We honeymoon in Kenya for three weeks. It's one of those places House has never been and neither have I. We didn't want to be traditional and go to Paris or Rome to drink wine and eat cheese. We arrive in Nairobi after a sixteen hour flight with a stop over halfway, in Amsterdam. I'm so plastered from smoking there and drinking throughout the entire flight, House has to let me lean on him heavily.
It's dark out, about ten at night, so we can't see anything during the taxi ride into the city. The smell of diesel fuel is strong in the air and it's quite hot out; December is their summer. The second we get to the hotel, I pass out.
The next morning, we head out with our safari tour guide, Lema, a young man from a nearby village. We drive out of the city and are confronted with the sight of the shanty town, a massive city of shacks constructed from sheet metal, tarps and plywood. There's garbage in the streets and young children dressed in rags running around in the dirt. For a moment, I'm feeling poorly about coming here for what's supposed to be the most romantic vacation of our marriage.
It's when we get far away from the city that I see why we're here. The vast, open spaces take my breath away and there are herds of zebras and wildebeests everywhere. I never thought I would see something this beautiful, the contrast of the city and the grass lands is shocking.
The hotels and safari camps we stay in are all beautiful, all luxurious. When we aren't out on safari, looking at the animals and the scenery, we're in our room with our hands all over each other. We do it everywhere; in the bed, in the bathtub, on the balcony, on the floor of every room we're in.
He and I spend time by the pool, drinking ourselves into oblivion before going back to our room for more sex. We fall in love with a local beer, Tusker, and it's all we drink the entire time. We horseback ride, we try to golf, but his leg is in pain and we can only get through six of our nine holes. I go to the spa while he explores the grounds of the hotel.
It's relaxing and although he gets angry at me for taking too many pictures, I think he's having the time of his life. It's nice to get away from the hospital and the cases and the long, late nights for a while, but by the middle of our third week, he's dying to get back. You can distract House from the puzzles for a while, but eventually they begin to call to him and he can no longer be entertained by mundane things such as a safari at the base of Kilimanjaro.
We get back to Jersey two days before Christmas. My hatred for Christmas makes me wish we could've stayed out of the country a little longer so I wouldn't have to see bright little Christmas trees and fat Santas. I sent out Borders bookstore gift cards to everyone before we left so I wouldn't have to worry about anything upon our return.
There's a wreath on the door and I toss it into the road and House laughs and kisses me. Our mail is stacked neatly on the kitchen counter, courtesy of Wilson, and I see we have a few FedEx packages, likely presents from my family. We're both glad to be home, I can tell, and so I open a bottle of wine to celebrate.
We have several messages on the machine and after the first three about welcoming us back, House deletes the rest and pulls my pants down. I laugh and unbutton my shirt and he backs me into the bedroom, where we stay until we pass out from exhaustion and jet lag.
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We honeymoon in Kenya for three weeks, my choice. I've never been to Kenya, and neither has Henri so I figured it'd be the perfect place. I didn't want to go anywhere I'd already been, or anywhere cliché like Paris or Rome. I'm not sure how romantic a place like Kenya is, but it's new and interesting. We get our shots and Henri nearly passes out, but her consolation prize is that she won't get yellow fever in the next decade.
We arrive in Nairobi after a sixteen hour flight with a stop over halfway, in Amsterdam. Having Henri and I in Amsterdam for a few hours was like letting kids loose in a candy shop. I want to get us a hooker, but she instead uses up the entire time smoking weed. She eats four bags of chips and then starts in on the beers on the flight and by the time we land, she's hammered. Henri has to lean on me heavily.
It's dark out, about ten, and we can't see anything around us except a bit of the road and occasional car dealerships and shopping centers. The air smells like diesel fuel and it's damn hot outside; December is their summer and I wish I had some shorts on. The second we get to the hotel, Henri passes out. I wander around the hotel, looking at the local art decorating the halls and the lobby.
I end up having a conversation with a Hindu man in the bar and we both demolish a bottle of bourbon. I enjoy speaking in other languages; it's a great brain exercise and polishes my pronunciation.
The next morning, we head out with our safari tour guide, Lema, a young, very dark man from a nearby village. We drive out of the city and Henri is shocked at the poverty that surrounds us. We're going by a shanty town, a collection of shacks constructed with anything the occupants can find. There's garbage everywhere, little kids running around in rags. Henri looks like she might cry and is regretting agreeing to come here.
It's when we get farther away from the city that we're both struck by the vast, open spaces of the grass lands. There are herds of gazelles and giraffes and elephants wandering all over and it's nothing less than amazing.
The hotels and safari camps we stay in are the best; I may have dragged my wife into the middle of nowhere, but I won't let her be mad because we stay in a dirty little tent. When we aren't out on safari, looking for rare animals and admiring the scenery, we're in our hotel room banging like a couple of rabbits. I try to have her in a different place every time we do it.
We lie down by the pool, drinking ourselves into oblivion before going back to our room for more sex; I like her in nothing but her bikini top. We drink a copious amount of the local beer, Tusker, a lager with an elephant on the front. We horseback ride at her insistence and we try to golf, but my leg is in pain and we can only get through six of our nine holes. Henri goes to the spa and although I can manage a massage, the rest of that shit isn't for me so I wander around the hotel grounds.
The vacation is relaxing and I'm having a great time, but Henri takes too many god damn pictures. Do we really need a picture of a blue bird 100 yards too far away to see clearly? It's been nice to be away from Cuddy's nagging and Wilson's worrying and the bullshit that comes with new patients and late nights away from Henri. By the end of the trip, I'm itching to get back. I miss my puzzles and my mysteries and those are things that even a safari at the base of Kilimanjaro can distract me from.
We get back to New Jersey two days before Christmas. My hatred for Christmas matches Henri's, something surprising; most people love the holiday season and there's no one I know who hates it as much as I do other than Henri. She wishes we could've stayed out of the country for a little while so we could have avoided the entire thing. She's disgusted by the shiny tinsel, the blinking tree lights and the obese, bearded men in red suits. We sent out Borders bookstore gift cards to everyone before we left so she wouldn't feel guilty about not getting anyone anything upon our return.
There's a wreath on the door and she tosses it into the street and I laugh and kiss her; this confirms that she's the woman for me. It was probably put up by Wilson, who collected and neatly organized our mail while we were away. There's a few packages, too, probably from the in-laws. We're both glad to be home, so Henri opens some wine to celebrate.
We have several messages on the machine and after the first three about welcoming us back, I delete the rest and pull Henri's pants down, intending to celebrate our return a different way. She unbuttons her shirt and I back her into the bedroom, where we stay until we pass out from exhaustion and jet lag.