I am preparing myself. It’s that time of year where we’re all supposed to be jolly and excited for the holidays, where we have to get along even if we’re quietly seething.  Please let’s not get an encore of the fist fight year. I hate to be Bah Humbug, but I wish we could just zoom past them, or at least limit the celebrations to just two tense meals and one festive movie- even that can be contentious – why does one family member get veto rights on both Love Actually and The Holiday?

I’m very polite in my everyday life. I can often be found expressing my gratitude to Chat GPT. I apologize when I’m wrong – I’m sorry my grocery cart knocked you over. Please comes naturally to me, too – But since you’re on the floor, could you please hand me that jar of peanut butter? I don’t know why they put them so low.

But being cheery for several days in a row is depressing.

More broadly, I like to think I’m thankful for my family. Like, I’m thankful my ex-husband isn’t at the Thanksgiving table anymore. There’s a lot of divorce in our family, so holidays are a good time to be grateful for divorce. But compromising on who gets to see which kids and grandkids does get in the way of those gratitude-vibes.

Luckily, I’m very happily married round two. But I am not thankful for how long he can eat Thanksgiving leftovers. By day three I can’t look at another rubbery sweet potato, limp green bean, smooshed brussels sprout or leathery piece of turkey without gagging. There’s a reason we only eat turkey once a year. My husband makes a full plate for lunch every day and eats with gusto. Opposites attract? Not in this case.

I was listening to the news, and a congressman was raising awareness for starving Americans by walking 40 miles. My first thought, and I’m ashamed to admit it, was that’s a lot of steps. Way more than 10,000. And while I feel horribly for those starving people, it didn’t actually make me feel gratitude…More like wishful – I wish I could give them our Thanksgiving leftovers. That would have made me feel grateful on so many levels.

It’s the excess I hate about the holidays. How many presents do I need to buy? How much food do I need to cook (ok order)? How many X-mas cards do I need to send before I can relax, pour a glass of wine, put my feet up and relish the days before NY’s Eve fireworks keep me up?

I used to tell my sister, expect nothing on your birthday and then you won’t be disappointed. She laughed and thought I was being a ridiculous downer. But then she had an underwhelming birthday. Guess who was disappointed?

I’m in my friend Marc’s camp when it comes to holidays. Celebrate that holiday and then move on to normal life as quickly as possible. My husband’s family likes to celebrate any holiday for about five days longer than necessary. That would be six days. They’re a joyous bunch. They start talking about the next holiday as soon as the last one ended.  They actually like each other. Can you imagine?

My kids still haven’t forgiven me for booking flights on December 25^th throughout their childhood. “It’s great! The planes are empty,” I’d tell them.

Christmas is over-rated. Now December 26^th, that’s a great day. But please, let’s keep that on the down low.

November, 2025

The post Gratitude Schmatitude appeared first on Elena Bowes.

I am not an adventurous person. I’m curious about the world, but staying alive is very important to me. Taking the subway in Manhattan can be all the thrill seeking I need.

When I met my second husband we were both already in our fifties. When he told me about some of his favorite trips – stalking Grizzly’s in Canada; sailing from Seattle to San Francisco with 25’ waves; and canoeing alongside crocodiles in the Zambezi River, it occurred to me that those three trips would tie for my perfect idea of hell.

About 15 years ago, my friend Melanie went on a safari with her family. She showed me the videos. There were a lot of people screaming and jeeps fleeing stalking animals. Everyone survived. But I decided after seeing that family video that being on a virtual safari was good enough for me. Not a huge loss as safaris have never been on my bucket list.

Until I met my husband. For some reason he was determined to feed me to the lions, I mean, go on safari. I told him the wildlife near our Connecticut home was all the safari I needed. Then we were invited to a close friend’s son’s wedding in Kenya and my husband, like Julius Caesar crossing the Rubicon, seized his moment.

“You can’t go to Kenya without going on a safari!”

My friend George once told me that his father died of encephalitis on safari. He was bitten by a Tsetse fly. He was 54.

“Which country?” I had asked.

“Kenya.”

My husband should have been a travel agent in his former life. He loves to plan, sending me multiple calendar invites, way too many for any human to read. I accept them without reading. It’s quicker.  Ditto emails. I’m a professional skimmer.  One day as I was skimming, I spotted the word “hippos” (plural) and the phrase “camping on the riverbank”.

I remember a zookeeper on a zoo tour once calling hippos the cute bad boys of the animal kingdom. Don’t let their come hither looks deceive you. One wrong move and they will take an arm or a leg. That email, I opened. My husband was recommending we stay in a camp on the riverbank to watch the hippos up close.

“It’s very secluded,” he gushed.  “We will have a lot of privacy and a great view of the hippos.”

My reply was concise. “Not happening.”

For some reason I continued to trust my husband after that. But a few weeks before we were due to fly to Nairobi, my son texted late one night:

Are you staying in a tented safari or will there be walls?

“Great question. Walls.” I nudged the man falling asleep in bed next to me, “Our camp has walls, right?” I asked.

“No, tented. It’s in the emails, Elena.” He mumbled before falling asleep.

I felt my stomach tense up. “Tented!” I carefully texted my son.

His reply? “My friends did that. The lions roared all night. They didn’t get any sleep.”

It occurred to me to be angry but in truth, I was relieved. I had the information. Now we just had to book the nearest hotel with walls. Problem solved.

I’m not exactly sure where the communication breakdown happened but fast forward a week and I’m asking my doctor for some Xanax and preparing to stay in a place without walls next to lions. And this was all before I learned about the Black Mamba snake- one bite and arrivederci.

Let’s just say that I didn’t expect to like our trip to the North Mara Conservancy, much less come back alive.

***

I had a question ready to ask as soon as I found someone to ask.

It took two short flights from Nairobi to the North Mara airstrip; a grassy field dotted with jeeps awaiting the next shift. Our two Masai guides Francis and Siparo wore traditional robes and beaten up open-toed sandals. I was wearing boots because I didn’t share in their Black Mamba death wish.

As we got into their Toyota Land Cruiser, I decided to come straight out with my burning question: Excuse me, but do you two carry guns?

“No guns, no spears,” Francis smiled from the driver’s seat, “Only God will help us.”

That was not the answer I was hoping for.

I probed more deeply until I felt better: They’d grown up on the land, been doing this for years and the animals thought of the jeep as a large nonthreatening object, like a tree. The animals were much more interested in finding prey, and they didn’t consider humans prey.

I relaxed a bit and looked around. We were surrounded by wide open grassy plains with the occasional tree and rolling hills in the far distance. The September sun was warm on my face. It felt good. I patted the Xanax in my pocket reassuringly.

We were dropped at the Serian Original Camp, agreeing to meet back up with our guides in the late afternoon. That felt great until they added, to see if we could find some lions.

That first day we left at sunrise traversing the North Mara Conservancy, 80 thousand acres of protected land that border the Serengeti Plains. Only ten other camps had access to this unspoilt, untamed slice of nature. After seeing an abundance of animals … giraffe, gazelle, elephant, it was time for the main attraction and I’m not trying to be funny. The lion sat in the distance, surveying his kingdom, mane wild around his face. I’d never been so happy to be a tree.

After dinner my husband and I were escorted by a staff member carrying a stick and a flashlight to our tented suite. The ensuite tent had running hot water and electricity. There was no WIFI. If we were attacked in the night we’d have to scream.

The zippered tent was built on a platform and had a porch overlooking the Mara River. The rushing water lulled me into a surprisingly deep slumber.

The next day, after a sunrise drive Francis and Siparo set up a table and chairs for us and then laid out a sumptuous buffet on the hood of the jeep- juicy melon, peaches, fresh squeezed juice, homemade granola, jam, toast, hard boiled eggs, and steaming coffee. After making sure nothing was stalking my granola, I began to eat. And somehow eating outside by a stream, shaded by a huge tree was magical.

By sundown cocktails, I was sold. For three days I didn’t think about emails, Instagram, the news, President who? I became obsessed with spotting animals with my binoculars. My world was only the gorgeous landscape and its inhabitants. Fascination trumped fear- learning about animal behaviour- the hierarchy, survival of the fittest, elephants are unpredictable, lionesses do the hunting, giraffes prune all the trees, hyenas are the garbage collectors.

I asked a lot of questions, not about things like how much sedation would stop an attacking buffalo, but questions I wouldn’t normally ask, like: How long will that cub live with its mother? Why are the wildebeest, zebras and gazelles grazing so nonchalantly?

Aren’t they worried about being eaten? How fast can a cheetah run? And even – without a thought for my own survival but purely out of curiosity – Where do the black mambas live?

I even stepped out of the jeep with Siparo, going on walks, keeping a lookout while Francis drove the jeep slowly nearby.

There’s nothing like walking in the wild, my senses were on high alert, noticing every footprint, every rustling in the grass or creature in the distance.

I can’t tell you how relaxing it is to get absorbed in another world, a vital world that is untouched, by man and has its own natural order. My kids texted me after a few days to see how I was doing, was I okay?

I looked around. I was doing okay. I was better than okay. I was stimulated and awe inspired. I had challenged myself at 63 and confirmed that not only was staying alive important to me but so was living.

October, 2025

The post I Have Begrudgingly Become an Adventure Traveler in my 60’s – THIS IS WHAT I’VE LEARNED. appeared first on Elena Bowes.

Type a word into the Safari box on the screen,” she instructed.

Sounded so simple. But not when you can’t find the Safari box. It wasn’t where it normally was in the bottom left corner. I promise. I looked everywhere.

I don’t see it,” I said.

It’s right there,” she replied, not moving.

Hmmm, my eyes darted around the screen.

I could feel her eyes boring into my shoulder. Restless. I was slowing her down. Old lady.

Just type anything into the box, it doesn’t need to be a word.”

But I don’t even see the box,” I explained again.

I really did know what a Safari box was. I might have been older than her mother and every other person in that Apple shop—but I didn’t live on the moon. Before I knew it, she’d grabbed the keyboard from me and started typing into the square.

Ahh there’s that sneaky Safari box, I thought. Upper left corner, who knew?

 I whipped out my credit card, showing Miss Impatient that I could be speedy at some things.

You’re good to go,” she said, without looking at me. And with that I was dismissed.

I left Apple feeling stupid and old.

Moments later, as I walked down Madison, an attractive woman in her thirties in a minidress and slingback sandals clicked past. I smiled, trying to meet her eyes. But she looked right past me. When had I become invisible? How had that happened?

That’s when I remembered a podcast a friend had recommended. When she first told me about it, I thought, just as I’m sure you’re thinking now, another podcast? But for all you women who are 60+, you’ll thank me later.

“Wiser than Me” is hosted by famed actress/comedian/producer Julia Louis-Dreyfus. Her familiar voice piped into my ears, it’s both warm and frank and she laughs all the time. It’s good to laugh. I am drawn in from the moment she starts explaining why she  launched her first ever podcast.

When women get older, we don’t hear from them much,” Julia says. “They become less visible, less seen.” Even just hearing her say it makes me feel more visible, more seen. “Our culture just seems to celebrate youth, youth, youth… Fuck that bullshit,” she goes on. “I want to hear from these old women. How do they navigate aging, living? Give us some tips from the frontline.”

 Fashion legend Diane von Furstenberg, one of Julia’s interviewees, recommends Julia not ask guests how old they are, but instead how long they’ve lived. DvF has lived 76 years.

I love this podcast, with all ten episodes providing reassuring, wise life hacks for those who can’t find the nomadic Safari box on our computer screen in front of AppleCare tech support.

Julia begins each episode telling us a bit about her own background and how that connects to the guest speaker, so for von Furstenberg we hear about Julia wearing a pink bikini and white go-go boots at age 7 and realizing the power of fashion. In another episode when Julia is about to meet 75-year-old celebrated food writer, Ruth Reichl, Julia starts by discussing a distressing miscarriage and how her mother’s homemade chili and cornbread comforted her during that difficult time.

During that episode Reichl says that when she faces life’s unavoidable losses, she goes into the kitchen where the smells and flavors help bring her back into the world. To that end, Julia asks for some advice on pound cake—whether to add orange zest and juice to the batter.

Just the zest,” Reichl suggests.

Reichl also says,

You can waste your whole life looking for perfection. Don’t think perfection is your goal.’

The series’ first episode features 85-year-old Jane Fonda, and in the middle of the interview, the power goes out in Julia’s studio. Julia swears when she loses contact with Fonda. She swears a lot. And none of it is cut from the episode. Editing is practically an afterthought. My takeaway? It’s ok to fail. Perfection is the enemy of good enough.

Once Julia gets Fonda back, we are lucky enough to hear Fonda muse about knowing when a romantic relationship is over: When she starts fantasizing about her partner’s funeral.

Her favorite vibrator? The Rabbit.

Iconic New Yorker, 72-year-old Frannie Leibowitz was possibly my favorite guest of the season. Leibowitz is famous for her writer’s block. She calls it her writer’s tower. She hasn’t published a book since 1994, but boy can that woman talk. On the topic of New York City which both Julia and Liebowitz love, Liebowitz says,

 I don’t understand why people move from the city to Vermont to retire? There are no doormen in Vermont.”

Leibowitz is notoriously lazy, doesn’t own a mobile phone, or anything technical. Leibowitz holds grudges and gives Julia tips on how to get revenge. She still smokes. Her honesty is so refreshing that after the interview was over, I went down a very deep Leibowitz rabbit hole. I recommend you do the same. When asked at one speaking engagement if she’d ever consider running a marathon, she laughed and said, “only if a German soldier was pointing a gun at my back.”

Julia ends each episode by calling her sharp, devoted 89-year-old mother Judy for the rehash.  During the episode with Reichl, Julia offers to cook a meal for the famous food critic. Reichl accepts. Julia hangs up with Reichl and immediately goes into a panic.

Why the fuck did I do that? I need to ask my mom what to make. I got to call my mom “

Judy usually answers her phone on the first ring. Their banter is adorable. Judy is clearly so proud of Julia.

Oh Julia, that (meal is) going to be priceless. Absolutely priceless.”

Back to me, of course: When I told Stretch about my Apple experience, he said,

You need to be tougher.”

You’re not a woman,” I snapped.

Channel your mother.”

I could. Because my mother never would have cared about a kid at the Apple store. But now, thanks to “Wiser than Me” I have a lot of amazing women I can channel, women who get me, who see me, who are me—but even better, who are wiser.

Postscript- I went to the Apple in Greeenwich, Connecticut this am- a totally different experience. Full of oldies. Love it there. The  gentleman next to me was explaining to AppleCare tech support, that “no he didn’t know his Apple ID or password, his grandson set it up three years ago and he couldn’t remember it either.”  I felt such warmth for this man, for Apple (in Greenwich) and for all of us of who have lived so long that we remember when an apple was just that.

September, 2023

The post Wiser than Me with Julia Louis-Dreyfus- Tips from the Frontline appeared first on Elena Bowes.

“Cool,” I said.

My kids had gone to camp nearby and I had always heard it was stunning. Stretch then described how his family loves to congregate, siblings, grandparents, kids, pets.

“If there isn’t enough room, we just bunk up, set up tents on the lawn or the kids sleep in my father’s boat. It’s crowded but fun,” he enthused.

The idea of going to a big family gathering was never my favorite idea. But maybe if I had my own shoreside bungalow and could pop in and out of family events at my discretion, that could be okay. But the idea of everyone living in one small space together? That was horrifying. I parked it in that it’s just a first date, you’re not marrying the guy corner of my brain.

Firm boundaries were all I knew. Until my father died, family holidays meant separate housing for each family subgroup. As a child I knew when my father came home from work, he was not to be disturbed. He needed time to relax, read the papers, have a drink alone with my mother, and until I was about 11, dinner alone with her too.  My family liked its privacy.

Fast forward 8 years and I married Stretch. I have now become a part of Stretch’s all-inclusive happy family who loves to hang out. In caveman days they’d all be sitting around the campfire laughing and maybe throwing a few rocks (they’re quite sporty), and I’d be the weirdo hiding in the cave, maybe drawing a few hieroglyphics on the wall.

My single friend understood my dilemma. She emailed me one day after I’d gone on a complain-rant, When I meet men, I almost panic thinking about their lives/ways/agendas and how my ‘somewhat strongly set’ ways would sync up with theirs. I imagine a second, new marriage has even more challenges than a first as you enter an already formed being and with separate families.

And to make matters even more complicated, Stretch’s family is really nice.

“Don’t you hate that?” my therapist asked me. “Nice people, the worst.”

“Exactly,” I nodded. “I can’t even hate them.” Then we both laughed.

The truth is I like them a lot. And I’m kind of social. But I’m also an introvert. I need my privacy to refuel. Oh, it’s confusing. In the interests of marital bliss, I want to rethink what I thought was a given, what I can accept and what I really can’t. The key to resolving differences of opinion, I’m told, is calmly talking through issues. Early and often, as Stretch says.

Thirteen assorted members of Stretch’s family recently gathered outside Boston for Stretch’s nephew’s high school graduation. It wasn’t like the nephew’s school was down the road. Planes, trains and automobiles plus rain boots/galoshes and several layers were required to attend the rainy outdoor ceremony.  I thought back to my graduation at the same school 43 years earlier. Only my mother came.

The majority of Stretch’s family, including yours truly, were staying in an Airbnb in Manchester by the Sea promisingly called Villa Fiori.  It sort of looked villa-like from the outside, but as soon as you entered, the house had a spooky feel. Maybe it was the angel with black eyes staring down at us from the living room wall or the human-size safe in the kitchen, or the multiple doors that said Do Not Enter or the dark creaky nineteenth century hallways.

There were rooms upon rooms, all a bit musty and old-fashioned, and an attic that I only got the courage to visit on our last day.

There were lights that flickered when they weren’t supposed to and the sound of a ghost dog yapping in the middle of the night. Our brother-in-law and his labrador Buckner were sleeping in the attic.  Both heard this dog that was not Buckner and commenced a midnight search of the house.  Nothing. Then I found the pair of fake eye lashes glued to our bathroom shelf.

Goodbye introvert. All of a sudden I was sitting around that proverbial campfire with zero need for alone time.

The manager of the house came by to introduce himself.

“Hi I’m Don,” he said bounding in the front door. “I always thought this house would be great for a murder mystery party,” he said jovially, gesturing with his arms at all the different rooms you could hide in.

I flashed a look at Stretch’s son Will and niece Kristin who were just as jittery about the house as I was.

“Hah hah,” said Will nervously, “we even thought there might be a ghost.

“Oh there is,’ Don said. “Her name is Winnifred.”

We all sat up to attention.

Winnifred?! Which room?!?

Don then pointed to the far corner upstairs, the exact room in which Buckner had uncharacteristically cowered the day before, causing Will to change bedrooms.

“Just read the guest book,” Don said.

“Guest book?!?” we said in unison.

Don pointed to a notebook on the hall table.

“Yeah, it’s all in there. Winnifred likes the right side of the bed. And she’s a friendly ghost so nothing to worry about.”

I wondered how you knew which was the right side. Didn’t it depend on your perspective? Facing the bed. Laying in the bed. Each had a different right. This was too big a decision to leave to an error of perspective. Then again, I was never going near that room so it didn’t matter.

I certainly saw the benefits of togetherness at Villa Fiori. And I’m coming round to the perks of convivial chaos (in my head that’s the world people with no boundaries live in).  Ghosts or no ghosts.

Writer Arthur Brooks’ refers to a 2008 study looking at happy versus unhappy people: “What Do Happy People Do?” To put it simply, they are social. The scholars found that, on average, “very happy” people socialize on 11 more occasions a year with relatives than unhappy people do. They also socialize more often with neighbors and friends.

No wonder Stretch’s family is so happy. I’m wondering if socialising with my pug Josephine counts. Baby steps. And I’ll always draw the line at sharing my office or bedroom.

Stretch’s rugged brother-in-law, and Buckner  stayed in Winnifred’s room for one night of the trip.

Talk about BRAVE.  I slept a little easier knowing they were protecting us from Winnifred. I just hoped he picked the correct “right” side of the bed.

June, 2023

The post Rethinking Family Traditions in the Name of Second Marriages appeared first on Elena Bowes.

My feet is my only carriage. So I’ve got to push on through

Ten things I learned on the Camino:

That there are a myriad of ways to tackle the Camino, and it’s best to speak to a specialist to choose the route that’s best for you. We used Camino Ways …

That before boarding that plane, someone- thank you Jef in the green –

needs to map out the daily walks on All Trails – Sometimes those Camino seashells are hard to spot, not to mention decipher …

That making a bad weather call and joining our motley crew a day late was the right move

But when the sun came out there was no place I’d rather be..

That blister pads and poles are essential,

not to mention waterproof boots, wool socks, a sunhat, cash, battery charger and an open mind..

That the best conversations happen on the road

And since I walk a lot faster than my beloved Stretch those conversations were not with him

That I don’t like pinxtos, but love Catalan artichokes

That it’s good to get out of your bubble (for short periods), as long as there’s hot water, clean rooms and people to laugh with

And that I still don’t like the Beegee’s

The Camino delivers. At the end of each day I felt a mixture of exhilaration, exhaustion and peacefulness. I left my laptop at home and barely checked emails. There was a real sense of connection and community on the trails. Strangers were constantly wishing us a Buen Camino and vice versa. It felt freeing to be so switched off from the day to day grind and at the same time very focused on spotting those seashells, figuring out our route, lunch and getting from Point A to Point B each day. It was kind of like being on a very long treasure hunt. Who knew what was around the next bend.

The post Say Yes to Adventure, Camino di Santiago appeared first on Elena Bowes.