Sandwich-generation travel: Taking a 80-year-old mom and a teen niece to México
All Christmas week we awoke to the smell of my Nigerian niece A making pancakes for the family while chatting with my mother. Mom has never met any of my Nigerian siblings or their children before, and my heart warmed to hear her low giggles intertwined with my niece’s replies, high and melodic as a bell. “We calculated that I’m exactly five times her age!” Mom announced brightly. On her second day in México, we’d been stunned to learn that A was only 16 years old (as I suspected — too damn young to be a college roboticist). “Sixteen times five is eighty!
After breakfast I’d announce the day’s plan and she’d say “Okay!” brightly. She really came into her own in Tulum, gasping with delight at our condo with an outdoor living room next to a pool. Head wagging, she videotaped herself, mouthing imperceptibly into the camera. “What’s that?” my husband muttered, “does she add the audio later?” As a new traveler, she captured things we didn’t even notice — wandering into the taqueria kitchen to see who was making tortillas and how, documenting hammocks hanging over the pool, slim Mayan men who ran tourists out to the ruins in “bicycle limousines”, a wall of fedoras, the steps up to the bathroom and down to the beach, pink flamingoes running across a river with black-tipped wings.
After we took a boat to the Tulum ruins, she snorkeled in the Caribbean while my husband huddled onboard.
When we went swimming in underground cenotes and caves, my water-phobic husband and claustrophobic-me clutching the guide’s floatie, she bought a water-proof case so she could trail behind, photographing underwater. At one point I saw her cliff-jumping with a group of young Americans. At the end of each day, she’d show her photos and videos to Mom, who often stayed at home reading and resting. I’d fall asleep to the sound of them watching Netflix.
Everything was fine until we tried to leave. “We just got here!” she complained as we loaded up the van. En route to the airport, my phone started to buzz. Storm Elliott was dumping snow and rain across North America, with thousands of flights canceled. My brother, who was monitoring her flight from Nigeria, forwarded constant delay updates. She was scheduled to fly to Toronto at 4:00 PM, with the rest of us leaving for San Francisco at 7:30 PM; we had three-and-a-half hours to get her out of the country.
When both legs of her flight were finally canceled, my travel agent called with options: A) she could be rerouted through México City (“Where’s that?” A asked. “Is it part of the Yucatán?”), which would add yet another connection and opportunity to get stuck somewhere; B) she could take the same flights the next day, which would mean leaving a sixteen-year-old alone in Cancún; or C) I could try to get her onto the 3:00 flight, which for some reason hadn’t been canceled, but she’d have to figure out something in Toronto, as all connecting flights were down.
We went with Plan C. As soon as we reached the airport, she and I sped to Air Canada, leaving my husband to deal with the luggage, Mom, and her scooter. In the security line, I discovered that she’d put her only credit card in her giant checked luggage but was lugging a huge tub of hair cream in her carry-on. I shouted at her; she shouted at the security officials determined to confiscate it; Hubby dragged the luggage off to nap; Mom settled into a food court that looked like a satellite American city with its offerings from Wolfgang Puck, Guy Fiori, and Bubba Gump.
As A’s new flight got delayed, I paced, terrified that I’d have to abandon her in Cancún after all. I coached her on her options in Toronto: A) Take a bus or train to your college town; B) Locate a Nigerian you know; we’re everywhere; C) Crash on the airport floor near other female students (an idea that she clearly found appalling); or D) Find a female airline official, tell her you’re a minor, and cry. She snorted, staring to see if I were serious. Mom nodded. “Oh yeah, cry.”
At 6:00 PM I exhaled and sent my brother Proof of Life — a photo of his eldest child getting on her plane. I lectured her, I warned him, and Uncle gave her some cash. His good-natured reply was the second-best thing I read all day and proof that we are indeed blood: Today’s experience will definitely equip her the more in her future travels.
The best thing came from her, my niece herself. At midnight, as we were nodding off in an Uber heading home from the San Francisco airport, my phone pinged. Hello, Aunty, she wrote. Plan Crying worked! They got me a hotel at the Toronto airport, a food voucher, and a caretaker. I read the text aloud. “Okay, she’s learning,” my husband said. “Ha!” Mom crowed. “Looks like your mission to turn those kids into travelers worked!” Welcome to the family, I texted back. Let me know where you want to go next vacation.
Faith Adiele founded the nation’s first writing workshop for travelers of color through VONA. Her award-winning memoir MEETING FAITH routinely makes travel listicles, and her travel media credits include A WORLD OF CALM (HBO-Max), Sleep Stories (CALM app), and MY JOURNEY HOME (PBS). A member of the Black Travel Alliance, she publishes in HERE MAGAZINE, OFF ASSIGNMENT, BEST WOMEN’S TRAVEL WRITING, OPRAH MAGAZINE, ESSENCE, and others. Find her in Oakland, Finland, Nigeria or @meetingfaith.
This story was originally published January 23, 2023 at 7:00 AM with the headline "Sandwich-generation travel: Taking a 80-year-old mom and a teen niece to México."