Tales From A Broad by Fran Lebowitz Page B

have found a way to make it anything but a sight to behold. First, wherever nature intended there to be rocks, there is cement – behind the falls, in front of the falls, even the ‘beach’ is a cement slab. The park service thought to supply trash cans but then forgot to assign someone the job of emptying them.
    In short, it’s depressing. We head back to the car. Frank elbows me. ‘Eleven o’clock,’ he whispers. ‘Do me a favour and just kill me if I ever look like that.’ I locate the subjects. Oh, mood soaring, they are perfect. Just about the pastiest couple on earth, in their 50s or 60s – or 30s for that matter. Who can tell? Clearly British. They proudly wear their various butterfly nets in special carriers, like soldiers, and their binoculars and water canteen at a predetermined angle, for quick access. They have matching khaki outfits and their trouser legs are stuffed into their thick, woolly socks. Wow, do we ever feel better after that laugh.
    We get into the car and drive to a hotel that was written up as being a landmark, full of antiques and history. It is a lovely place, even up close. It’s amply furnished and the only sign of the downturn in the tourist trade is the carpet, which is threadbare, but not sad. It adds character. It bespeaks decades of elegant, leisure-class expats journeying here to escape the heat and drink tea or scotch. As Frank waits for the hostess, I go off to the bathroom and who should I spy having a cuppa but the same British couple who made our day. They are now in matchy-matchy tea-drinking costumes.
    â€˜Hi,’ I say to them. ‘I think we just saw you out by the waterfall.’
    â€˜Oh yes, we were so disappointed,’ the woman says.
    â€˜Rather,’ says the man (or maybe I just assumed he would say that and didn’t really listen).
    â€˜Yeah, it was like travelling for miles to visit the sewer,’ I say.
    â€˜You mean the waterfall?’ she asks. ‘We felt the same way, didn’t we, when we first came here.’
    â€˜I should say so,’ says the man (or at least he should have).
    â€˜You’ve been here before?’ I ask.
    â€˜Oh yes, we make it a point to come when there’s a chance to see the magubericks. They eat the cinderberry pistula near the waterfall.’
    â€˜Indeed,’ the man probably doesn’t say.
    â€˜What are magubericks?’ I ask.
    â€˜Oh, they are rare butterflies who grow to enormous dimensions,’ she says.
    â€˜Wingspan of an eagle,’ he says and gulps down the remainder of his scotch.
    â€˜Gee, I wonder if that thing we saw in the pub was one?’ I muse.
    They lean forward in their chairs, eager for news. I describe the bug I saw. They press me to think hard, try harder – you aren’t trying hard enough – to remember the exact time I saw it.
    â€˜Cheer up, Nick,’ says the lady. ‘We have two more weeks to finally track it down.’
    â€˜Very well,’ I say for Nick.
    It seems the couple have been coming over from Surrey for the past 20 years. Frank near busts a gut when I get to the part about them staying for two weeks.
    We sit outside, surrounded by a glorious garden and a moody view of the mountains. From here, they look carpeted in curly green brush, half shrouded in clouds, wrapped around them like a shawl. I am dying to run wild over them. The weather is perfect and the kids are enjoying themselves on the swinging porch seat. We take lots of pictures and then horse around in the soft, cool grass. Sadie orders ‘bubble and squeak’ based on its name, I order the salmon salad, Frank, the cottage pie, and we get Huxley an omelette. The beers are nice and cold. The kids slurp up their apple juice – no milk again today. Our lunches come out together, which is extremely rare in Asia because either they think you are all sharing everything … or, they don’t care, you’ll take