When my husband, Paul, and I talked about taking our two teenaged daughters to Europe for the first time, I was thrilled. The two of us had been grounded in European culture and arts since our youth — Paul through his Belgian mother, who spoke French and took him to visit their Antwerp relatives, and I through my passions for Shakespeare and classical piano. (The tiny gypsum busts of Mozart, Beethoven and Bach, my teacher's gifts, had a permanent place on our spinet and kept me company as I practiced their compositions.) A holiday on the Continent with the girls would give us a reason to also revisit England's Lake District, a magical place where we'd honeymooned nearly twenty years ago. Most of all, Paul and I wanted to introduce Cara and Aster to our cultural, artistic and romantic roots.
I cherished memories of my own first trip to Europe. I was in my early twenties, traveling through France with my then boyfriend, a violinist, to play some concerts and visit his mother on Cap Ferrat, on the Côte d'Azur. Together we experienced sublime artistic moments, seeing the Mona Lisa at the Louvre, hearing soprano Kiri Te Kanawa sing at the Opéra National de Paris. I was equally transported by a completely different approach to living: the French took their bread, cheese and wine seriously; they passionately debated what gave something — be it a meal, a painting or a moment — its value.
My experiences in France forever attuned me to what I call the "real thing." This phrase could signify something better than average (e.g., real butter tastes better than margarine), but for me it meant more. When I encountered something created with ageless, unsurpassed craft and great care — a well-made French baguette, a wonderful old house — I was filled with delight. Eating Parisian croissants, I felt cared for in a way that was more profound than simply being nourished. America has real things, too, but it is in Europe that they are woven into the fabric of daily life. So with the girls in mind, Paul and I plotted a two-week loop around several northern European cities: London (and a Lake District detour), Antwerp, Amsterdam and Paris.
Sixteen-year-old Cara is dark-haired and thoughtful; Aster, fourteen, is fair-skinned, athletic and outgoing. Both girls are fine students who love hip-hop and jazz dancing, hanging out with their friends, playing piano and guitar, and listening to all kinds of music. At the same time, both are teenagers — alternately buoyant and moody, engaged and recalcitrant. The dark side, alas, can surface just when cooperation is needed most. Big questions kept popping up as we prepared our adventure: How would we fare with Cara and Aster on foreign soil? What might our travels reveal about them, or us?
When you put a picture into a different frame, new aspects of the image emerge. So it was here: stepping out of the home frame seemed to free the girls to reveal unsuspected characteristics. As soon as we boarded the flight to London, any hint of "seen it all" teen ennui fell away and they became lively, enthusiastic fellow travelers. In London, for example, Paul and I were startled to discover that our daughters, accustomed to being shuttled around the suburbs by car, could be avid walkers, given the right circumstances. They adored the city's trim, just-starched look and cheerfully logged many miles trekking among its sites. "I like this walking business," Cara announced one night as we strolled the Thames Embankment.
Just as gratifying for us, she and Aster quickly spotted — and savored — the real thing when it appeared. The Globe Theatre's (21 New Globe Walk; shakespeares-globe.org) production of Love's Labour's Lost, performed by first-rate British actors, held them spellbound for three hours, even though we stood the entire time. Another hit was afternoon tea at the historic Cadogan hotel (75 Sloane Street; cadogan.com). As we luxuriated in velvet armchairs, Cara leaned in to me. "I'm fascinated by psychology," she confided. "Can you tell me about Freudian psychoanalysis?" So we sat, sipping tea, nibbling cakes and chatting about dreams and their meaning. (A take-home parenting tip: if you want to have a long, unguarded chat with your teen, treat her to afternoon tea.) By the end of our stay, leaving London felt like leaving a loved one.
That loss was tempered by our days in the gorgeous Lake District, a green haven of sheep-dotted pastures and mountain-ringed lakes, just as Paul and I remembered it. Cara and Aster relished the genuine English breakfast presented each morning. But their most lasting memory might be that of slogging for hours, without complaint, through typical English rain on one of our country walks. Cara and Aster's good nature persisted through a different set of trials on our sixth evening, when we were scheduled to fly to Belgium but instead endured a twenty-four-hour debacle of canceled flights, missed trains, promised-but-nonexistent hotel reservations and sleepless hours until, finally, we escaped by train to Antwerp. Not once did they grumble or whine — an impressive show, Paul and I agreed.
Our whole Belgian visit was a virtual parade of real things. We stayed with Paul's cousin Jacqueline, a talented artist whose 100-year-old house was adorned with colorful paintings and surrounded by a charming walled apple orchard. She and Paul's other cousins took us to nearby Brugge, a medieval fairyland of mullioned windows, cobblestoned streets and glittering canals. Best of all, for me, was hearing Paul's family talk in a mix of French, Flemish and English (translated as necessary) about their clan's roots in 1500s Antwerp and their survival during the Nazi occupation, which Paul's mother had lived through. This is another real thing, of course — the unique memories that family members revisit, polish and share together. Watching Cara and Aster chat with their European relatives, I felt the braiding of invisible cords that would link us all, even after our branch of the family flew back across the Atlantic.
Up to this point, Cara and Aster had offered us unforeseen glimpses into themselves; now, each gave me a fresh (if irreverent) new look at some of my most treasured icons. In moody, canal-graced Amsterdam, after slouching through the rooms of Rembrandts and Vermeers in the Rijksmuseum (1 Jan Luijkenstraat; rijksmuseum.nl), they came to life while devouring all four floors of the airy Van Gogh Museum (7 Paulus Potterstraat; vangoghmuseum.nl). As we left, Paul and I divined that a cute boy had been discreetly trailing Aster throughout. "I really liked that museum!" she exclaimed. When we laughed, she added, "I liked the paintings, too!" "Which did you like the best?" I asked wryly. "There was one painting with crows and a field," she said thoughtfully. "The sky was blue, so blue, and the field was so yellow. I just liked how he put the paints together." With pleasure, I realized that she was describing Wheatfield With Crows — one of Van Gogh's last oils and one of my favorites.
In Paris, after visiting the Musée de l'Orangerie (Jardin des Tuileries; musee-orangerie.fr) and the Musée d'Orsay (1 Rue de la Légion d'Honneur; musee-orsay.fr), we made a deal: at the Louvre (louvre.fr) we'd view the Winged Victory, the Mona Lisa and the Venus de Milo, then escape. Standing beside the Victory, my personal favorite, I asked Cara, "That's really something, isn't it?" She agreed, then responded with her own question. "Why is it so famous, do you think?" Why, indeed? I fumbled for words. "Most statues are about motion," I ventured. "To me, this one just is motion." Cara nodded. I was proud that she was beginning to ask that oh-so-European question, What makes this so good?
We followed the crowds to Leonardo's smiling, enigmatic lady. Cara slipped through them to the front, taking photo after photo. Afterward she said, "It gave me chills, like seeing a rock star." As for the Venus de Milo: "She doesn't look very happy," Aster remarked skeptically. Studying the marble statue, I suddenly saw not the ideal of womanly beauty but a sulky, pretty model/servant girl kept on her feet too long by an oblivious sculptor/master.
One final snapshot: that of our first morning in Paris. Paul and I clattered down the stairs of our rental-apartment building to the bakery next door, returning with crusty golden pastries. We all sat, and I watched Aster and Cara taste their first Parisian croissants. "Wow!" they both exclaimed.
Right then, I had an aha moment. This was what I'd wanted all along, to sit and have breakfast in Paris with Paul and the girls, sharing flaky croissants with fresh butter and strawberry jam. Maybe this is frivolous self-indulgence; maybe it's the art of living. All I know is that for me, the riches of everyday life feel the realest when I can share them with my family — reason enough to take the girls to Europe.
Reflecting a few months later, Paul and I felt we'd done the trip right. Cara recently confirmed this by asking, "Mom and Dad, is there any possibility that we might go to Greece and Italy next summer?" The search for the real thing, carried out in the birthplace of Western civilization? Hmm, we'll see.
TEENS IN TOW
Paul and I planned and arranged every aspect of our European trip together, using countless travel books and Internet sources as our guides. Sorting out the details was time-consuming, especially when it came to figuring out the train and flight schedules for the various countries on our itinerary. But the process also gave us a heady feeling of anticipation about our adventure as well as a heartening sense of competence (a plus when traveling with teenagers).
Still, many parents don't have the time or inclination for this hands-on approach. Happily, several top-notch outfits stand ready to craft European sojourns designed to suit families' needs and wishes. Two of the best are Latitude International (011-44-207-373-1999; latitude-international.com) and Abercrombie & Kent (800-554-7016; abercrombieandkent.com). For cultural walking tours that accommodate a variety of interests, try Context (888-467-1986; contexttravel.com).
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