Millennials, If You Love Your Parents, Read This Now

An open letter from one travel-loving millennials to her cohort: When it comes to your parents, don't waste time. Today is when you can, could, and should be planning a trip with them.

When you run your own business, it's rarely a good time to go offline for a week. Let alone right smack in the middle of Q4 when you’re on the brink of a break-up and pitching what may be your biggest client ever. But if there is anything that Covid taught me, it’s that time is our greatest asset. And if there is anything that my 30s have taught me, it is that time with our parents is the ultimate holy grail that should never be taken for granted.

I agree with the sentiment that your 20s are a mismarketed decade. I loved every minute of living in New York City during those wonder years — devouring greasy pizza in hopes it would cure my routine weekday hangovers, swiping that credit card left and right because Mykonos in July was a good idea — all on my 2000s “brand coordinator” salary. (The struggle was real.) Your 20s are fun and very outward-facing, but you don't peak in your 20s. Your 30s are more inward-facing — inspiring you to be selfish in new and exciting ways, a gluttonous, lavish, spontaneous time so full of YES.

Too bad nobody warned me that your 30s are the decade when so many of us join The Club.

The year I turned 30 was shaping up to be my best year yet. My boyfriend surprised me with a trip to French Polynesia, I had left my corporate job to start my consulting firm, and I was due to take over Bali with my best friend for six weeks, because that’s what you do when you become your own boss, right?

Life. Was. Grand.

One day that same year, while trying on a pair jeans, my best friend called. “My dad. He’s sick. It’s leukemia.” My stomach dropped, I dropped the jeans, and started to frantically Google everything she had told me in hopes of finding a study or clinical trial for him or a sliver of better news for her. He put up a good fight, but his time on this earth was cut short, and my best friend entered The Club.

My memory began to struggle in my 30s in surprising and frustrating ways, but I remember exactly where I was every time I received heavy-hearted updates from new inductees into The Club. I received the “My dad just had a heart attack” text as I was packing for Mozambique; I was in Saudi Arabia when the Whatsapp notification “My dad just died” felt like a bomb from 30,000 miles away in Argentina.

The highlight of my 30s has been rebranding “failure” as “growth” and discovering that new and exciting opportunities often accompany disappointments. While a breakup at 30 was a devastating heart-wrenching ordeal filled with tears and anger, a breakup at 33 was an open, honest conversation with a slight bruise to the ego. Losing a client at 30 was terrifying, imposter syndrome rushing through my veins as I frantically scoured jobs on LinkedIn and wondered why anyone would trust me with their business. Losing a client at 36, though never fun, is usually a matter of “it’s not you, it’s me” and par for the course when running a business.

In my 30s, I am constantly reminded of my parents' mortality. Because I live in South Africa and my parents live in Miami, I don’t have the luxury of dropping by for Sunday lunch or going on a Target run with my mom or the Apple store with my dad. As a result, I prioritize maximizing time with them.

As my dad’s 70th birthday crept up, I was the busiest I had ever been, juggling clients in Africa and the Middle East without a moment to breathe. In typical only child syndrome, it was obviously my responsibility to plan a celebration for the milestone: We would take a trip to South Africa. But this was not only not a good time for my parents to come visit; it was the worst possible time. I told my co-founder, I think I’ll just reschedule my parents’ trip for next year.

I'm glad she knocked some sense into me, and that I surprised my parents with a four-day Rovos Rail journey from Pretoria to Majestic Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe, a first for all of us. I planned everything, down to what to pack in their carry-on, and stressed how important it would be to make the transfer from the airport to the train station in the tight hour we had.

“Sorry, sir, this needs to be checked in. It's too large,” said the lady at the airport counter.

“I’m sorry, it usually passes for a carry-on,” my dad answered, looking at me sheepishly.

We are going to miss the train because you didn’t listen and follow directions, I thought, frustrated and annoyed.

Meanwhile, my mom, in her thick, loud, Sofia Vergara accent, pleaded with the check-in lady, telling her we were going to miss our train. The check-in lady did not care. The bag needed to be checked.

I intervened and apologized. (Traveling with parents will test your patience.) When we arrived at the airport with the clock ticking, I was so concerned about getting my dad’s bag at the carousel that I left MY carry-on on the plane and had to sprint back to get it. This was starting to feel like a scene out of National Lampoon’s Vacation.

The luggage stress was quickly forgotten when we arrived at the station in the nick of time for the train and carriage tour. My dad, an engineer and nerd at heart, ran to the front of the group like an overexcited child, listening to the conductor explain the mechanics of the journey in awe. “Fascinating, isn’t it!” he exclaimed while my mom and I giggled to ourselves.

As we boarded the train, our host showed us to our carriages. This time, it was my turn to be in awe — it felt like stepping back in time to the elegance and charm of Victorian-era glamour. The deluxe, wood-panelled sleeper coach exceeded all expectations, offering a surprising blend of spaciousness and luxury, with plush bedding, A/C, and large windows for gazing onto Africa’s dramatic landscapes.

Maintaining the spirit of a bygone era, the train has no WiFi, TV, or radios — which meant forced, uninterrupted quality time for everyone. For my dad, a certified workaholic, it was a struggle at first, but he quickly adapted and embraced the late morning nap and post-lunch Scrabble match.

Meals were served at set times in the Victorian-style dining cars along with South Africa’s finest wines. Evening dinner service required a formal dress code, adding to the magic. As I looked around at our fellow guests, I realized that my parents, at a ripe 70 and 71, were on the younger side. We quickly befriended an older Spanish couple who approached our table the first dinner. “I’m sorry,” the sweet older lady asked, “I couldn’t help but notice you speak English and Spanish. I was hoping you wouldn’t mind translating for us this week.”

My parents beamed with pride as if she had asked if I was running for president. As a first-generation American born to Colombian immigrants, my parents have ingrained in me how important and lucky I was to be bilingual. The older I get, the more I realize language and my heritage are among the greatest gifts they have given me, gifts I will never take for granted.

The beauty of slow travel is that days are just that: slow. We got to know the rest of the guests on board: a group of Norwegians in their early 80s who do a big trip every year, an older German couple who have seen close to 70 percent of the African continent, and our Spanish couple, also in their 80s, who confessed they hadn’t seen much of Spain as they prefer to do that “when we are older and can’t travel far.” With every conversation, I was inspired by the curiosity and drive of these older travelers, none of whom were letting age get in the way of, well, living their best life.

My dad, who hasn’t quite come to terms with the idea of retirement (and quite frankly, we don’t think he ever will) left not only feeling like a spring chicken among his new crew, but with a new outlook at what the next chapter of his life could hold.

As the train rolled through Hwange National Park, we spotted zebras, giraffes, and naughty baboons during our lunch hour, then geared up for our late afternoon game drive, which brought its own kind of magic. Though the heat still lingered, we were lucky enough to spot herds of elephants seeking refuge at the watering hole, splashing and playing in the cool shallows as the sun began to dip.

Days aboard the Rovos Rail felt suspended in time. Every afternoon at 4, we’d gather for high tea in the observation car, a daily ritual we came to treasure: buttery scones, delicate finger sandwiches, and easy conversation with our new friends as the scenery slipped past. We stopped in Bulawayo, where we were able to stretch our legs and browse local artisanal crafts — woven baskets, beadwork, and hand-carved wooden animals — picking up a few treasures to bring home.

As we had our sundowners amid Zimbabwe’s sweeping savannahs, my parents (who have been married for 41 years) reminisced about their younger years, sharing stories about Miami and Bogota in the ‘80s — all the disco and debauchery. “We promised we would never tell her!” my mother screeched, laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes. For the first time in my adult life, my parents and I had stepped down from the pedestals we placed each other on and laughed and swapped stories like friends.

Our magical journey ended in majestic Victoria Falls. Over our final dinner at historic Victoria Falls Hotel, we started plotting our next trip. The takeaway was clear: This hadn’t been a trip for my dad that I had to join. This was a trip of mutual discovery, of learning how to meet each other on a more level playing ground. As adults together.

That's the thing about your 30s. You have the agency to prioritize your life, your work, your deadlines, your partners, and, if you have them, your kids in a way that convinces us there’s always “next year.” But trips like this one remind me there may not always be a next year or even a next week. I know not everyone has the chance to share these kinds of moments — some have lost their parents, never met them, or don’t have a relationship with them — and I don’t take for granted how deeply privileged I am.

The Club waits for no one and is always looming on the sidelines. Prioritizing such moments with parents isn’t just about creating memories. It’s about honoring the people who shaped us and savoring the precious and fleeting time we have with them.