Generation Vacation: what happens when millennials like me go on holiday with our parents
My mother laughs a lot. It takes little to send her into hysterics, and when she starts, she’s gone.
Our trip to the Basque Country is full of laughter. As our flight leaves Gatwick on a sunny Friday morning, she can’t contain herself when the flight attendant issues the safety precautions. “It sounds like she’s praying”, she observes of the lightning-quick Spanish gabble. She proceeds to imitate, using phrases picked up at Catholic school in Brazil, which I’m sure nearby passengers enjoyed.
As a 25-year-old, I’m bang in the middle of the millennial generation. Much maligned by our elders for being lazy, entitled and addicted to technology, we are over-qualified but can’t find work or afford rent. We spend more time with our parents than ever before (the number of adults living at home has hit a 20-year high), and we also travel more – because where's the point in saving when you'll never have enough for a house deposit anyway?
Sometimes, we combine the two and travel with the olds in tow. Even Britain’s youngest billionaire, the Duke of Westminster, has recently been holidaying with his mum. A free trip should never be sniffed at, after all.
My mother is a fantastic travel companion, and she knows it
Tomé Morrissy-Swan
For me, family holidays have always been important. Annual camping trips to Wales defined my childhood; before turning one I had experienced miserable downpours and flooded tents in Snowdonia. Whether in Britain, Europe or Brazil, my sister and I were constantly driven up mountains against our will by our eager parents, with bribes in the form of sweets often our sole motivation.
These days, the family dispersed, my mother and I continue the tradition.
We are quite different, the millennial and the ex-hippy, but we get along well, and our trips have always been special. Eating pizza in Naples, exploring New York, or mum visiting me at university in North Carolina; some of my most memorable holidays have been with her.
This year, we chose the Basque Country due to the sheer breadth of attractions. There's the wine-producing south, the northern beaches and quaint fishing villages, the fashionable Bilbao, the gastronomic paradise of San Sebastian. I'd been once before and knew it was perfect place for some mother and son bonding.
So, what's it like travelling with your mum? Well, it's ... slower. The drive from Bilbao Airport to San Sebastian takes longer than expected due to my mother’s inherent distrust of technology. No Google Maps or TomTom for her; instead, she trusts old-fashioned road signs. I tell her technology is always right, and a heated discussion ensues over the merits of satellite navigation when abroad. Embarrassingly, I lose the argument: when we eventually rely on the machine, it decides to avoid toll roads and takes us through circuitous single carriageways.
Our time in San Sebastian is dedicated to eating. Some of the best steak in the world can be found in the Basque Country, where old dairy cows are eaten. The meat is darker and richer, with a deep yellow fat, and melts in the mouth. My mother’s atypical response to her first bite is well within character: she laughs infectiously, and I catch the bug. A later remark that the food was “orgasmic” finds a more muted response. No son wants to hear that.
As we leave the restaurant, mum, tipsy after too much Rioja, photographs me. It's her job – she's worked as a freelance for years. “That’s the worst photo I’ve ever taken of you”, she quips. Later in the day we celebrate Arsenal’s miraculous FA Cup victory over Chelsea with my first Michelin-starred meal. A night of fine dining is punctuated by moments of culinary philistinism. We find ourselves sniffing a small, mint-like concoction, wondering what the chefs have fashioned for us. It turns out to be a napkin when introduced to water.
Travelling with a photographer can be irritating at times. In markets, restaurants, and on the streets, everything must be captured. Driving through the Basque countryside, I lose count of how many times we stop to photograph old villages and houses. I thought it was supposed to be the snap-happy iPhone generation who live their lives through a lens.
The car journeys offer the chance to hear stories from Mum's youth. She tells me of the 1970s in Brazil, trekking and camping in the wild, growing up under a dictatorship, of all the music and the famous people she photographed. It’s funny discovering your mother was cooler than you.
My mother is a fantastic travel companion, and she knows it. On one short, riverside walk, she stops, chuckling. “I have to tell you something. I really know how to travel”.
Who am I to argue? Our time in north Spain will go down as one of my best holidays – and not just because I didn't have to foot the financial burden. We're already planning our next trip. I hope to be able to pay my way on that one.
