, several passionate requests for freedom, and heroic levels of patience from Emily. Truly, if long-haul toddler travel were an Olympic sport, Emily would get the gold!

The desert drive itself was wildly impressive. The landscape stretches out in dramatic waves of red rocks and otherworldly cactus, then slowly transforms as you climb in elevation. Things then thin out, scrub turns to pine, and suddenly you’re weaving through cool forest air near Flagstaff. It feels like driving through three different planets in one afternoon. Arizona does not do subtle.

We made a perfectly timed stop in Flagstaff for Korean BBQ (because nothing says “road trip through the Southwest” like bulgogi), and then, and this is the real pro-parenting move, we discovered the local library.

The Flagstaff City-Coconino County Public Library is an absolute hidden gem for traveling families. Inside was an entire children’s wonderland: toys, slides, a puppet theater, cozy reading nooks, and enough stimulation to convince Joni that this detour was, in fact, the destination.  We stayed a solid hour or two while she ran, climbed, played, and generally exhausted herself. It was strategic brilliance. We re-entered the car with a pleasantly tuckered toddler for the final stretch.

We arrived at the South Rim in the evening and checked into Thunderbird Lodge (perched right near the rim), just in time for a little dusk wandering. There is something surreal about casually strolling one minute from your room and suddenly standing at the edge of a geological masterpiece. No buildup. Just: boom. In your face. We did a mild wander, let Joni take in her first canyon views, and called it an early night. 

The next day? Action-packed.

We woke up early and drove west along the rim, stopping at all the iconic viewpoints, and had them entirely to ourselves!  Not a bus. Not a crowd. Just us, the wind, and 6 million years of exposed rock layers glowing in the morning light. It felt almost illegal, like we’d snuck in before opening hours. It was truely grand! 

Then we turned east, tracing the rim in the opposite direction and discovering even more phenomenal vistas.  The scale is impossible to photograph properly. It’s not just wide; it’s vertical, layered, textured. The Colorado River looks like a little ribbon from above, which make its seem impossible that it is responsible for all of it. 

Eventually, Joni began to tucker out, so we headed back for a siesta.

And of course, despite being tired-grumpy, she did not sleep a wink….

Instead, she performed a quiet but determined protest against rest while we optimistically lay in a darkened room pretending this counted as “down time.”

Round two: we rallied and visited the Yavapai Geology Museum; which absolutely ROCKED. (I regret nothing.) The panoramic windows overlook the canyon while exhibits explain the mind-bending timeline of its formation. 

From there we meandered around Grand Canyon Village, popping into various historic lodges and enjoying stone fireplaces, timber beams, the faint scent of adventure and cafeteria coffee. Eventually, Joni made it abundantly clear she was ready for a real nap this time.

And she delivered. A solid, glorious nap. Thank the gods!

We woke her for dinner at the iconic El Tovar Dining Room. Rustic, historic, and wonderfully atmospheric, dark wood beams, canyon elegance, the kind of place where you half expect Teddy Roosevelt to walk through the door.  The meal was hearty and delicious, and for a glorious stretch of time we felt like composed, well-traveled adults enjoying a refined National Park evening. However.

Joni has recently developed a new dinner tradition: approximately 12–18 minutes before the check arrives, she loses her absolute cool. It’s as if an internal timer dings and she remembers she is, in fact, one year old. Fine dining with a toddler is therefore less of a leisurely experience and more of a suspense thriller. Will we make it through dessert? (Not once. Not ever)

That said, she rallied long enough for us to exit gracefully. After dinner, Joni thoroughly enjoyed a vigorous crawl around the grand lobby of the iconic El Tovar Hotel, burning off steam beneath mounted antlers and historic photographs, living her best frontier-lodge life. 

Then we stepped outside and strolled the South Rim at sunset on our way back to Yavapai Lodge. And it was spectacular.

The canyon shifts at sunset. The daylight harshness softens into layers of rose, amber, and deep violet. Shadows stretch and settle into the creases of rock carved over millions of years. The wind cools. The crowds thin. It feels enormous and quiet and ancient in a way that photographs simply cannot capture.

We walked slowly along the rim, one hand on the stroller, one eye on the horizon, letting the day settle around us.  Joni babbled, blissfully unaware she was silhouetted against one of the greatest landscapes in the world!!

Grand Canyon: 1.

Toddler: Also 1. 

Desert Arrival, Toddler Edition

There is a very specific developmental window in toddlerhood that everyone warns you about but you never believe. It’s the phase where your child is not yet hypnotized by screens… but also has the subtly of a caffeinated squirrel. Joni has officially entered this era. We boarded our first flight armed like seasoned expedition travelers, one entire backpack dedicated solely for activities. Stickers. Snacks. Books. A mysterious assortment of plastic animals. And yet somehow, the most thrilling activity remained repeatedly standing on our laps and attempting to “explore” everywhere BUT where we were sitting. 

To her credit, she did reasonably well. Two flights. Five total hours. Only moderate acrobatics. A few aisle stroll negotiations. Minimal public apologies required. I’d call that a win. 

We landed in Phoenix to a shocking, glorious 80° day, perfect for escaping Alaska’s recent cold snap. From there we made our way to the absolutely bougie oasis that is Royal Palms Resort and Spa. Think: terracotta walls glowing at sunset, the smell of citrus trees in the air, fountains bubbling in a multitude of courtyards, and the faint sense that you should probably be wearing better attire at all times. The pathways wind through manicured gardens with views of Camelback Mountain, and every corner feels like a movie set where someone dramatically sips a cocktail at golden hour. We, however, dramatically collapsed into bed at 8:47 p.m.

The next morning we leaned fully into desert chic and visited the Desert Botanical Garden. Towering saguaros and spiky little oddballs that look like they evolved purely out of spite.  Gardens that seem unfairly delicate for something surviving in that kind of heat. Joni took it all in at top toddler speed, which is to say she alternated between wonder and nonchalance. 

The afternoon was spent poolside, which for Joni translates to “aquatic maniac.” She swam. She splashed. She attempted independence. She demonstrated a concerning willingness to launch herself toward water at any moment. We rotated between lifeguard mode and lounging, which feels like parenting in a nutshell; 40% vigilance, 40% snacks, 20% pretending this counts as relaxation.

 Dinner that night was at a charming canal-side restaurant, the kind with twinkly lights and enough ambient magic to keep even Joni transfixed. Something about water, ducks, and soft breezes turned Joni into a model dining companion. She sat. She observed. She occasionally waved at strangers. We ate an actual meal while it was still warm. I cannot overstate the luxury of this experience.

Back at the hotel, we let her crawl laps around the room to burn off the last of the jet-lagged wiggles before a slip-tub bath with Momma, which mostly involved splashing and delighted squealing, and then finally, blissfully, bedtime.

Desert sun, warm evenings, one adventurous toddler, and parents who are cautiously optimistic about the upcoming days. 

One Year Down..

 

We’ve officially survived one year of life with baby Joni, and honestly, it was as thrilling as they said it would be.  The first three months were a delightful blur of panic, confusion, and googling “Is my baby supposed to make that noise?” every four minutes.  Then along came Vidah, our incredible au pair, and suddenly parenting didn’t feel like a high-stakes escape room with no clues.

Watching Joni evolve has been the best reality show we never asked for but now can’t stop bingeing.  She’s sampling solid foods like a tiny Rosenfeld Michelin critic drinking from her own cup like an adult with questionable coordination (uses the straw but choke on the water?), and cruising along furniture while eyeing her next big milestone: walking. We’re ready….right?? 

Her personality gets bigger every day, part sunshine, part mischief, part absolutely-knows-what-she-wants-even-though-she-has-no-words. Our first major challenge is Juneau’s limited childcare/preschool options.  Despite getting her on all the lists at 5 months there aren’t availabilities. Meanwhile, the state of pediatric healthcare and rising anti-vaccine nonsense has me composing strongly worded emails and planning international travel for vaccines in my sleep. 

Sometimes I worry that Alaska might limit her opportunities… and then I remember she gets to grow up surrounded by mountains, fresh air, and eagles that may or may not be plotting to steal her snacks. Pretty solid trade-off. I loved growing up here. 

Despite all the anxieties of raising a tiny human in a wild world, this gig is absolutely my favorite. She still greets me from naps with a smile that tugs at my heart strings.  She laughs when I roughhouse with her. She is already a seasoned traveler, only one car-vomit incident so far and it wasn’t even in our car, so that basically doesn’t count. 

Year two promises more adventures: more trips, more milestones, and probably more food flung to the grateful dogs. We are excited for it all, and incredibly grateful for this fierce, hilarious little person who has made life bigger, brighter, and occasionally smellier. 

Portugal: The Final Lap

Yesterday was, in technical terms, a bit of a dud travel day. We woke up from another blessedly solid night of sleep (yes, we still count those like lottery wins) and packed for our grand return to Lisbon. Everything was lining up beautifully: the driver was punctual, the seats plush, Joni was well-fed, well-rested, and cooing like a cherub. What could possibly go wrong?

About ten minutes into the drive, disaster struck. For the first time in her young life, Joni unleashed the fury of Mount Vesuvius… in liquid vomitous form. The car became a biohazard zone. Luckily, our driver was also a dad, so within seconds, the vehicle morphed into a triage unit as three adults sprang into coordinated crisis response: one cleaning, one soothing, and one dry-heaving slightly in the corner (names withheld). Order was restored, morale shaken but not broken, and the rest of the drive proceeded without incident.

We arrived in Lisbon, rehydrated our spirits with naps, and rallied for our grand culinary finale: Fifty Seconds by Rui Silvestre, a Michelin-starred temple of fine dining named after the length of the elevator ride to its sky-high perch. From the moment we stepped out into the dining room, surrounded by panoramic views of the Tagus River and a symphony of waitstaff who moved like synchronized swimmers, we knew we were in for something special.  

Each dish was a miniature work of art, a blend of science, poetry, and wizardry. A “Bloody Oyster” that tasted like Poseidon’s own blood Mary martini. Blue Lobster with harissa that flirted with danger but never crossed the line. Shrimp with Thai spices that were cooked to perfection. Caviar-topped tuna, citrus spheres that popped like fireworks, and desserts that made us question everything we thought we knew about hazelnuts and cranberries. Every plate looked like it was engineered in a futuristic laboratory where flavor is a religion and spoons are sacred relics. 

When we descended from the heavens (literally and metaphorically), we returned to find Joni awake and waiting, clearly wondering why we were late for her second bedtime story. We tucked her in, grateful, exhausted, and mildly intoxicated on truffle foam and parent pride.

The next morning came too soon, but we squeezed in one last heroic hotel breakfast before attempting a redemption tour of Lisbon’s missed sights. Jerónimos Monastery was, tragically, sold out (we admired it from a distance like true pilgrims of procrastination), so we strolled along the waterfront, craning our necks at the Monument to the Discoveries,  and made a final stop at the Lisbon Cathedral, a towering, echoing beauty that somehow still smelled faintly of incense and history.  

After a well-earned nap, it was time to head for the airport. Joni handled the Lisbon-to-London leg like a pro, snoozing half the way in my arms, then demanding full attention and entertainment for the other half. The seats were… let’s say “ergonomically humbling.” My knees met the seat in front of me in ways that will haunt my chiropractor for years. But we made it, breezed through customs thanks to Joni’s weaponized charm, and collapsed into our London hotel beds.

Tomorrow, the long flight home awaits, one final test in the saga of Portugal with a Baby. But tonight, as we drifted off, we couldn’t help but feel grateful. For the meals, the messes, the Michelin stars, and the memory of a trip that somehow balanced chaos and beauty, just like life with Joni. 

Portugal Day 6 – Douro Dreams

At long last, a full night’s sleep. Seven or eight uninterrupted hours might not sound like much, but after nearly a week of fractured rest, it felt like a spa retreat for the soul. I woke first and slipped out onto our porch overlooking the Douro Valley, the terraced vineyards tumbling down to the babbling river below. The air was still and faintly sweet with grapes and wild rosemary. For a long moment, nothing moved but the mist.

Eventually, the ladies stirred, and we gathered for a slow breakfast, nodding knowingly at other bleary-eyed parents who clearly understood the rare joy of a full night’s rest. Back at our hotel lobby, Joni happily explored the rugged, masculine space, her tiny palms smacking against leather chairs and stone floors, while I sampled from the self-serve Port bar (yes, Port at 10 a.m., but when in the Douro…). 

Lunch was the highlight of the day: a 14-course tasting menu at DOC Douro, a Michelin-rated restaurant perched directly over the river, where the terrace seemed to hover above the water and distant trains hummed along the opposite bank like contented bees. The view alone was worth the trip, but the food… the food was something else entirely.

We began with warm bread, olives, and impossibly airy goat’s milk butter that tasted like it had been whipped by perfectionists. Then came sardine with tomato and olive oil, a bright, briny kiss of the sea, followed by foie gras with mango and hazelnut, rich and silken with just a flicker of sweetness. A piglet croquette arrived next, golden and crisp, paired with aioli and orange zest, sunshine and comfort all in one bite. 

Each dish that followed seemed to top the last: smoked eel with apple and galangal (smoky, crisp, and oddly refreshing), sea bass with quinoa and avocado (a miniature masterpiece of texture), and melt-in-your-mouth wagyu with broccoli and black bean sauce (umami heaven). Even the desserts were playful and astonishing, a cauliflower ice cream that shouldn’t have worked but did, followed by dark chocolate with a subtle wasabi kick and a tangy raspberry finish.The only let down were the wines, I sampled multiple from various top vineyards and was unimpressed. The Port was still good though.  

Joni did remarkably well, considering she was presented with her own “three-course meal.”  She was intrigued until they handed her cutlery, at which point chaos ensued. Between Emily’s calm and my intermittent scenic stroller walks along the deck, we managed to enjoy the entire marathon meal without any major meltdowns (hers or ours).

We returned to our vineyard oasis for a family nap, lulled by the hum of the valley and full beyond reason.  Later, the staff set up a picnic near the base of the property as the sun set behind the hills. Joni played in the grass, babbling to the wind, while we lightly sample

The foods (still full from lunch) and watched golden light fade across the river. 

Two more days until we return home. For now, we’re perfectly content, fed, rested, and blissfully disconnected from the rest of the world.