Image by Krivec Ales on Pexels.
Writing inspired by the following Sunday Writers’ Club prompt:
What did you think you’d never be able to enjoy, but discovered you were wrong (for example: whisky)? What did you think you’d never be able to enjoy, and were proved correct (for example: jazz)?
Homage To Pink Lady Cheeks
by Chloë McGrane
“I will NEVER enjoy hiking,” I snap.
I kick a rock for dramatic effect, watching it crumble down the green mountainside that I am perched on. A hawk circles above my head, screeching. I wish it was acceptable for me to flap my arms and screech, I think, staring across at a set of rocky, snow-tipped fangs in front of me.
We’re having an argument again—my mom and I. She commented on how spectacular the view was. I grunted. She told me I was ungrateful. I told her she ruined my summer.
“Do you realize how lucky you are to have these experiences? How many girls in your class have parents that would bring them to the Dolomites?” My mom’s voice drones on in the background. I block out the noise, focusing on the internal crunching sounds in my mouth as I chew on a muesli bar. My brother and my dad sit in silence, watching the drama unfold, smirking, as they placidly nibble on their sandwiches.
I’m thirteen. Hiking is not cool. I’ve just spent the last six hours walking in the most hideous attire, spitting flies out of my mouth, and stepping over cow feces. My classmates at home are probably snogging boys in the cinema, shopping, or laying out in the park listening to the latest Now! album. These are my prime years! I should be spending them on flat land!
We get going again and I continue walking miles ahead on my own. I don’t have the energy to argue with my mom—it’s only day two of our hiking “holiday” and we have four more days to go. I sing, pick up random rocks and try to identify potential fossils, stomp through gigantic leaves that look as though they came straight out of Jurassic Park. I play out a scene in my head, imagining myself as an adult sitting in front of a therapist, recounting these traumatic experiences and attributing all of my issues to these hiking trips I was forced to go on.
“Yes, they forced me to go hiking. Every year since I was able to walk—even before I could walk, actually!” I tell my imaginary future therapist, casting my mind back to the photographs of me as a baby strapped to my father’s chest as my parents hiked across Europe.
“Despicable!” my therapist would tut.
“Yes, while my friends went on family holidays to the South of France, splashing around in chlorine drenched pools or slurping their liquifying ice-creams by the beach, I would sit in a sweltering hot rented car for what felt like an eternity, as we drove through the Italian countryside to the end of the world”.
I imagine my therapist nodding empathetically, handing me a box of tissues.
I thank her before continuing, “We would pass endless moss-coloured fields, dotted with rows of golden crops and peachy-toned country houses, the car bumping along dusty roads as topless old men—with skin like deflated balloons—chased their dogs off the road with tea towels”.
“And what kind of coping mechanisms did you devise to endure such suffering?” my therapist would ask.
“I would rest my temple against the car window with my iPod sitting on my lap, blaring Avril Lavigne through my tangled earphones, pretending that I was in a movie,” I would reply.
“We did get to stop at McDonalds on the way—that was my favourite part of the road trip.I’d sit outside, devouring my food, while a plastic life-size Italian Ronald McDonald watched me from a distance. Save me, Ron, I’d whisper, slurping my syrupy Diet Coke, which always tasted far sweeter than Coke at home. Actually, have you noticed that McDonalds fries abroad are always sweeter and squishier too?”
My therapist would pause and contemplate this.
“Anyway, soon enough, the long-anticipated McDonalds stop would be over and I’d be back in the portable radiator once more until we reached our final destination. I’d shove my signal-less purple Motorola flip phone under the seat and head into the mountains for a week with nothing but my thoughts, my iPod and nature….”
A buzzing mosquito whizzes past my face, snapping me out of my trance with my make-believe future therapist. I look ahead and realize I have almost reached the mountain hut. I turn my head, my parents and brother are mere blobs, far, far behind me. The mountain hut hasn’t opened yet. There are cycling groups and other hikers sitting on the grassy plane with their hands dangling over their knees. No children, not a child in sight—more ammunition for me to use against my parents!
I practice my cartwheels to pass the time and eventually my parents and brother trail up just as the hut opens its doors. We check in and take a seat on one of the outdoor benches, waiting to be given some dinner. I am served a familiar bowl of yellow gloop. “Polenta—you’ll learn to love it!” my dad had insisted several years before. Maybe he was right. Maybe I’ll get so used to eating it and eventually, I’ll just learn to enjoy it. I close my eyes and pretend it’s pizza. Squelches resound in my mouth and I try not to gag. It’s a soggy, wet, pizza, I tell myself.
A couple approaches and asks if they can sit at the end of our bench as there are no other free seats.
“Of course!” my dad says, patting the table.
They are a young Scottish couple—a lanky, mousey-brown haired man and a short, red haired lady with cheeks that remind me of a Pink Lady apple. My mom jokes with her about how much I hate hiking, to which Pink Lady cheeks responds with, “Ah, just you wait! My parents used to take me hiking when I was your age too and I HATED it. But now, I go hiking ALL the time”. She, her boyfriend, and my parents erupt with laughter. I am not amused.
At the time, I had no idea that this would be our last family hiking holiday for almost a decade. Fast forward to my mid-twenties — when I moved to Austria. That summer, my parents came to visit, and I felt a strange, innate urge…
“Let’s go on a hiking trip?!” I suggested.
Well, my parents nearly admitted me to the hospital. I never quite came around to enjoying polenta, but the hiking trips have since become an annual tradition. I guess Pink Lady Cheeks was right after all.