How an unexpected visit and a Mexican cantina strengthened a family bond over Christmas
When Mom told me that her doctor had given her a clean bill of health from the cancer she’d kept secret, I resisted the counterproductive urge to murder her and instead suggested we spend December on the Yucatán Peninsula. The two of us could celebrate her eightieth birthday at the beginning, and my husband could join us for Christmas at the end. What I didn’t anticipate was adding a Nigerian teenager, who’d never traveled without her parents before and whom I nearly had to leave behind during the Christmas storm that swept North America.
I met her father (my brother) when I went to Nigeria for the first time. He was seventeen and I was twenty-six. Years later he called me to Nigeria for his wedding, and once he and his wife started a family, they brought the kids to the Bay Area every two summers. As the adults were far more interested in shopping than sightseeing, I set out to turn the kids into travelers.
The two eldest were bold, beautiful, energetic, hilarious girls. I designed worksheets for them to document the highlights of our excursions to parks, pools, zoos, museums, eateries and the beach, where they huddled together whimpering and shivering. Back at home, I wrapped them in chef’s aprons and taught them to make pizza and ice cream from scratch and paint sugar cookies like my Finnish mummi taught me. Each new activity sparked a frenetic song and dance. My friends lived for the Facebook postings.
Later, I started traveling during summers and then COVID struck. Suddenly, my brother was Facebook-messaging to announce that he was in Canada, moving the eldest into her college dorm. Her what? Even accounting for COVID math, there was no way she was old enough to be at university… and studying robotics? I wired her some welcome funds, set off on sabbatical and didn’t hear from her again. Last November, as Mom and I were preparing for México, I received a casual text: Hey Aunty Faith. My Spidey sense tingled. Sure enough, A announced that she planned to spend Christmas with us.
I frantically WhatsApped my brother. Was he aware that she was talking about coming to México? Surely, she was too young to be traveling alone from one foreign country to another. (Granted, I wasn’t sure how old she actually was, and I’d gone to Thailand alone as an exchange student at age 16.) Surely, I couldn’t be entrusted with a teen. Failing that, I imagined he might help offset the unexpected expense of a last-minute flight and larger accommodations. Yes, A told me about México, he typed back. So generous of you. Thanks!
What was I thinking? Being a Nigerian aunty means taking care of business. It was looking like sandwich-generation travel was the new Black (travel). I accepted a new freelance assignment and used the funds to hire a travel agent.
I barely recognized the tall, proper, soft-spoken girl who stumbled groggily from the taxi at 11:00 pm on Cancún’s busiest travel day of the year. Where was the ball of energy who sang, “Pizza dance! Pizza dance!” while twerking in my kitchen? Fortunately, the travel agent had coordinated her arrival to coincide with my husband’s, so they’d weathered the six-supposed-to-be-three-hour journey to Mérida together. “She doesn’t eat or talk!” he whispered before crashing face down.
Our first restaurant forays were disasters. She pursed her lips in a gesture I recognized from her mother and whispered pleas for plantain, rice or chicken. “Talk to the waiter,” I instructed. She wanted flour not corn tortillas, no dairy or chilies — in México. The emphasis on protein, rather than the carbs that form the basis of Nigerian meals, puzzled her. She spent Christmas Day munching white bread and WalMart croissants.
We set to work on her palate. At a village cantina, my husband piled food onto her plate, lecturing her that travel was about trying new foods (a lecture he’d endured from me years ago, as Nigerians are famous for harassing anyone who refuses to try their food but refuse to try unfamiliar foods themselves). By mid-week she was demanding to taste everyone’s dishes, polishing off duck emoladas and panuchos, sharing mezcal-chocolate tarts with Mom, wrestling busboys trying to clear away the remaining spoonful of mole sauce. Perhaps my mission to turn the kids into travelers had worked. “Welcome to the family!” I toasted her. She giggled and stole a prawn off my plate.
This story was originally published January 16, 2023 at 9:00 AM with the headline "How an unexpected visit and a Mexican cantina strengthened a family bond over Christmas."