Diary of a novelist dad on a last-minute vacation from Luxembourg
A last-minute package to the Canary Islands. Eight hours of play school for Harry, steady wifi for the novel, and an open bar where Carole and I could drink ourselves under the table.
Saturday
The morning was cool when the taxi for Findel rolled up outside the villa. A modest place—five beds, Lorentzweiler. But summer wasn’t done with the Miller family. I had grabbed a last-minute package to the Canary Islands—Letzair Tours. Eight hours of play school for Harry, steady wifi for the novel, and an open bar where Carole and I could drink ourselves under the table. Brat summer, we called it.
At the airport, they told us the flight was overbooked. “This isn’t good enough. I want compensation,” I said, flat, tired.
The blonde stewardess didn’t flinch. “We can offer a four-day safari in Kenya?”
I hesitated. “That’ll do,” I muttered.
We headed home, told to return tomorrow, same time. Harry cried the whole ride back. When I saw the €100 taxi bill, I cried too. The novel stayed unwritten. Instead, we watched some show about pirates.
Sunday
We boarded the plane to Nairobi. First class. Harry cried the whole way, even with an invite to meet the pilot. I would have killed to meet the pilot. But we spoil the boy. I’m thinking of changing the novel from adventure to crime. It fits. Luckily, the crémant didn’t stop. I wrote fifty words, maybe.
Carole and I were half drunk by the time we landed. Harry was so quiet we almost left him on the plane. Then he cried through the four-hour bus ride to the hotel. And for the first time, I started wishing for pirates. Maybe they'd come and take us off course. Maybe that’s the novel I should write.
Harry finally fell asleep, watching cartoons on my phone.
Monday
We left the phone on the bus. Now I’m in Kenya without a phone. Maybe it’s for the best. I could focus on the novel. But first, the safari. Juma, our guide, took us across the dry plains of the Masai Mara. We watched a lion take down an antelope. Juma told us lions sometimes eat their own young. I nodded. I understood.
Harry cried because there was no Hefalump. I’m numb to his crying now.
This is all I had time to write today.
Tuesday
Bad night. Harry didn’t sleep. The ranger told him the last kid who stayed here got eaten by a lion. Lions don’t worry me. It’s the mosquitoes that do.
Today we saw more animals. Too many to count. Carole took pictures. No alcohol here. Hard to write without a drink in hand.
Carole’s been spending a lot of time with Juma. Maybe this will turn into a romance novel after all.
Wednesday
This morning, we flew over the park in a hot air balloon at sunrise. Harry slept through it all, thank God. I felt feverish halfway up—realized I hadn’t taken the malaria pills. Carole said I should switch to gin and tonic for the quinine.
We’re staying in a colonial-style hotel now. Chesterfield armchairs. I feel like Hemingway. Harry’s different. When I gave him his Coco Pops at breakfast, he growled at me. At least he’s stopped crying.
Thursday
The novel is nearly done. I wrote through the night. My hands wouldn’t stop. The words poured out, like rain on the dry plains of the Mara. Like the sweat from my brow. This is it. The best novel ever written. I’ll quit that lousy job. I’ve invented a new genre.
Carole told me to lay off the coffee. I told her to go to hell—I’m about to be a best-selling novelist. Harry cried.
I’ll take a short nap. Then I’ll finish the last...
Friday
I woke with my head on the keyboard. The manuscript—gone. Deleted. All of it. I knew I should have brought the typewriter! At the same time, I’m sure pirates followed us to the airport and boarded the plane. And now I have malaria. Carole didn’t believe me about the pirates.
Harry cried the whole flight back to Luxembourg. But when we landed, he unbuckled his belt, marched into the diminutive terminal, and asked, "Daddy, when can we go on holiday again?"
I said nothing. I actually look forward to returning to work at the bank on Monday.