In the middle of a European road trip with Momo, my dad joined me. I invited him, but when I asked him for how long he’d want to join, he said “at least a month.” My first thought was that in the confines of living in a camper van with my dad and dog, a month would ensure we’d bite each other’s heads off. So I did what every emotionally intelligent young man would do. I buried my concerns and said “yeah perfect that sounds great.”
In the one month we spent together, we argued exactly two times. The first was over the pronunciation of Edinburgh. I suggested it was E-din-berg. My dad suggested it was pronounced the actual way it’s pronounced. I protested. “Nope! There’s no way. That’s not how it’s spelled!” And when the waiter kindly offered the proper pronunciation, all my dad could say, in his heart of hearts, was “I guess in a way, we were both right.”
The second time things got tense was on a hike in Wales. Momo had a tendency to walk ahead of me. And my dad, bless his soul, sauntered slowly behind me. My frustration grew after a series of unfortunate events. We took a wrong turn, I got two soakers, it started raining. Momo kept running ahead, I kept having to look behind me for my dad. It all boiled under my skin until my lid blew off and I turned around:
“Dad! Can you pick up the pace a little?!”
My dad kept walking, unbothered. His face wrapped with an annoying tranquility.
He gently replied: “I’m walking at a gentleman’s pace.”
Somehow he chose the perfect string of words. Words that would pierce through my impatience. Words that would both enrage and comfort me. The words were absolutely true. Spoken like a stubborn stoic. I could not argue any further. As far as I could remember, my dad has always been resilient. His patience towers over any tribulation.
I try to remember this story when I’m feeling overwhelmed. When life’s pace is faster and trickier than mine. To remind myself what it looks like to keep both feet on the ground no matter what life sends downstream.
Thanks, dad.
Love,
Andrew, Yaya, & Boo
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