Daaaaad!

I am just back from nearly 3 days in Norway with my dad, which is about 2 more than I easily can handle.

Why? For so many reasons, among them him quizzing me about my opinion on everything from the French election to the war in Iraq, then spending 20 minutes explaining the similarities between leprosy and tuberculosis (no, I didn’t ask) and asking me to guess, in the professorial way of his, why our average mph was dropping even though we had the car in park. He thinks the rules of the world – including airplane takeoff times – merely are suggestions, and so you can be super late to the airport and he will still have a chat with a non-English-speaking Norwegian about nothing and stop for a leisurely cup of coffee.

My dad is also a dieter’s nightmare. He likes to discuss how he has to watch his weight, then orders fish and chips for lunch and eats half a bag of trail mix (150 calories a handful) for a snack. He doesn’t usually eat breakfast except on vacation, where his idea of a “light to moderate” breakfast includes bread thickly spread with butter, cheeses, assorted meats and fishes, eggs, and fruit. When you say you are hungry – a very hard thing for me to admit to, because what fat person likes to admit to that? – he never is. It is always too early to eat lunch (well it would be with a breakfast like that, wouldn’t it?) and too early for dinner. And when he deems it time to eat, you can never just stop at the first place. Even if you’re in, say, France, he’ll make you trek all over town looking for Bulgarian food, or some other ethnic cuisine he deems interesting (Chinese, Italian, Greek et al don't count.) I have long had a theory about how my dad’s life isn’t that interesting, so his food has to be, but that’s another story.

This trip I was prepared. Despite the fact that Norwegians frown upon doggy bags, I took bananas and apples and hardboiled eggs (note to commenter asking about This Thing I’m Doing – I promise I’ll explain soon!) from the breakfast buffet and stashed them in my handbag. On the first day I pointed out (to no avail, but still, I was assertive) that things in Norway close early when it’s not high season, and that we ought not be eating lunch at 3 p.m. as nothing would be open when he was (note lack of use of “we”) ready for dinner. That night we ended up sitting in the car, eating prepackaged muesli and yogurt – two containers apiece -- from a gas station mini mart, and I did not even try to resist the “I told you so” urge. (My dad is a slow learner. We also ended up dashboard dining on Night Two.)

But I quietly ate my bananas and apples and hardboiled eggs (sometimes in the bathroom, to avoid the inevitable comment and discussion) and I didn’t binge out of extreme hunger or – as I have done before – frustration. I did lose my temper with him a few times, which I’d vowed not to do, but I’m trying not to feel too guilty. There’s next time to hit that particular goal.

Or to throw something at my dad.