Travels with my father
When fellow guests at dinner parties start competing over "horror stories" about their family holidays, I generally stay quiet. Whatever they come up with, I know I can trump them. Because every year since 1993 I have gone on holiday with my father. And even though he is now 94, there are no signs of his wishing to discontinue the practice.
This means that I have had to become a one-man travel agency: sorting out flights, ensuring that airport staff have arranged for an electric buggy to sail effortlessly to our departure gate, booking hotels (ground floor or with lift only) and car rentals. Then, on arrival, I combine the duties of local rep, taxi driver, bell-boy, concierge, and cultural guide. Or, if we've booked into a villa, quartermaster, sommelier, sous-chef (my wife does the fancy bits) and occasional plumber/electrician.
Moreover, if anything goes wrong, it's always my fault. And if I counsel against the wisdom of climbing to some hill-top monastery in the heat of the day, my advice is easily overruled. Parental authority still has some meaning. But, unlike conventional family holidays, I am at the bottom of the pecking order.
So, apart from any aspirations to sainthood (St Super Sagaman of Late Departures, perhaps), why do I undertake such expeditions? The short answer is that it can be fun. Also, visiting a country where your companion had last been before the second world war adds a dimension of time travel to the tourist experience.
The practice started with a trip to India - land of my birth and where papa spent most of his working life - to revisit some "special places". By which he did not mean the Taj Mahal. Rather, he had me organise a Jeep trip around India's easternmost reaches, visiting tea gardens where he'd once worked and riding elephants around Kaziranga in search of rhinos and tigers before proceeding into the mountainous parts of Sikkim where access is normally restricted to serving (and not retired) military officers.
Not an easy itinerary to organise, even for a specialist travel agent. But then it had been no easier when he walked this same route back in 1939 and then continued over the 18,000ft Jelep La and into Tibet. "Good to be back after more than 50 years," he told a bemused frontier guard in Hindi, half-forgotten since his army years. "See you again in another 50?"
A feat that, on current form, may not be so improbable. Certainly his appetite for travel is undiminished. I am just back from a trip to Belgium, encompassing the battlefields around Ypres ("I was too young for that war") and the medieval charms of Bruges. I chose Bruges as our base because it is so flat and, anyway, you can see half the town from one of the boats that cruise its canals. These considerations become more important as mobility is now an issue. And papa is too proud to accept a wheelchair.
Which means that the tour organiser has to arrange every aspect of the trip so as to maximise sensory input while keeping walking - and particularly climbing - distances to a minimum. That means taking a taxi from the hotel (with a ground floor room, to minimise steps, but with canal view) to the right boat jetty, namely the one just 20 yards from a restaurant that serves some of the best seafood in town and where I had reserved a table on the terrace. After a brief post-luncheon pause, we grab another taxi I'd ordered in the Fish Market that whisked my father off to his siesta while I contemplated panels by Hieronymus Bosch in the excellent Groeningemuseum.
For such trips to work out well, the minutest details need to planned in advance and that evening I was in self-congratulatory mood. We'd arrived at the ferry terminal in Dover with an hour in hand, so as to relieve any possible anxiety about "missing the boat". On boarding we were directed to a special parking bay right next to the lift, as pre-arranged. The drive to Bruges was not so long as to induce fatigue. The hotel room had met with approval - as did the lady taxi driver who drove us to one of the better restaurants overlooking the Markt where both the asparagus and sole meunière were deemed "passable". Indeed, we were both in such excellent spirits that we set off across the main square towards a very traditional Belgian beer-house - all ancient timbers and red brick - called Te Garre. It should have been a three-minute stroll but halfway there our progress began to resemble A Bridge Too Far. We just made it to the front door when father's legs gave way. Fortunately, the head barman decided we were not drunks and lifted my father on to a chair before towing him to the nearest table.
We joined three slightly confused Flemings who were sipping Te Garre's house beer. I ordered one for myself but, since it weighs in at 12 per cent, I chose something lighter for my father. He was head-down in recovery mode for 10 minutes while I chatted to our table companions who, like most Flemish-speakers, prefer English to French as a second language. Then his head came up and he announced: "I wasn't always like this, you know. When I was younger, I once walked into Tibet."
This sparked off a lively cross-table conversation. Indeed, it is one of the pleasures of travelling with the elderly - and not just my father, but my aunts and godparents as well - that they are beyond inhibitions about talking to complete strangers. The fruits of such chance encounters can often reveal a lot more about a place than endless perusals of guidebooks. Even so, I declined the offer of joining our new acquaintances in a second beer and ordered a cab back to the hotel. We had already pushed things to the limit.
That is something you need to be constantly aware of. What might seem a doddle for anyone under 60 can prove an insurmountable hurdle for those half as old again. Distances and gradients must be thought through in advance. Because once you've set off, there's no turning back.
I screwed up on this during a previous trip to Tuscany, when I had my equally venerable godfather along as well. Our tour of Siena was going swimmingly, a gentle descent from hotel to Duomo and onwards to a well-earned aperitivo overlooking the bowl-shaped Piazza del Campo. Both padre and padrone seemed in fine fettle. But then we had to climb back out of the bowl, and the route to the restaurant booked for lunch included a particularly steep and cobbled section. About halfway up, my father ground to a halt. "I'm not Sir Bloody Edmund Hillary," he bellowed. To which my godfather responded: "And I'm not Sherpa Bloody Tenzing."
Temperature control is also crucial. On that same trip I had to dissuade my godfather from going to Florence, the Arno Valley then being in the grip of a heatwave that was laying locals low. So nowadays I only undertake such trips in the cooler seasons and avoid beach holidays altogether.
These days the options are narrowing. First long-haul flights, and now short-haul, have slipped off the agenda. Traipsing around historical monuments can be too tiring so I now park right in front of a French cathedral and father surveys the fa?ade while I investigate the stained glass within. A hotel with a great view of, say, the rocky Breton coastline, is much more important than room service. It's becoming a bit like virtual tourism. But with my papa aboard, it can be extremely interactive.
和父亲旅行的乐趣
当宾朋们开始在宴会上竞相讲述家庭假日的“恐怖故事”时，我通常都会保持沉默。我知道，无论他们讲什么，我都能打败他们。因为自1993年起，我每年都和父亲一起度假。尽管他现在已是94岁高龄，但没有迹象显示，他打算停止这种旅行。
我是父亲的旅行社
这意味着我不得不成为一个只有一个人工作的旅行社：选择航班；确保机场人员安排好电动车，能让我们轻松到达登机口；预订酒店（只能订一楼的房间或是有电梯的酒店）和租车。接着，在到达目的地后，我要集地陪、出租车司机、酒店服务员、门卫和文化向导的职责于一身。或者，如果我们订的是别墅，那么我就要同时当军需官、斟酒侍者、副主厨（我妻子做精致菜肴），偶尔还要当管工或电工。
此外，如果有任何差池，永远都是我的错。而且，如果我对在热天登上山顶修道院的做法是否明智有所异议的话，我的提议很轻松就会被驳回。父母的权威还是管点用的。但是，与传统的家庭假日不同，我排在权力等级的最低部。
那么，除了渴望充当圣徒之外，我为什么要进行这样的远征呢？答案很简单：这样做会充满乐趣。另外，拜访你的旅伴还是在二战之前曾去过的国家，会为旅行经历增添一种穿梭时空的感受。
穿越时空的旅行感受
这种感受始于一次印度之旅――那是我的出生地，爸爸的工作时间大部分都是在那里度过的――去重游一些“特别的地方”。他说的不是泰姬陵(Taj Mahal)。相反，他让我组织了一次吉普车自驾游，到印度最东边的地方转转，看一看他曾经工作过的茶园，并骑着大象在卡齐兰加(Kaziranga)国家公园里游逛，寻找犀牛和老虎，随后继续前行，进入锡金的山区。那儿通常只允许现役（而不是退伍）军官通行。
组织这条旅行路线并不容易，即便是对于专业的旅行社。但是，在他1939年徒步走过同样的路线，随后穿过海拔1.8万英尺的加里普山口(Jelep La)进入西藏时，绝不会比现在更容易。“50多年后再回来，感觉可真好，”他用印地语对一位满脸困惑的边防战士说，“再过50年再见？”退伍以后，他的印地语已经忘得差不多了。
就目前的情形看，要成就这样一项壮举，或许不是那么不可能。当然，老人家对旅行的兴趣有增无减。我刚从比利时旅行归来，转了转伊普尔的战场（“那场战争打响时，我还太小”），领略了布鲁日的中世纪魅力。我选择布鲁日作为我们的基地，是因为它地形平坦，无论怎样，坐在运河中的船上，就能看到半个城市。这些考虑现在变得更加重要，因为行动便利如今已是个问题。爸爸自尊心太强，不能接受轮椅。
旅行中的细节安排
这意味着组织者必须安排好行程的各个方面，以便在最大限度地观赏景色的同时，将步行（尤其是爬山）距离降到最低。也就是说，要从酒店（为了尽量减少走路，要订一层的房间，但要能看到运河景色）打车到适当的码头，这个码头离城里最好的海鲜餐馆只有20码，而且我已经订好了露台上的位子。用完午餐，稍事休息之后，我们坐上了我在鱼市(Fish Market)订好的出租车，让父亲在车上睡会儿午觉，我则想着美妙绝伦的格罗宁格博物馆(Groeninge museum)里收藏的希罗尼穆斯?博斯(Hieronymus Bosch)画作。
为了让此类旅行进展顺利，连最微小的细节也要事先计划好。那天傍晚，我处在一种自得的情绪当中。我们提前了1个小时到达多佛的渡口，以打消任何“误船”可能带来的焦虑。上船后，我们被领到一个特殊的停车位，正如事先安排好的一样，就在电梯旁边。驱车到布鲁日的行程不长，不会感到疲倦。酒店房间符合要求――还有那位女出租车司机，她驱车带我们去了一家比较不错的餐厅，那里能俯瞰Markt广场，而且芦笋和炸比目鱼都还“过得去”。的确，我们俩都情绪高涨，于是动身穿过主广场，直奔一家非常传统的比利时啤酒馆――Te Garre，它全部由古老的木材和红砖建成。本来漫步只需要3分钟，但在半路上，我们的行动就开始像影片《遥远的桥》(A Bridge Too Far)中的情景了。刚走到酒馆的正门，父亲的腿就软了。所幸的是，酒馆领班并没有把我们当成醉鬼。他先把父亲扶到椅子上，然后把他拉到了最近的桌子旁边。
<p>我们和三位讲佛兰芒语的比利时人坐在了一起，有些困惑的他们正喝着Te Garre自酿的啤酒。我给自己点了一份，但是，由于它的浓度有12%，所以我为父亲选了度数低一些的酒。在我和同桌聊天的时候，父亲低着头休息了10分钟，以恢复体力。这些同桌像大多数讲佛兰芒语的比利时人一样，喜欢将英语而不是法语作为第二语言。然后父亲抬起头，宣布道：“我并不总是这样，你知道。我年轻的时候曾经徒步进入西藏。”
整桌人的讲话马上活跃了起来。的确，这就是与老人一起出游的乐趣之一――不只是我父亲，还有我的阿姨们和教父教母，他们可以随心所欲地和完全陌生的人交谈。这种偶遇，往往能加深你对一个地方的了解，远胜于无休止地精读旅行指南。即便如此，我还是拒绝了和新朋友喝第二杯酒，叫了一辆出租车回酒店。我们已经到了极限。
最好不要做的事
对此你需要经常保持警惕。60岁以下的人似乎轻而易举就能做到的事，对再比他们大上一半岁数的人来说，可能就是不可逾越的障碍。距离和坡度必须要事先想清楚。因为一旦出发，就无法回头了。
在先前去意大利托斯卡纳区旅行时，我在这方面弄得一团糟，当时还有我同样高龄的教父随行。我们去锡耶纳的旅途进展顺利，从酒店去锡耶纳大教堂(Duomo)走一段平缓的下坡路，然后继续前行，来到俯瞰碗状坎波广场(Piazza del Campo)的一家不能不去的aperitivo酒吧。教父和父亲看起来都情绪高涨。但然后我们必须从“碗”里爬出来，而要去订好午餐的餐厅，还需经过一段特别陡峭的石子路。走到大约一半的时候，父亲慢慢停了下来。他大吼着：“我不是该死的埃德蒙?希拉里(Edmund Hillary)爵士。”我的教父应声答道：“我也不是该死的谢尔帕?登津(Sherpa Tenzing)。”（1953年，希拉里和登津完成人类首次攀登珠峰的壮举――译者注）
控制温度同样至关重要。还是那次旅行，我不得不劝阻教父不要去佛罗伦萨，阿尔诺河流域(Arno Valley)当时遭到了热浪的袭击，许多当地人因此倒下。所以，我现在只在较为凉爽的季节安排此类旅行，而且坚决不去海滩度假。
近来选择的范围越来越狭窄。日程中先是去掉了长途飞行，如今连短途飞行也被拿掉了。游览历史名胜也许会太累，所以我现在直接把车停在法国大教堂的前面，让父亲审视教堂的正面，而我则去欣赏内部的彩色玻璃。一家能看到美景的酒店――比如能看到岩石嶙峋的布雷顿(Breton)海岸线――比客房服务重要得多。这开始变得有点像虚拟旅游。但只要和爸爸在一起，就能有极强的参与感。
