The other thing that bugs me is a confident pronouncement that a destination is “over.” Tulum? Wouldn’t be caught
muerto there. Apparently, Porto is the new Paris (it’s not) Cartagena is the new Costa Rica (whatever that means) and the waterfalls on the Isle of Skye make the ones in the Caribbean look like a faucet trickle. There are pre-break-school-pickup comparisons of itineraries, shared dining recos — "No, do NOT go to Le Voltaire, it’s ALL Americans!" — and pissing contests of private guides, educational components and hotel one-upmanship.
Then, there is the worst kind of aren’t-we-fabulous-ness: the group trip. Don’t worry, I don’t feel left out. Maybe these people think we are boring to be alone with our kids lounging in pajamas, washing plates together and singing along as Zeppelin plays. To me, group trips are like “The Big Chill,” except the dead body is someone's marriage. My worst nightmare beyond the dreaded omekase group dinner, the group trip has at least five families and can snowball to as many as 12, with folks literally making MONOGRAMMED FLEECES and taking photos in pyramid formations or toasting mugs with spiked hot cocoa. Edgy!
I heard about one posse that has been taking the same annual spring break since the kids were shitting their Huggies in nursery school. They are now college-bound. Apparently, there are 1,245 reply-all emails with spreadsheets, and moms divvy up responsibilities from restaurant reservations to ski rentals to game night, Instagramming every step of the way (except for the spouse-swapping, that is).
As a lifelong New Yorker, I can attest this is a recent phenomenon and not how it was when I was a kid. Back then, we were perfectly fine wandering the streets and grabbing a slice or a Papaya King hotdog and going to a movie. Now, all the hedge funders have to keep up with each other in a circle-jerk of extravagant destinations.
In the end, the how-was-your-break arms race at that first drop-off back begins to sound something like the Cold War. I’m Gorbachev, naturally, but the birthmark on my forehead is shaped like Mauritius or some other far-flung island I’ll probably never visit. The closest I’ll ever get to Fiji is the water bottle, and I’m okay with that. I’ll just come back and hear everyone tell me
alllllll about their adventures, countering that our trip to Gstaad was waist-deep in powder, so we just
had to warm up in Equatorial Guinea afterward, which is the new Papua New Guinea. After all, the first morning back to school is April Fool’s Day.
Jill Kargman is a New York-based writer, actress and television producer. Follow her on Instagram @jillkargman.