HO CHI MINH CITY, VIETNAM - A month before I was to wind up a long-term volunteer stint in Vietnam, my 89-year-old father Gordon arrived on my doorstep. I was working in Hanoi as a communications advisor with the World University Services of Canada in their Uniterra program, and the local college where I was stationed was closing down for Tet, the lunar New Year’s celebrations.

It was February, a perfect time for dad to escape Toronto’s deep freeze and join me for a holiday. Our plan was to scout the country for a couple of weeks and also see Angkor Wat in neighbouring Cambodia.

Dad is an old-school foodie, meaning he is an adventuresome eater. When my mother was alive they loved discovering hole-in-the wall ethnic restaurants, so I knew he’d be up for a Hanoi Street Food Tour. Joining a group of 10 travellers, we entered Hanoi’s frenetic Old Quarter, dodging motorbikes and eating as the locals do.

The bun chao, a noodle broth topped with barbequed pork patties and fresh herbs, was my favourite. Dad loved the rice flour pancakes filled with minced pork and cloud ear mushrooms, called bánh cuốn. The vendor even let him try cooking the translucent wraps.

At the end of our gastronomic adventure, there was just enough room in our bellies for a frothy egg coffee at Giang Café. The café’s founder, Nguyen Giang, first used eggs when milk was scarce after World War II. Sweet and creamy, it tasted like tiramisu in a cup.

Left: Lanterns in Hoi An are a colourful spectacle. Right: Dad admires Hanoi's buildings.

Hồ Chí Minh’s mausoleum was next and we joined the throng snaking its way towards the imposing, box-like structure. The line-up moved surprisingly fast and 20 minutes later we shuffled past the Godfather of communist Vietnam.

Hồ Chí Minh died in 1968 and wanted to be cremated, but the powers that be had him preserved as an inspirational figurehead. So, Uncle Hồ remains in his acrylic glass box for all to see, except for the two months of annual “refreshing” he gets in Moscow.

Exploring the city, dad and I came upon a religious ceremony at Vietnam’s first national university, the Temple of Literature, where fierce older ladies dressed in shiny satin marched and prayed. We also walked about the crumbling citadel and sipped countless cups of sweet Vietnamese coffee.

Above: Women march at the Temple of Literature in Vietnam.

When the temperature dipped we headed south to Hội An, an ancient port city boasting a mishmash of Chinese, Japanese, French and Vietnamese culture. Strolling along the streets of this UNESCO World Heritage site, we popped into traditional houses that are open to the public. Often occupied by descendants of the original inhabitants, some families go back seven generations. We were shown ancestral altars and stared at yellowing photos of unsmiling matriarchs and patriarchs in silk robes. It’s difficult to get a grasp on family roots so deep. I know my aunts, uncles and grandparents, but after that it gets fuzzy.

My dad is not a man of many words. He was a lawyer and plays his cards close to his chest, but the displays got to him and he gave me a little familial background.

“My grandmother and grandfather came over to Canada from England when I was very young,” he told me. “My grandmother moved in with us because my grandfather didn’t like it in Canada and went back to England.”

There had always been a mystery surrounding my great grandfather. I remember being told he had been in the tea business but ended up a stevedore.

“Oh, he was kicked out of his family’s tea business. My cousin and I went through some old documents and figured out why.” Dad paused and lifted his eyebrows. “He and my grandmother had their first child a little too soon after they got married. My grandfather’s family didn’t want ‘that woman’ benefitting from their tea business, so my grandfather was cut out.”

Funny what you learn about your family while so far from home.

We then flew to Siem Reap, Cambodia, and dad was pleased to see a bottle of Glenmorangie — a fine single-malt Scotch — in the duty free shop. Later, sitting by the pool at our hotel, we toasted our adventures with the smooth amber liquid.

“To a wonderful trip!” said dad, a big smile on his face.

Touring Angkor Wat and the other temples in the complex, we learned of gods and demons, a mythic serpent, and the Ocean of Milk containing the elixir of life. We gazed at gigantic stone faces with the features of 12th-century ruler Jayavaran VII and quietly crept past kneeling worshipers in front of Buddhist statues.

In Phnom Penh, we paid tribute to the two million Cambodians butchered during the violent regime of Pol Pot and toured a former high school which had been turned into a prison. Chum Mey, a man with deep soulful eyes and one of the prison’s few survivors, sold my father his book. It was sad yet enlightening. Dad and I shook our heads, thinking about those atrocities taking place while we were oblivious in Canada.

A speedboat on the Mekong River took us from Phnom Penh across the border to the Vietnamese city of Châu Đốc. The food in the Mekong Delta, to my mind, is the best in Vietnam — seafood, river fish, fresh fruits and vegetables. We even tried elephant ear fish. Battered lightly and served upright on a wooden stand, it looked imposing. Dad flaked a piece onto his fork and took a taste. “Tender!”

Above: Writer and her father visit some of the sacred places in Asia.

Ho Chi Minh City was our last stop. We shopped the night market, marvelled at the Opera House, and did a day trip to the Củ Chi Tunnels, where the Viet Cong hid so effectively during the American War. Dad, who served in the Navy in World War II, passed on trying out a high-powered rifle at the complex’s shooting range. So did I. Too noisy.

What a journey: Food, culture, history and family revelations. Even at 89, dad says he learned a lot. I know I did.