a smile. When I whizz off the 16-metre-high deathtrap
shortly after, rather than letting go of the zip-line’s
tree-branch handle on cue, I imagine my teeth
shattering mid-flight, panic and cling on. I hurtle
sideways towards the water. My body hits with a
thunderous clap, taking skin off my legs in the process.
Every inch of me is on fire as Mum wipes the tears
from my eyes and helps to carry me from the water.
Later that night, as only a mother would, she sleeps
with one eye open to make sure I’m breathing.
Thankfully, not every excursion is as dramatic.
Regardless of where we are, most days on the road
finish up with Mum throwing on her bathrobe to
sit up in bed and write her travel journal. It always
begins with detailed coloured-pencil drawings, perhaps
of the fish she’s spotted when snorkelling in the
Gulf of Mexico or skinny-dipping in the Aegean,
and ends with snoring and spilt wine. I might laugh
at her sleeping giant-like alter-ego, but I’ve been
known to do the same thing.
Somewhere during our 10 years travelling together,
things have shifted. In many more ways now, I’m
taking care of my mother, not the other way around.
I worry when she walks down stairs or when we find
ourselves in back streets that aren’t very well lit. “I can
do it,” she snaps, struggling with her suitcase at the
baggage carousel. She misplaces her phone (forgetfully
folding it away in a newspaper) and her passport (that
bloody newspaper again) and everything takes longer.
But while a taxi to and from the airport is now a given,
she never forgets the way to her favourite pâtisserie in
Paris for pains aux raisins or another tarte au citron.
If you have the opportunity to travel with a parent,
pack your patience and do it. You won’t always
agree, but you’re destined to discover plenty about
each other that you probably should’ve known and
somehow missed. You’ll surprise each other. Despite
championing all the best-laid plans, Mum is the one
to suggest we pull over roadside en route to Gallipoli
after spotting a wiry woman cooking gözleme in
her front yard. And after a lifetime of disliking beer
and being nervous about street food, in Mexico she
runs towards curbside sizzling carnitas and tacos al
pastor with longing, and guzzles frosty beers with
the same ceremony she does Champagne at home.
Seeing the world together, Mum and I see more
of each other. Our trips have taught me that family
dynamics are not rote-learnt for life; they require
constant negotiation, time, generosity and energy.
Every time I sit down with her, too, I learn more
about my father.
Rainer Maria Rilke wrote, “You are not dead
yet, it’s not too late / to open your depths by
plunging into them / and drink in the life / that
reveals itself quietly there.” As this story goes to
press, Mum and I will be visiting the south-east
coast of New Zealand’s North Island. While we’re
no doubt destined for less street food and fewer
zip-lines, we’ll never be far from water or from
drinking a life together that reveals itself quietly. ●GOURMET TRAVELLER 75