I’ve lived in New York for almost a decade yet never visited the Bronx Zoo. Central Park Zoo, roughly 25 minutes from my home, was the furthest I had trekked with my kids to observe a depressed polar bear and a couple of sea lions with Tourett Syndrome. On July 4th weekend, my wife and I finally decided to take our three children to the Bronx and see what all the fuss was about. It was a blisteringly hot day, which in Zoo terms means an overpoweringly stinky day too. At first, the mélange of putrid odors emitted by the animals served to help us as we simply followed our noses from the bus stop where we’d been dropped off. As the stink intensified, we knew we were close until voilà—we arrived. The noxious air combined with the suffocating heat evaporated my excitement for visiting the Congo Gorilla Forrest—or any other habitat for that matter. It took every bit of willpower and discipline just to keep down the hotdog I had devoured moments earlier. But having gone through the upheaval of packing diapers bags, backpacks and schlepping a bulky double-stroller through the sweltering subway, and repeating the process for the subsequent bus ride, there was no turning back now. In spite of my white t-shirt now soaked in sweat and revealing the precise location and aesthetics of my nipples, we pressed on. Of course it was important not to openly acknowledge the pungent smell from fear that my kids would start incessantly complaining. So I suffered in silence, even when my daughter declared, “Daddy, it’s so smelly”, to which I responded, “Is it? I hadn’t noticed” (I imagine she could smell my bullshit too.) After a full day touring the impressive grounds and exhibits it was easy to see how the zoo had garnered its world-famous reputation. However, that day, the funky air would eclipse any memories of leaping lemurs, chest-pounding gorillas, or butterfly gardens. As if the animals weren’t contributing enough to the air quality, my infant son soiled his diaper in diarrhea moments before we exited the zoo. When I relayed my experience to an ardent fan of the zoo (who also happens to be a great fan of fine art), he suggested that I was being petty. In turn, I suggested that he probably wouldn’t have appreciated his recent trip to the Louvre if he were forced to view the Mona Lisa while knee-deep in shit. As for the Bronx Zoo, a December return may help erase from my memory what hundreds of animals and 100 degrees seared in.
