Traveling with Parents

It was just like being a teenager again.  Could I sleep in?  Could I stay out just an hour later?  Would I have to ask for Dad’s permission?  It was all these thoughts and more when I traveled with my . . . Dad.

The thought of traveling with a fully life experienced parent (whew, glad I didn’t use “senior citizen”) initially heralded that adolescent wanderlust that fueled my daydreams to far away lands.  “I have been to Ireland several times before,” I thought, “but, this time, it’s totally different.” 

It did not take long for the novelty to wear off.  There were serious matters of concern.  What is the availability of prescriptions?  Of doctors willing to see a tourist?  Insurance?  Sure, Ireland has the internet; WebMD to the rescue.

The patriarch had his own questions.  Being a man of fixed means, and this college graduate facing the “Great Recession,” he pondered, and possibly feared, “where will we stay on such a tight budget?”  “8 hours on a plane,” he said, “and it’s a felony to tamper with smoke detectors in the lavatory?” 

I shrugged many of his concerns off, naively thinking “what is the worst that can happen?”  After all, I had yet to have a serious injury or medical situation occur in my previous adventures.  But the friend of old age is the blind sided mishap, the blip on the screen suddenly appearing or, even worse, disappearing.  While Dad started the logistical research, I checked and double checked all safeguards. 

European cell phone?  Check. 

Emergency numbers?  Check. 

Written list of medical ailments and scripts?  Check. 

Instructions on the international sign for help should an airplane spot us?  Check. 

As the date drew nearer, though, the excitement began to show.  The worries appeared less worrisome.  “Hey,” Dad would whisper at conversational lulls, as though the secret of life were to follow, “we’re going to Ireland.”  I laughed and thought that for three weeks I might be babysitting a child. 

The two flights we took to get to Dublin were eerily expedient.  No delays, no having to run a marathon for the connecting flight.  It must have been the calm before the storm.  We landed slightly ahead of schedule.  There was no rush off the plane (we only had a carry on bag each), no hurry to get though passport control.  And, when I realized that the airport had changed since I was last there and had no idea where to catch the bus, there was no feeling of impending doom.  Huh, so this is what retired life is like. 

The next three weeks were some of the best traveling I have ever experienced.  It was experiential travel at its best.  Some of our adventures can only be prefaced with “you had to be there.”  Not because I am a terrible storyteller, though stories do get better with each pint, rather they follow plots from a Disney inspired Twilight Zone, misfortune could lay just around the bend, but magically the clouds parted, the sun shone, and the glass slipper fit.  And, I must confess, it was due in large part to traveling with pops.

There must be a secret handshake all old men know.  Their penchant for finding other old men defies logic.  Their gift of conversation, of turning lemons into a dry martini with a twist, is what traveling is really about.  Sure, we saw the sights, took the obligatory selfies and photos we still have yet to decipher.  But, it is the stores that are legendary.  Homer’s Oddyssey replaced with “remember that one time in Ireland.”  Each story predicated upon someone that Dad had a conversation with.

Amid all the pre-flight checks and concerns, the blatently obvious was overlooked: that life experience trumps all.  Well, that, and a gallon bag of airline rum bottles.  So, dust off grandma and grandpa and go.  Sure, you don’t even know the handshake.