If you saw him walking down the street, you’d know he was a tourist. My dad never leaves the house without at least one piece of Green Bay Packers gear. He has a classic beer belly and thick, old-fashioned glasses. He is always hurting himself while working — a torn shoulder muscle, a swollen knee, a dislocated finger — and moves through crowds uneasily and grumpily, afraid of getting bumped and hurt.
But after 12 years of visits, my Midwestern dad is getting harder and harder to entertain.
He’s a beer drinker, so I took him to La Trappe, famous for their selection of Belgian sours. He laughed out loud at the idea of drinking sour beer. “I’ll have a Bud Light,” he said. When told that they didn’t have Bud Light, he was unabashed. “Then whatever tastes like Bud Light.”
I brought him to Park Tavern for their drool-worthy Marlow burger. He took a bite and stared at it. “That costs $17?! Your mom’s burgers are just as good.”
Wisconsinites will brake for cheese in any state.
Museums are too dull, walking tours too tiring and Boudin’s famous sourdough “too chewy.” I started expanding my map of potential places to take my parents and was able to impress my dad a few times, but not for the reasons I expected.
I took my parents for a drive south down Highway 1, which, I assumed, everyone would love. My dad was impressed enough with the vast ocean views and jagged, soaring cliffs, but my mom immediately got carsick, and my dad complained that the rental car was hurting his back. Every time someone would ride our bumper around the hairpin turns (so, you know, constantly) my dad would yell, “Geez, back off, buddy!” from the backseat.
I decided to head to Pescadero, where we saw a sign that read, “Cheese Tasting,” and followed the arrow.
Wisconsinites will brake for cheese in any state.
It lead us to Harley Farms, home of the prettiest little goat cheeses you’ve ever seen, which we could taste inside the shop. It’s a very different type of cheese than the block cheddars my parents are used to. At one point my dad threatened to pop an entire crottin (a chunk of cheese about the size of an apricot) into his mouth. I had to explain to him that it was not intended to be bite size.
We ate as much free cheese as we could in good conscience (OK, more) and then snuck—uninvited—into the loft of the barn where they hold “farm dinners.” It was dark and quiet and smelled faintly of farm animals. It reminded my dad of a smaller version of the old barn they used to have on their farm, one they had to tear down when I was a kid. The main support beams from it have since been repurposed into the support beams of my parents’ house.
A rustic table runs the length of the dining room at Harley Farms, and each handmade chair is unique. My dad spent a good half hour making me take pictures of every piece of furniture from every angle.
I don’t feel like I have a lot of bonding moments with my dad—but this was one.
We had fun finding the unique part of each chair, examining how they fit together and which parts we needed photos of for later. I knew it was unlikely he would ever make a chair this complex, but that wasn’t the point. He was smiling, energized and having a great time. We were doing something together, and that’s what mattered.
Frankly, bringing him to all my favorite things was ruining some of them for me.
While the farm trip was an accidental success, there were other parts of the trip that were planned specifically for my dad.
I realized that I was trying to force him to enjoy the stuff I liked doing despite the fact that I know we are very, very different people. I love visiting bookstores wherever I travel. My dad doesn’t read anything beyond woodworking magazines. I plan my trips around food. He packs a sandwich to bring everywhere. Frankly, bringing him to all my favorite things was ruining some of them for me. After thinking about what he likes to do back home, I found what is still our best outing to date: the Academy of Art University Automobile Museum.
Now, my dad is a car guy—like, he-rebuilt-a-Mustang-as-a-teenager kind of car guy. We spent hours here. It is the one and only museum we’ve ever been to where he wasn’t the first to leave. We signed up for a “tour,” which really just means that a guy lets you in and hangs back while you wander around and read the signs on all the cars.
Honestly, it’s a miracle I even exist.
My dad was born in the 1950s, and cars from his teen years are usually his favorite, but it was when we got to the 1930s section that he got really animated. He had me take pictures of him standing in front of them, grinning, his hands folded. These are the kinds of cars with running boards and rumble seats, the kinds of cars that his dad, who taught him to be a car guy, had owned and fixed up.
There was a 1931 Cadillac V8 Roadster, a 1934 Ford Cabriolet and a 1934 Packard Convertible Victoria. Apparently, his first car at 16 was a Ford like these, handed down from his dad. It was a jalopy by then, and he would stand on the running board while his cousin drove as fast as he could around corners, trying to throw him off.
“Did he ever do it?” I asked.
“Sure, lots of times,” my dad answered nonchalantly.
Honestly, it’s a miracle I even exist.
Nothing else has quite ever matched those two perfect afternoons, but I keep looking. I took them to get dim sum and to the wine country. We went to every festival and flea market. I brought both my parents to open houses at mansions that, again, inspired my dad to make me take pictures of everything.
And I’m grateful they come visit, so I keep making lists of things to do. I love showing off my adopted city. I love searching for things, like the car museum, that I never would have bothered with on my own. I love showing my dad what he won’t find in their corner of the world. My parents are, after all, the ones who told me to go forth and explore, so once in a while I’m going to drag them along with me.
Whether they like it or not.
Hey! The Bold Italic recently launched a podcast, This Is Your Life in Silicon Valley. Check out the full season or listen to the episode below featuring Alexia Tsotsis, former co-editor of TechCrunch. More coming soon, so stay tuned!
