Dad Is Not Coming

As I prepare for mom's visit to Ukraine, I can't help but feel a little sad. Before I came to Ukraine, there was no one person more excited about making a trip to the borderland than my dad. The only problem was that I hadn't even been told where I would be serving and he already had his proverbial bags packed. He thought it was funny, but it got on my nerves. Mom would ask him to stop if only to save the room from my reaction. With the mountain of change in my life that I knew would be coming my way in the coming months added to what I already did know about where I was going, it became more of a running joke than a serious interest in traveling. As I look back on my life I know that some of my most memorable traveling moments have been with my dad. It didn't have to be an over the top experience, but just being in the same place at the same time as him pushed me to appreciate worldly places beyond what I knew and caused me to at least start to look beyond my section of the globe and see what I could in other parts of it. There is no question in my mind that his guidance is what served as my springboard to the things that I have done and seen. Every once in a while I stop and think about something from my past that included him. Like a mental Rolodex that is accessed at the most random of times causing me to think about him. These memories are rarely spectacular. It's more about recalling a time that I was together with him that we can both look back on with fond recollection. Much of my early travel experience included my dad.

I recall it like it was yesterday, sitting in a bar called the Rathskeller in Zurich, Switzerland Fall 1994. It was located on the second floor, up one flight of stairs and on the right side at the top was a wooden room like something cut directly out of a log cabin. A very small room with two sizable, long, rectangular tables each flanked by two equally long benches that each held 10-12 seated. Sort of like skinny picnic tables with detached seating. The thing is, the physical volume of the tables and benches together nearly filled the room. There were six of us in our party, and for the purposes of this story it does not matter who the other four were. When we got to the top of the steps, we were greeted by the server. At this place there was no bartender and there was no waiter. Just one server. We asked if there was room for six and he scanned the room. For this purpose, the small size of the room was ideal. I do not recall if anyone was asked to "scootch over" to make room for us, but before long six consecutive seats: three on each side of the far table had opened up. The three directed to sit on the medial bench were able to barely squeeze between the bench and the backs of the already seated, save the one or two who stood unnecessarily to let them pass. The other three however were faced with the challenge of getting to the lateral three seats in the far corner of the room. Option one, and the one you might expect everyone would resign to taking, was for all of the probably eight seated customers to stand, step around the table sideways single file, let the newcomers in, and follow reverse order single file back to their positions. Or, option two, which immediately endeared this establishment to the 24 year old me, everyone on both sides of the table lifted their wine glasses and wine bottles and the three (me included) had to step up on one bench, then onto the table, walk the length of the table, and step down onto the far bench to take our seats. Yep, three young adults walking over a table before we'd even had our first touch of the grape. This was a wine bar. I don't recall there being any food available, just wine. No beer or spirits, just wine. Red or White. No brand. You just had to ask for it by color from the server standing in the doorway of the fire marshal's worst nightmare. He stood serving as greeter and deliverer of drink. Each group would just look up and maybe wave an arm to get his attention, tell him "white" or "red" and seconds later he would hand an unmarked wine bottle to the person sitting in the first seat of the table- pointing in the direction all of the patrons would have to pass the bottle to get it to the ordering party. Now, anyone who knows Bill Morrell, knows that the most remarkable part of this story is that he was drinking wine from an unlabeled bottle! But even now as I think about sitting in that room, that crowded, smoky, loud, wooden room, I know that, for me, it was a remarkable bonding moment.

More recently, I think about the last time I was on a vacation with my dad. It was a vacation for me, but for him it was home for three months. Just before I departed for Ukraine El and I decided to visit my parents in New Orleans. It was the first time for me in New Orleans and I treated it like any other vacation. I researched the things to do and see and, of course, where to eat and drink. I recall laying out the plan for my last full day in New Orleans. There were museums and exhibits I wanted to see, bars I wanted to visit, and two special restaurants I wanted to eat at. Of all of the day, it was the restaurants I wanted to visit with my dad. We arrived around opening time to Hermes- the bar next door to Antoine's Restaurant that opens earlier, has no dress code, and serves from the same kitchen as Antoine's. This was key for me to eat here. Everyone, mostly, has heard of Oysters Rockefeller. Some have eaten "Oysters Rockefeller", but unless you have eaten them at Antoine's (or Hermes), then you have only had "Oysters Rockefeller"ish as Antoine's has never revealed their secret recipe for the dish. So my concern was whether we would be eating the real thing or someone else's interpretation of the dish. It was the real deal and dad and I shared an order. They were really fantastic and on any other day I would probably have considered that to be my bonding moment...until our next stop a half an hour later. After our light lunch we walked around the corner to a place that I knew would be special for me- and him too.

When I was in high school my dad had taken some hotel and restaurant management classes as well as some cooking classes at the local college. There are many people in my family's life that remember when dad learned how to make Bananas Foster. It is a dessert whose preparation includes adding 151 rum and then tipping it over the open flame for a tableside presentation you are not likely to forget. Well, dad had bought his single burner propane stove that he was using in his classes (I guess) and several times, whenever we would have friends over for dinner, he would pull out the portable burner and put on a flambé show for us. It was cool to watch and cooler to eat. This was where I was formally introduced to Bananas Foster. You see, Bananas Foster was invented at Brennan's Restaurant in New Orleans. The difference between Antoine's and Brennan's, is that Brennan’s freely publishes their recipe for their signature dish. As we walked into Brennan’s the lunch rush hadn't yet started, but it was painfully obvious that we were underdressed for this quality of establishment. We asked at the hostess desk if we could get a seat, eat our Bananas Foster and leave? Even though we were only dressed in shorts and other tourist clothing she agreed to seat us. I expect we were not the first people to ask the question. As the waiter/server came to prepare our dessert he explained every step in detail and announced every ingredient as it was added. He even told us when he would be adding the rum and to get the camera ready (if we wanted). The entire performance was only 5 minutes and before we knew it, dad and I were sitting there eating and enjoying the Morrell family's legendary warm bananas, brown sugar, rum (among other ingredients), and ice cream dessert. It tasted just like I remembered it. In fact, I recall telling dad that I liked his better because Brennan’s was using some subpar brand of ice cream. At least dad never skimped on quality ice cream. And for me, that was the, to date, last traveling bonding moment I had with my dad. I always wished El could have been with us, but for that moment to have occurred, I don't think she could have been. No one else could.

As I look around Razdol'noye, where I live now, I think two things: "mom would love this place" and "dad would hate this place". Some people read the blog and start to get a sense that life here can be a little different than life in America. Things we, as Americans, take for granted become the hurdles that remind you your comfort zone is being widened. Just having running water 24 hours a day would be an improvement for me. Having hot water at all would be an improvement for me. Having tap water I can drink would be an improvement for me. I expect when mom gets here she will fall in love with the people and quaintness of Razdol'noye, like I did. Whereas if dad came, I figure I would never hear the end of the difficulties in getting to my fourth floor apartment that doesn't have a television or and elevator. It's not that I don't want dad in Ukraine, I just don’t think that the town of Razdol'noye would be his best introduction. I haven't seen my dad in person in 16 months, so I don't know if his interest in visiting Ukraine has waned any. In my mind it has since I don’t hear about it in his kitchen on a daily basis. But, dad, I have seen some wonderful things in this country as a tourist that I think you might really appreciate. My trips to L'viv, Odessa, Kiev, and Sevastopol showed me some of the very best this country has to offer. Sadly, a maximum of walking and public transportation are standard. And if you think public transport in NYC is substandard, I shudder to predict your opinion of an underheated (in winter) or undercooled (in summer) overnight train, a standing room only marshrutka, or a butts-to-nuts full trolleybus- with no open windows. Situations that people who live here have never known any different from. Whereas, your experience will surely tell you there are better methods existing elsewhere. If you think that you are up for adventure that can be challenging and sometimes downright painful, I would love to have you visit. And if it is 11 more months before I see you, we can plan some local time out-and maybe have a bonding moment or two while we are at it. I love you dad, from half a world away.