Eat, pray, panic
Late last year we got back from our latest family adventure.
We spent three-and-a-half months travelling through Europe in a motorhome.
Just writing that last line makes it sound very … Instagram influencer … #bestlife!
So let’s rip off the filter, starting on day three of the trip in the Swiss Alps.
Like all good horror movies, this one began innocently enough:
Liz jumped into the motorhome and sang:
“We’re heading to Italy today … who’s ready to have some gel-a-t-oooo!?”
(I personally think she came out a little early with this carrot … after all, we had a boring six-hour drive ahead of us, mainly in dark tunnels through the Swiss Alps.)
After about half an hour driving up what seemed to be a gigantic mountain, I nervously turned to Liz and said, “The tunnels … they’ll come soon … right?”
“Ummm”, she said, starting to bite her lower lip.
Uh-oh.
Our kids picked up on the tension in the cabin, and dutifully pressed ‘go’.
My two-year-old began totally teeing off, thrashing about in his car seat trying to escape like a drunk bogan being kicked out of the cricket, screaming “I want to go back to the farm NOW!”
My five-year-old, who’d been quiet for the entire morning, suddenly announced she was feeling dizzy (altitude sickness) and began chundering into a chip packet.
My seven-year-old started screaming at her, “Do you know how DISGUSTING you are?!”
While my 10-year-old sat reading Harry Potter, oblivious to the carnage surrounding him.
And then as we approached the top of the highest mountain peak … it happened.
“There’s a tunnel up ahead”, I cried to Liz.
A bright red road sign above the tunnel read:
“WARNING: LOW TUNNEL 3.2 METRES.”
And that was a problem, because the sticker on my windscreen read:
“WARNING: MOTORHOME HEIGHT 3.5 METRES.”
And so there we were, on the top of the Swiss Alps, literally on a cliff face, on a road so narrow you couldn’t turn a Vespa, let alone a 3.5-metre-high FIAT motorhome.
Calming myself, I hit the hazard lights, came to a gentle stop, turned to the kids, and started screaming at the top of my lungs, “STOP SCREAMING!”
Then I looked in my side mirror. There were now at least 25 cars banked up behind me, tooting and repeatedly yelling “FICK DICH!” at me.
It’s in pressure cooker moments like these that you work out the sort of husband, father and leader you really are. So I took a deep breath, turned to Liz and said:
“Get out.”
She nodded, and dutifully walked through the dark tunnel into oncoming traffic … flagging down cars, trucks and buses with nothing more than mum energy.
A few moments later she emerged back through the tunnel and gave me the thumbs up.
So hot.
And so, with the cabin now dead silent, we crept through the centre of the tunnel – missing the top of the roof by no more than Peter Dutton’s fringe.
We made it!
Did things get better?
You bet they did: this was after all a trip of a lifetime.
What made the biggest impact on us?
Well, it wasn’t the major must-sees:
The Mona Lisa: “It’s pretty small, Dad.”
The Eiffel Tower: “It’s too big, there’s no way I’m going up that many stairs.”
The Trevi Fountain: “It’s kinda like the one in Bendigo.”
Rather, it was the tiny towns and villages we visited:
You see, Italy is very rancho relaxo.
They work to live, not the other way around (like we do).
All the shops close down at lunchtime and everyone goes home for a few hours to relax and spend time with their family. And then in the evenings the old people gather in the town square and play cards, talk, and enjoy a vino while all around them their kids, grandkids and great-grandkids play.
We quickly became part of the community. The little Italian nonnas at our local espresso bar would whisk my blond two-year-old away and play with him. After a few espressos, and some Nutella-filled pastries, I’d go and find him. “Is he being annoying?” I’d ask.
They’d smile and say …
“Scialla.” (Don’t stress.)
Tread Your Own Path!
Editor’s note: I haven’t checked my inbox in six months. There are a *lot* of emails. The one that follows was sent back in June …