The collective age of me and my travelling partners was 204. And no, there weren’t 10 of us. There were five. It was a grown up family holiday. A month with the parentals, my sister and her partner.
It’s not exactly how I pictured my first trip to Europe. I’d planned to go solo, or perhaps explore with a friend. Two young Aussie girls on the road type of thing. But I’m not one to turn down a trip, even if it has the potential to inspire the plot in a bad holiday film.
Our time together included a week (hostage) on a canal boat in southwest France, three weeks (trapped) in a hire car and four weeks of me curling up on the spare bed in a room with either my parents or my sister and her partner. Actually I lie. There was one night, in France. I remember it clearly. I got a bedroom to myself. (It really is the small things.)
At almost any age above 16, being on holiday with your parents is just not cool. Not my words – common teenage sentiment. Over 20 and it’s beyond not being cool, it’s rather odd. Cue the concern: “Why go travelling with their parents? Surely you can go with a friend, boyfriend or Contiki?”
Yep, I probably could. But a month in a seven-seater car that never quite seemed big enough for the five of us taught me a lot.
Parents can be your friends
Aside from the occasional tone of voice that gives away my mother’s disapproval on a wardrobe choice or spending decision, my parents stopped parenting a long time ago. When I moved away, there were never any reminders for me to call home. Just a text message if contact lapsed a little too long. “You alive?”. I got the hint. I called. It changed about the time I turned 18 and started university. These people were no longer my parents, just older people I lived with for a few years and who I didn’t feel totally obliged to pay back if they lent me money. While we were travelling we went shopping and sightseeing, chatted over a bottle of wines, compared photos – all the things I would expect to do with a travel partner.
Blood really is thick
I’ve nearly ruined two friendships by travelling with mates. The daily debate of where to go, what to do and whether each of us was happy doing the same thing took its toll on both relationships and we were only away two weeks. A month travelling with my family only brought us closer together. Aside from some serious tantrums at the sat nav, there were no arguments about who wanted to go where, do what and when. If we wanted to go somewhere together, we did. If we wanted to go our separate ways for a day, we did that too. There were no hurt feelings. It was a honesty that friendship can only dream of. It only comes with family.
We have a lot in common
Either I travel like a 50-year-old, or my parents still think they’re 26. Whatever the case is, although, as I said, we were happy to go our separate ways, we rarely did. If there was going to be one place they bailed on, it would have been Paris Disneyland. But they came too (and loved it – I’m sure of it). Mum and I got lost in village markets together, Dad and I went for bike rides in the country. At night all of us played cards, read books, or just talked. Actually it all would have made for a great Christian family commercial. If we were Christian.
Memories are precious
Fingers crossed, my parents have many, many good years ahead of them. But there will come a time when no amount of time will have seemed like enough. How quickly us children go from eating meals together every night growing up to scanning our calendars to see when we can make it home for a visit. This month gave me 30 days of great memories with my parents at a time in my life when I really value them. What teenager finishes school holidays feeling lucky to have spent quality time at home? Exactly. But as an adult I enjoyed our conversations about, well, everything, and most of all, the in-jokes that will keep my sister and I laughing for decades. Remember that time Dad fell off the bike?
