Travels with my father — or get me through the Louvre on time

Press, 9 November 1988, Page 17

Travels with my father — or get me through the Louvre on time

Travellers of the “If this is Thursday this must be Paris” school should travel with my father some time. This would achieve two worthy aims. First, it would release my mother for more pleasant duties; and second, it would teach you how to see the world in 40 hours as opposed to 40 days. A postcard from my mother who was holidaying with my father in England last year carried this very succinct message: “Weather fine. Father cloudy. Saw Westminster Cathedral (1.27), two stately homes (2.31) and went to Stratford-on-Avon (0.27).” The figures in brackets are the minutes and seconds spent at each place. But unlike tourists intent on cramming as much culture into as little time as possible, my father has a much simpler motive, he wants to avoid it altogether. On driving into Strat-ford-Upon-Avon, my father spotted two German and three Japanese tourists. “The place is packed,” he complained to my mother, swiftly doing a Uturn and taking off in the direction they had just come. My father likes to concentrate on restaurants rather than Rembrandts, motor racing rather than museums, and fishing rather than fine arts.

While others are gazing in wonder at ancient Roman ruins, he is more likely to be calculating the amount of scaffolding required to rebuild them. Since his children could be loosely described as cultural deserts, this avoidance of all things treasured is not a worry. We have all enjoyed holidays overseas with our father, coming back at least 5 kilos overweight with an intimate knowledge of Europe’s car manufacturers, motor racing circuits and restaurants. For that, my father asserts, is what a proper holiday is made up of. All of this, however, is of little comfort to my mother. She, who dreams of art galleries, museums stately homes and the shops of Fifth Avenue, is bound to get a little tense when swept past these places at breakneck speed. What she really needs is a travelling companion. The type who can walk for miles in new shoes without complaint (my

sister missed an entire floor of a European museum for that reason and has never really been forgiven). The sort who can shop with the type of enthusiasm and dedication one usually reserves for landmark occasions like their seventy-fifth birthday party. Shoppers who require to be fed at regular intervals so their blood sugar doesn’t fade into oblivion and make them grumpy need not apply. (My mother was aghast when I once timidly suggested a food stop in the middle of a Very Important Shopping Trip). This person must also be able to view the contents of stately homes without making facetious comments about the amount of furniture polish required for the banisters, or that the blue on the Ming vase reminds them

of that bridesmaid’s dress at their cousin’s wedding. The benefits of this job would be enormous. Extensive travel would be supplemented by visits to fine restaurants and your first-hand knowledge of the finer things in life would increase dramatically. Applicants would be required to pass a physical fitness test, which would include a triatholon (for endurance skills) an obstacle course (for shop-ping-in-crowd skills) and a miniature version of Mastermind (because when my mother asks who built, painted, carved or otherwise made an object she expects an answer). For those still interested, she plans her next trip in about six months.