The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - Travel
I’ve been waiting to hug my dad for two years
Monday’s reopening of transatlantic travel will be a big day for many – and especially for families like mine, says Lizzie Frainier
For as long as I can remember, I have felt like a person who belonged to two places. Those with parents from different countries will know how I feel; never quite at home in one or the other. In my case, I feel more American in England, and more English in America. It is both a blessing and a curse.
I was only nine when the reality of the latter really sunk in, during the time my parents divorced and my British mum returned to the UK. I was used to travelling back and forth to spend long summers among the cider apple trees of the Herefordshire countryside visiting family, before returning to play in the creek of my Californian backyard where my dad still lives. But having parents on two continents was something entirely different.
Soon I started having the same nightmare: that some horrible war had erupted and borders had closed for an indeterminate period of time. No matter what, I was trapped 5,000 miles from one parent or the other, not knowing when I could visit next.
I don’t have that nightmare any longer, because I’ve now lived through it. Though, of course, the twist in the tale is the fact that it was a global pandemic that brought my fears to life. As it turns out, the anxieties that come with closed borders don’t get any easier to manage as you get older. I may no longer be a child, but I will always be a daughter.
I have since moved to London and up until recently, the last time I’d seen my dad was in September 2019. I still have my US passport, so it should have been easier for me to visit despite the restrictions – but every time we planned a reunion, something stepped in to make me feel like using this privilege outside of an emergency was irresponsible. A new variant. A new lockdown. The list goes on.
My dad was just as desperate, asking each time we spoke whether anything had changed and he could see me again. Finally, this summer felt like the right moment and I formulated a plan. I’d meet my dad in Los Angeles and then we would go on a road trip back to his home in the Bay Area, on the fringes of San Francisco. It’s a trip we have done many times before, returning from a long weekend with cousins in southern California.
In my mind there are hazy images of moonlight swimming in a Pismo Beach motel pool, silhouettes of my sister and I spinning around in an attempt at synchronised swimming, while my dad shouted scores out of 10; a grainy, fast-forwarded video of the Pacific Ocean, as we whizzed along Highway 101 to a soundtrack of sibling bickering; and a fuzzy snapshot of a diner that will go down in family history for its split-pea soup.
On the day I finally flew, in September 2021, nearly two years since I last saw my dad, it was raining on and off, so nobody else was sitting on the small terrace of the Virgin Clubhouse at Heathrow. I watched the planes take to the skies, wondering how many others were on the precipice of a longawaited reunion.
A lot, it turned out. After boarding, an air hostess asked where I was going. When I explained, she shared a knowing smile. Given that US borders at the time were open only to those with an American passport, most of the stories she heard over the summer were like mine. The couple meeting their grandchildren for the first time; the brother on his way to an overdue wedding; the daughter on her way home.
The flight felt like it stretched on for aeons; funny how time can do that – you wait two years and then 11 hours feels disproportionately long. I distracted myself with reruns of Friends, grateful for my bed and Amarula on tap – both perks of flying in Upper Class.
At LAX airport, I left a trail of joyful tears from immigration through to baggage claim. And then there was my dad and we were together again.
Time constricted, spooling in like a measuring tape, and as with all the best people in your life, it was as if we had never been apart. My dad and I are very close; we speak on the phone several times a week, sharing everything from the mundane to the major. Strangely, I thank my parents’ divorce for this – I have spent much more one-to-one time with him than I would have if they had been together.
Since I graduated from university, we have tried to orchestrate our reunions around a holiday. It means we both switch off properly from other distractions, and can squeeze in the memories others might get across a whole year into a fortnight. This time was no exception.
In LA, we based ourselves at new opening the Pendry in West Hollywood, where the House of Blues once was, its seriously swish interiors befitting of the Sunset Boulevard address.
First on the agenda was a dip in the rooftop pool, but when we emerged from the elevator on a Saturday afternoon we found what can only be described as a Las Vegas pool party. A sea of muscles and bikinis; cocktails bobbing in the air. We turned to each other: “Beach?”
Since visiting as a child, I have been convinced that if there was a peoplewatching capital of the world, Venice Beach would be it. And as much as we
go there to watch, there are others who go to be seen. We paused along the boardwalk that winds from here to Santa Monica pier, and let the world spin past. A man with a parrot on his shoulder; someone in a cookie monster costume riding along with a boom box; another sweating in front of his car, lifting mammoth weights. Nothing is out of the ordinary here.
It was here too that I realised that though it had only been a couple of years since I was last in California, my senses were hyper alert to the differences. I couldn’t shake the nostalgia that arrived from the overripe coconut scent of distinctly American sunscreen in the air. Or later on a hike to Griffith Observatory: pine, dirt and dry heat.
Outside of the weekend, the rooftop pool was far calmer, especially early in the morning when I made the most of jet lag to do laps in silence; my dad fast asleep, LA glittering below and the sun already warm on my skin. After breakfast, we would pick a different neighbourhood in which to explore and eat.
On occasions, including at the boujee modern Mexican restaurant Mírame in Beverly Hills, my dad had to clarify we were parent and child and not an item. Whether this shows how few fathers and daughters travel together, or that the LA dating scene is a world unto itself, I’m not sure. But I soon got over it because the langoustine tacos were topnotch and the margaritas potent.
The road trip truly began when we set off on the five-hour drive to Carmel Valley, following Highway 101. It had been more than a decade since we last made this particular journey, and the views were much the same – though this time I was seeing them from the front seat and a few inches higher. Tiny surfer dots bobbing on the waves against a moody sky, followed by hours of arid caramel-hued mountains.
Returning felt like colouring in the lines of childhood memories. Suddenly, I could see them in focus. There was someone missing, though – a third passenger in the car: my sister lives in Australia and even now doesn’t know when she will be able to travel freely again. As we hurtled along, I couldn’t help but be drawn in by the political bumper stickers that are so typical of the United States, and which have traded in election stances for vaccine agendas.
A sound capsule of this trip would cycle through REM, Johnny Cash, Beethoven, Pink Floyd, U2 and Depeche Mode. In fact, so would every other. My dad is a huge music fan and has always played it loudly everywhere we go. I’m constantly asking for it to be quieter, as he pushes up the volume.
When we finally got to the small seaside town of Carmel, I was desperate to find the B&B we once stayed in. I could picture the room, a cute “cottagey” aesthetic with watercolours on the walls. I was convinced I had found it, but my dad’s memories were different.
This time around, we were staying further inland on the sprawling estate of Carmel Valley Ranch. I hadn’t planned it this way, but after rushing around LA, the juxtaposition of staying put was just what we needed. We hiked in the heat and found an abandoned swing; sunk into the outdoor infinity tub at night; and sat around fire pits, meeting new people and roasting marshmallows. It felt like a seriously souped-up all-American summer camp for adults. We even signed up to a beekeeping experience where we donned all the appropriate gear and learned about the honey produced on site.
Soon it was onto Monterey and the Bay Area, where another embrace was waiting with my 94-year-old Nana. She doesn’t like leaving home much anymore, but each time we returned to her in my final week, my dad and I came carrying stories: epic Reubens from Canter’s Deli in LA; the Land’s End walk with views of the Golden Gate Bridge; and cabernet sauvignon tastings in St Helena’s stifling heat.
In order not to worry her, we did leave one detail out. The nasty fall my dad had at San Francisco’s Sutro Baths, a dilapidated former outdoor pool that leads on to the beach. My heart stopped as I saw him tumble off a precarious cement block, not sure where he would land. A visit to the hospital, several bruised ribs, a pulled hamstring and three days watching films together later, I was so grateful it was nothing more. But passing my dad ice packs, wrapping bandages and tying his shoes, compounded all my fears of living an 11-hour flight away from him. Difficult at the best of times, nevermind the travel restrictions or a theoretical accident.
For now, there is nothing I can do, short of kidnapping my dad and magicking a UK passport for him out of thin air. Never again, though, will I wait this long to reunite; there is always a loophole to be found. At the airport, my dad gave me the final hug of the trip and said: “I’m confident it will never be this long again.” With tears in my eyes, I agreed.
Returning felt like colouring in the lines of childhood memories – I could see them in focus