Instead I chose tae kwon do, based on my love of martial arts (mostly from the TV series Monkey Magic) and the fact that our neighbours did it, giving me easy (free) access to uniforms. I figured a few roundhouse kicks would sort out any issues that came my way in the foreseeable future.
Lessons were paid for and off I went, gaining a yellow belt in relatively quick time. While this sounds like an achievement, gradings at that level were nothing more than a basic walk-through involving a couple of punches, a random kick or two, and some well-placed yelling.
Stepping up to the next level involved shadow sparring with more experienced kids in the class. During one such shadow spar – shadow being the operative word – an aforementioned roundhouse kick landed firmly in my stomach. A literal kick in the guts. Blows were not supposed to land (SHADOW!!!) at that stage of our development, and though it was an accident, I’m not convinced the ninja I was sparring couldn’t have held back a little.
Seeing me go down, the instructor came over and asked what had happened. Hearing my explanation, he merely said, ‘You should have tensed up.’
It was advice I should have taken on board, and would have, had I not already quit tae kwon do halfway to the ground.
Since then, I’ve gained a steely resolve at becoming the best quitter I can be. Spanish lessons, careers in IT and PT, drums, relationships – I’ve quit them all. The one thing I never quit was comedy. I’ve stuck with it through some truly horrible moments, including performing late at night to tiny crowds, dying an awful death, and being introduced as a ventriloquist then performing to bewildered people who couldn’t work out why my lips were moving or why my puppet was invisible. There’d be flickers of hope, but on the whole the early years were a slog.
When I moved back home, jobless, struggling to make any money, even Dad openly questioned what I was doing – ‘You’re wasting your life!’ – obviously worried about my future but not putting it particularly eloquently.
Comedy was something I loved, though, and the determination and stupid inflexibility I’d witnessed in Dad shone through. I gritted my teeth when all signs were pointing me in the direction of quitting.
The wheel eventually turned and comedy became a career. The more ‘flying hours’ I got on stage the more confident I became, which in turn led to more work, and eventually a job writing in television on The Russell Gilbert Show. I started to discover my voice on stage and my stand-up improved because of it. I knew who I was and looked forward to expressing it.
Dad became a regular at my shows, always asking when I was on. Mum still hasn’t seen me perform, due to my choice of content and her long-held belief that ‘you don’t have to swear to be clever’.
I’ve never aimed to be clever.
Though I’m not overly sentimental, I would always try to grab a souvenir from each country I visited. A steel dragon paperweight from Laos, a chunk of Machu Picchu, an improvised explosive device from Afghanistan. They didn’t have to be expensive or functional, but they were always nice reminders of a particular period in my life.
My favourite were Che Guevara brand cigarettes I bought in Peru. ‘¡Viva la nicotina!’
Fridge magnets are probably the easiest souvenir to grab, a cheap trinket that can be thrown in the suitcase, proving it’s the I-grabbed-this-in-the-departure-lounge-at-the-airporton-the-way-home thought that counts. The choices presented to you are often cheeky or quirky, like a penis-shaped bottle opener, or a tiny bottle of Champagne. In the shape of a penis.
Dad wasn’t one to buy that sort of thing, or as he’d put it, ‘Not wasting my bloody money.’ Not even for Mum. He’d had his choice of a hundred mini Eiffel Towers if he so desired, but no, his choice of souvenir was something that wasn’t for sale. And it was something that he hated.
Though stairs had become Dad’s mortal enemy, they weren’t the sole focus of his hatred. When he wasn’t climbing steps, cobblestones were also wreaking havoc. Dad complained that he was constantly rolling his ankles and jarring his knees, which I found strange considering I was walking the same streets and hadn’t even thought about them. I checked and he wasn’t wearing high heels either. So they made his list, and if you’ve ever been to Europe, you’d know cobblestones are like Dave Hughes; they’re everywhere.
Cobblestones are remnants of cities being built hundreds of years before concrete was readily available. In Australia, they’re pretty much confined to inner-city laneways, but in Europe they’re a staple of most streets. Dad hated them, mumbling, ‘Oh, these bloody cobblestones,’ as we made our way along them.
Occasionally his focus would shift to complaining about the stairs, but once we’d ascended/descended – and he’d given me the obligatory ‘forty-eight’, just in case this was the time I wanted to know – his mind would shift back to the pavers under foot.
Therefore, of course, it stood to reason that if he hated something so much he had to bring some home with him. It made no sense to me – I couldn’t imagine Schapelle Corby bringing home a mattress from Bali’s Kerobokan Prison – but that’s what Dad did. He chose a cobblestone as his one souvenir from Europe.
It wasn’t the familiar Australian-sized bluestone, but more the size and shape of a Rubik’s cube that had let itself go a little. He picked it from a pile when we were walking past some road-works, as though he was plucking a ripe peach off a tree in an orchard. From the literally thousands of things that could serve as a reminder of our trip, he chose the one I’m almost certain no one has taken home before: unlaid street. As if Dad’s suitcase hadn’t been heavy enough, from Paris on it had the added weight of street paving.
Against all odds, we made it to a second full day in Paris. We woke to the news that Airbnb would give us a complete refund on the apartment, so Dad was happy. Having seen how miserable a time he was having, I told him we’d leave a day earlier than planned, making him even happier. Money back and leaving Paris – it was all coming up Tommy!
With a spring in our steps, we hit the streets of Paris once again. Only it was pouring with rain, and the heavily overcast sky told us this wasn’t a passing shower. (Our apartment window faced into a roofed courtyard, so we’d had no idea.) It didn’t have to be said out loud that this would be added to Tommy’s Great List of Terrible Things about Paris. The upside was that at least it would wash away some of the cat piss.
We bought umbrellas, a new experience for Dad. He had a car, why would he need an umbrella? None of my childhood memories involved Dad and an umbrella. I’m not talking about anything extravagant, Dad twirling one as he skipped down the street enjoying a sun shower. Just using an umbrella. He never owned one because his theory was, ‘Getting wet won’t hurt you.’
Even at the footy, when it was bucketing down with rain, we didn’t have an umbrella. Dad had access to rolls of thick plastic from work, like a super heavy-duty Glad Wrap, and would hand-cut human-sized sheets to drape over us, which actually did a pretty good job. Here his argument was that the humble umbrella wasn’t up to the job. Apparently normal rain did not warrant any kind of protection at all, but once it got heavy, a custom-built solution was required. Which would explain why I was only ever offered help on the paper round once the storm had been given a name by the weather bureau. So while everyone around us dealt with umbrellas being turned inside out by high winds, or being told off because they were restricting the views of those behind them, we sat bone dry in our own personal bubbles.
Though Dad was never worried about water, he’d have a meltdown if we ever sat on cold concrete. According to him, this was a recipe for piles. In my entire lifetime I’ve never heard of a kid with piles. How cold does it have to be, and how long do you have to sit there, before piles becomes a thing? Even though I doubted its existence, I avoided sitting on cold concrete, because I lived in fear of missing out on my under-12s footy grand final, listed on the injury sheet as ‘A. Rozenbachs: Piles.’
I tried to enjoy the scenery as we wandered around Paris, but was distracted by Dad’s an
imosity towards the whole city. His sense of being overwhelmed when we arrived on the train had not dissipated. To him, Paris was in a constant state of peak hour. The roads were jammed and the footpaths never-endingly busy, keeping us both on our toes in case we bumped into someone racing somewhere else Dad wouldn’t want to go.
The trains were always full too, not allowing Dad the respite a seat might have brought him. I’d have liked to slow down, to read a book in a café or sit in a bar with no intentions, but that wasn’t something I could do with Dad. It wasn’t his thing, and we were now constantly on the move, trying to tick things off so we could leave the city as soon as possible.
I still hoped that somehow his attitude might suddenly change against all odds, making him demand to hang around an extra day as he was overcome by the glory of Notre Dame. But when we arrived we saw the line to get into the 700-year-old cathedral was at least 200 metres long, and we both knew instantly there was no way we were going inside. The wait to simply buy an entry ticket would have been at least an hour, and Dad was already aware no one was giving up the names of the cleaners, so he wasn’t about to be sucked in by that again. Instead we just stood around outside, half-heartedly admiring the gothic arches and meticulously detailed figures in the architecture. At least when the roof was destroyed by fire a few years later, we had the cherished memory of sort of seeing it from the outside before moving on.
When we reached the Louvre, Dad gave it a bit of, ‘I’ll go in if you want to.’ My experience of the last few days had taught me that looking at old artwork with him would be a waste of time. If he thought the Eiffel Tower was rubbish, I don’t think the world was ready for his take on the Mona Lisa. Which probably would have been: ‘What’s the frame made out of?’
As much as he hated it, Dad kept on trudging around through the pain. We walked along the Champs-Élysées, full of expensive touristy cafes and luxury stores we’d never go into. If I’d had more time, or less Dad, I would’ve liked to try and get off the beaten tourist track, to see what Paris truly had to offer that wasn’t superficial and aimed at people just dropping in. I wondered what it would have been like if we’d had a great apartment, if Dad might have enjoyed it a little more. I felt bad that he hated it. I’d dragged him there and he wasn’t having fun, so I tried my best to keep his spirits up and our time there short.
Dad did surprise me by walking up to the terrace at the Arc de Triomphe. Perhaps my message of ‘you’re only here once’ had sunk in, making him suck it up and check out the view. Or maybe it was only because the terrace gave him sweeping views of the city, so he could hate more of it at once. It also gave him a new set of stairs to complain about/count.
The driving rain and wet shoes eventually forced us off the streets earlier than I’d have liked, but Dad was happy to be back in our hellesque apartment. It meant it was time to pack, ready to leave Paris in the morning.
CAEN
For probably the first time in his life, the next morning Dad didn’t bother to make the bed or clean up after himself. He couldn’t get out of Paris fast enough. If the option had been available, he’d have lined up outside the car hire place at 5 am, like he was waiting for the latest Apple product to be released.
We were headed for Caen. Pronounced Cane. Or Cannes. Or Cairns. I could never get it right. It’s a town about three hours west of Paris, in Normandy.
Even though we were on a sealed freeway and not really in the countryside, there were enough fields and meadows off to the side to let us know we were free of the city. A distinct lack of traffic helped too. Dad could finally relax. We hired a Renault, which wasn’t anywhere near as luxurious as the Mercedes we’d hired in Germany. It wasn’t said aloud, but I have no doubt the lack of heated seats made a list.
It seemed we were coming to a toll station every five minutes, and I had no idea how much I was being charged each time I fed my credit card into the slot. But Dad didn’t complain about the tolls; they were barriers we were putting between us and the dreaded city we were leaving behind. Cost wasn’t important anymore.
I’d put Normandy on our itinerary so I could see the beaches where the Allies made the famous D-Day landings of World War II, turning the tide of the war. If you’re not familiar with D-Day, it’s the opening battle scene of Saving Private Ryan. If you’re not familiar with Saving Private Ryan, think Beaches, but with Bette Midler pinned on the beach by Wehrmacht machine-gun fire and then getting her arm blown off.
Driving out to Caen, to see a series of beaches Dad had zero interest in, I started to get the sense that I’d made a mistake by making the trip as long as I had. For me, time off was a precious resource, so whenever I travelled, I tried to maximise every waking moment. Particularly when it was Europe or South America, I felt I needed to stay as long as I could to justify how long it had taken me to get there from Australia. I’d already lost two days of holiday time flying there and back, so I wanted to make the most of the rest.
I usually timed my arrival home to be the day before I went back to work, not concerning myself with jetlag because I could recover on company time. Usually the writing assignments I worked on weren’t expected to be completed in a day, so as long as I kept myself alert enough during meetings with Nō-Dōz washed down with coffees topped up with Red Bull, I could fudge my way through the day and make sure I was okay enough to get it all done the following day.
If I was staying at a resort, then ten days of holidays was plenty. Time doesn’t matter when all you’re doing is lying around a pool. The biggest issue I faced on those holidays was hoping no one noticed I’d spent four hours at the pool bar without getting out to go to the bathroom.
But somewhere like Europe, full of history and culture, plus all kinds of different regions and landscapes and cities, you want to go for as long as possible to take it all in. And for the unprepared, i.e. Dad, three weeks on the road can be a shock. Like dog years, Dad had his own sense of time – if you’d asked him in Caen, which was the two-week mark of our holiday, in Dad years we’d already been in Europe half his life. The excitement of Munich was long gone; he was bored now, just getting through each minute until we could get home. He didn’t complain, resigned to the fact that we had a week left and there was little he could do to change that.
Because we’d managed to get a fair amount of stuff done in Paris in pretty much a day, he’d wondered why I’d booked the place for four nights. If he’d had his way, we would have spent only two days in each city. When I was planning this trip, I thought that wouldn’t be enough time to see everything worth seeing and really immerse ourselves in each place. As it turned out, Dad would’ve been happy with two hours in each city. Or however long it took for a hop-on/hop-off tourist bus to do a lap. He could just tick off the major tourist sites as we went past, sitting on the upper deck of the bus with two singlets under his shirt to avoid the cold.
Arriving in Caen, we checked in to our hotel, and for the first time on this trip we weren’t sharing. It was a nice boutique hotel, containing only fifteen or so neat little rooms that had the feel of luxury about them, not just mass-produced furniture placed in the same configuration in room after room. Dad’s and mine were a completely different layout. Heaven compared to the apartment in Paris.
Our time in Caen was like a holiday within a holiday. Separate rooms meant that for a few blessed hours, between sightseeing and dinner, we could get away from each other and sit in unfilled silence. Dad was free to talc all he wanted without complaint, and I was free to not answer strange questions or get lung cancer.
The countryside, away from the crowds, was a relief to Dad. Traffic was minimal and rather than a main thoroughfare our hotel was on a two-lane street, surrounded by cute two-storey attached terrace houses. We were on the outskirts (but not the horrible industrial outskirts) of the main part of Caen, so it felt like the suburbs – quiet and relaxed. I didn’t dare take Dad out for a walk as all the surrounding streets were paved with cobblestones. Aside from visiting the D-Day be
aches and going to some of the museums that would inevitably be attached to them, I had nothing solid planned. We’d be dropping back to the pace Dad had probably been expecting all along: one item of interest, followed by hours of nothing.
Dad didn’t have an interest in World War II history like I did, but after the intense city life of Paris, going to a beach sounded alright to him, so that first afternoon we headed out to see the D-Day landing sites. We slowly drove from one beach to the next: Sword, Juno, Gold, Omaha and Utah. Our stays at each became shorter as we realised, after the first three, that they were all pretty similar. A bunker or two, a commemorative plaque here and there, and a museum. We didn’t bother going into the first few, as I knew that Omaha Beach held the army cemetery, a host of museums and a theatre. By now I knew I couldn’t use up all my Dad tickets too early, and didn’t want to waste his limited attention span on a not-as-good museum.
We made our way through a few bunkers and over concrete embankments, constantly reminded of what occurred here by the uneven, pockmarked landscape, craters from the naval bombardment having grassed over in the seventy years since. We did visit the Arromanches 360, a cinema set up like a planetarium, replaying archive footage from the Battle of Normandy on the ceiling above us. The cinema was free for WWII veterans, which I thought was a nice gesture, though I wasn’t sure how many of them would want to relive that time, and it did seem slightly cynical since as time went on fewer and fewer veterans would be around to take them up on the offer.
Then we arrived at Omaha, generally considered the main beach of the invasion, being the most heavily defended and where the Allies suffered the greatest casualties. This peninsula may have marked the beginnings of the Allies’ counterattack on the Nazis, but for Dad it was a happy place, marking his own liberation from Paris.
Paris and Other Disappointments Page 14