We butted heads when I was a teen, but travels with my dad have brought us closer than ever
Travelling with her father has allowed Jessica Furseth to truly get to know him as an adult – and discover just how similar they are
When my father and I planned our Iceland trip, I picked my flight from London to coincide with his departure from Oslo, Norway – they were landing only an hour apart, and I assumed he’d be in the airport waiting for me. But as I exited baggage claim, I realised he wasn’t there.
In those pre-roaming days, I couldn’t just call him. Maybe in some families this would be cause for concern; but the thing about the Furseths is, we’re “a little bit special”, as my mother would say. Figuring I’d find him eventually, I got on the airport bus to Reykjavik and found the hotel – where my father was sitting in the lounge, casually reading the paper. He’d spent the time well, getting a recommendation for a restaurant serving unique local meats. Even though it was out of season, there was a chance we’d score some puffin.
My father and I never meet in the same place twice – our homes being the exception, but even that’s not very often. He lives across the country from where I grew up in Norway, meaning I can’t practically combine seeing both of my parents in one trip. I’ve lived in London for 20 years now, and after a decade of visits my father declared that a man can only see the British Museum so many times – so maybe we could meet somewhere else? I loved this idea, and immediately suggested we go to Istanbul.
When I was young my parents couldn’t afford to travel much. Most of my early childhood holidays consisted of driving to my grandparents’ house by the seaside, something I loved to do (even though it meant getting car sick a minimum of twice each way). I picked Turkey for our first trip because I knew that the Hagia Sophia was a bucket list item for my dad. He loves history and studied it at university, but back then I don’t think he ever quite imagined that the places from his books were within reach.
My memories of Istanbul are of a hazy blue city, calls to prayer and Turkish delight in every flavour. But the best memory I have is of sitting in the Hagia Sophia, at the time designated a museum rather than a house of worship, listening to my father tell me about the history of this Byzantine masterpiece. Over 1,000 years ago, he said, Norwegian vikings made it all the way down to Istanbul, which they called Miklagard. One of those vikings even carved some runes into the marble of the Hagia Sophia: “Halfdan risset disse runer”. It means, essentially, “Halfdan woz ’ere”.
Travel is a wonderful way to connect with someone, especially when you’ve lived very different lives. Visiting Moscow with my dad (during a more benevolent political climate) gave the place such a sense of occasion – the city had been behind the Iron Curtain for most of his life, impossible to even contemplate, but now we were standing in the Red Square where history happened.
Our biggest adventure was when we flew into Amman in Jordan, where we picked up a rental car with no GPS to go to Petra, the ancient town carved into the rock. The rental agent brought us coffee infused with cardamom as he marked our location on a map so old the borders were out of date, told us to go west at the roundabout and straight through four more, and then head south. Vague, for sure, but it worked – Jordan is the friendliest place I’ve ever been, and we made it to Petra and back without incident.
If everyone has a special skill, mine is that I have an excellent sense of direction. I’m not bragging, it’s just a fact – my partner calls it JessGPS. I told my father about this as we were having an exceptional meal on the Isle of Skye this spring, chosen from a menu that detailed which local had caught which ingredient. He nodded in recognition – he’s forever dazzling his companions with an innate awareness that, no, it’s this way. Unlike our trip to Jordan, we both had smartphones when we went to Skye, but I quickly realised that Apple CarPlay doesn’t work without mobile reception – Scotland: 1, California: 0. Confident in our abilities, we studied the map each morning and let FursethGPS do the rest. Like my dad would say, we can’t become too reliant on these things!
While the Highlands were glorious – I swam in Loch Ness, we ate haggis, it didn’t even rain – one of the most memorable moments took place in a parking lot in Uig, after we’d wandered the Fairy Glen and were half an hour early for our dinner booking. While I’ve had a driving licence since I was 18, I’ve mostly driven in Norway and have never fully adjusted to how a British car sits differently in the space around your body – basically, I have a poor sense of how much room I have to my left. When I’d pulled into a head-first parking spot in Uig, my manoeuvre left a lot to be desired (I was unable to get out of my door and there was a metre to spare on the other side.) My father told me, in his kind, matter-of-fact way, to back up and do it again. And again. And again. We kept at it until I got it right, and the next time I parked he just nodded, yep, and that was the last time we spoke of it.
With almost anyone else I’d have said no – “I’ll just crawl out the passenger side, leave it alone!”. But, while my dad and I butted heads plenty of times when I was younger, we’ve spent enough time together as adults for me to understand just how similar we are. I know that he’s like me: if I offer someone help, it’s not because I think they’re terrible – it’s because I think they could easily be good.
So with that in mind I let my beloved dad, a veteran driver who took to the left-hand rental car like a fish to water, teach me how to park properly. After all, I know he’d never do it for any other reason than thinking I could be great.
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