Have you had a memorable holiday away from home? Tell us your stories. We’ll post our favorites on IHT Rendezvous during these last weeks of 2012. Here is one:
HERZLIYA, Israel — Expats know the drill: the annual, biennial, or however frequent, visit to parents “back home.”
When I wrote an article nearly a decade ago bemoaning being single and having to go on vacation with my parents, my siblings and their families, I didn’t realize how easy I had it. All I needed was a window seat on the long flight and I was content.
Time spent together during these family reunions was always great, if occasionally a bit overwhelming, and I put up with the angst of sometimes having to share a hotel room with young nieces or nephews, and the questions — whether posed or just hanging out there — of whether I would ever get married.
Nowadays, these trips entail jockeying for coveted bulkhead seats on the flight, holding a baby on my lap while eating, and waiting for my tray to be cleared before it gets dumped on my lap or on the floor, only for me to later step on a soggy chicken nugget.
“In the afternoons, we descend on the ice-cold community pool where children may be allowed, but toys, inflatables and having fun are all prohibited.”
I’ve become one of those annoying people who continually takes bags down from the overhead luggage compartment, searching for baby formula or the carry-on full of toys my wife insisted we bring, even though the kids always get showered with gifts from doting grandparents, aunts and uncles. And for the uber challenge: changing a diaper in the tight confines of an aircraft bathroom. Yes, there are folding diaper changing tables in there (take a look on your next flight), and you better think to close the toilet lid in case something falls or is thrown down when Murphy’s Law ensures it will land in the toilet.
After what seems like an eternity, we land in New York, collect our luggage and rental car and we’re on our way. While all is novel for my young kids, I’ve evidently lived overseas long enough that “different” has become the norm, and now my native country is the one that at times feels “foreign.”
My family of five descends on my parents’ retirement community in a rental minivan that makes my minivan at home feel like a sub-compact (when Americans use the word “grand” in a product name, they really mean it!). We arrive to the pastoral setting of manicured lawns, colorful flower beds, an emerald green golf course, and residents who agonizingly drive the posted speed limit.
The first days are marred by jetlag, waking up at 4 A.M., trying not to make too much noise that might wake the grandparents while the kids watch cartoons or play with my childhood toys that my parents have saved for four decades!
We interrupt my parents’ quiet breakfasts of what seems like two dozen pills of different shapes and colors with demands for caffeinated coffee, and obstacles like Cheerios thrown on the floor from the borrowed high chair (we hear the familiar crunching noise each time someone steps on one, grinding it into powder). Despite the chaos, dad still manages to read The New York Times while mom copes with the five additional mouths to feed.
My six year old hijacks the television, watching hours of Nickelodeon programming; we log in to Web sites from home and in doing so plant cookies that leave foreign language advertisements popping up on their computer long after we’re gone. We try not to cramp their style too much, remaining wary of the joke about guests being like fish: after three days in the house, they begin to stink.
But we are visiting for far more than three days; we’re there for two weeks, squeezing two years of catching up into this short time. This is the opportunity for my parents to get to know grandchildren who know them mostly from conversations on Skype. They also get to see me in action as a parent, which always elicits a comment or two.
My parents forgo volunteering at the hospital, pool aerobics, playing mahjong and their entire routine. Instead it is two weeks of daily outings, hitting an amusement park, the zoo, a museum with dinosaur bones and a Gymboree. In the afternoons, we descend on the ice-cold community pool where children may be allowed, but toys, inflatables and having fun are all prohibited.
I enjoy some of mom’s gooey brownies and other favorites, and they introduce me to exotic foods like sun-dried tomato hummus (incorrectly pronounced hum-iss), gourmet blue corn tortilla chips and black bean veggie burgers. My hungry family cleans out the refrigerator, so it’s back to Costco to stock up. I find it humorous that they are regulars at a warehouse club that sells products in bulk since usually it is just the two of them.
For me, Costco is like Disney World: I wander around bright-eyed at all the amazing prices, wondering if I could fit 96 rolls of super-soft toilet paper into my suitcase.
The time goes quickly, and before we know it we are packing our suitcases to go home. With mixed emotions — sadness as we bid farewell, and excitement for the return to friends, a new school year and familiar routines — we leave for our overseas home.
After those family get-togethers back when I was a bachelor, I would savor the tranquility of my unencumbered lifestyle. The roles have reversed; while we all cherish our time together, it is my parents who are probably now relishing the peace and quiet.
Gary Rashba has lived in Israel for 19 years. To bring him closer to his adopted country’s history, he researched and wrote Holy Wars: 3000 Years of Battles in the Holy Land.
IHT Rendezvous: Home for the Holidays: When Your Native Country Is the One That Feels 'Foreign'
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IHT Rendezvous: Home for the Holidays: When Your Native Country Is the One That Feels 'Foreign'
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IHT Rendezvous: Home for the Holidays: When Your Native Country Is the One That Feels 'Foreign'
