A story of reconnection, culture, and family bonds across generations
By Carmen Rodriguez-Mitchell
The email from my cousin María sat unopened in my inbox for three days. Not because I wasn’t excited – quite the opposite. After twenty years of scattered WhatsApp messages and occasional Facebook comments, my Peruvian family was actually gathering in Sucre for Tío Roberto’s 80th birthday. The timing aligned perfectly with my kids’ summer break, but the thought of coordinating a trip for seven people – including my elderly parents – made my stomach do flip-flops.
“¿Vienes o no, prima?” María’s follow-up message finally pushed me into action. At 51, I’ve spent most of my life in Minnesota, where my parents settled when I was just three. My Spanish, while conversational, has that distinctive “gringa” accent my cousins tease me about. I can order a meal and chat about the weather, but reading and writing? That’s another story entirely.
My husband Tom’s enthusiastic “Let’s do it!” was both encouraging and anxiety-inducing. He’d fallen in love with Peru during our honeymoon fifteen years ago, despite not speaking a word of Spanish. Our kids – Emma (14), Lucas (12), and Sofia (9) – had grown up on stories of Peru but had never visited. They knew their abuelitos’ homeland only through my mother’s cooking and the occasional Zoom calls with relatives whose rapid-fire Spanish left them nodding politely and looking to me for translation.
The planning began with a spreadsheet that quickly spiraled into what my daughter Emma called “Mom’s Wall of Crazy” – Post-it notes covering our home office wall with flight options, hotel bookings, and lists of relatives to visit. My parents, now in their seventies, insisted on helping with the arrangements. “Mija,” my mother would say, “you don’t know how things work in Peru.” She was right, of course, but her idea of booking things involved calling her friend’s cousin’s neighbor who “knows someone” at a travel agency in Lima.
The real challenge came in balancing everyone’s expectations. My parents wanted to spend every minute with family and old friends. Tom, ever the history buff, was eager to explore Machu Picchu and the Sacred Valley. The kids wanted to see alpacas and try surfing on the coast. I just wanted everyone to experience the Peru I remembered from my childhood visit at age ten – the Peru that existed somewhere between my parents’ nostalgia and the glossy travel magazines.
Booking flights for seven people nearly broke me. After three days of price comparison and juggling seat assignments, I finally secured tickets from Minneapolis to Lima, then to Cusco. My mother insisted we spend at least two weeks in Peru. “You can’t rush relationships,” she reminded me, and I knew she was right. We settled on eighteen days – split between family time in Sucre and touring other parts of Peru.
The language barrier added another layer of complexity. I found myself playing translator not just for conversations, but for emotions and cultural expectations too. When my aunt in Sucre messailed about hosting a “small family dinner,” I had to explain to Tom that “small” in Peruvian terms meant at least thirty people and would likely last until midnight. When Lucas asked if he could wear shorts to meet our relatives, I had to explain why his abuela would consider that irrespetuoso.
As our departure date approached, my father spent hours on video calls with his old friends from Sucre, many of whom he hadn’t seen since leaving Peru nearly five decades ago. “They remember when you were así de chiquita,” he’d say, holding his hand knee-high. I watched him come alive during these conversations, his English-dominated life in Minnesota temporarily forgotten as he slipped back into the rhythms and relationships of his youth.
The itinerary I finally crafted was a patchwork of compromise. We’d start in Sucre for Tío Roberto’s birthday and family reunions, then head to Cusco and the Sacred Valley, where I’d booked a private guide who could handle both Spanish and English. We’d end with three days in Lima, where my mother’s best friend from childhood still lived.
What surprised me most during the planning was how the process itself became a bridge between generations. Sofia took it upon herself to learn Spanish on Duolingo, proudly showing off her progress to her abuelitos each week. Emma researched Peruvian history for a summer school project, teaching all of us about the Inca Empire and Spanish colonization. Even Tom started watching Peruvian cooking shows on YouTube, despite not understanding the instructions.
The night before our departure, as I triple-checked our documents and wondered for the hundredth time if I’d bitten off more than I could chew, my mother came into my room. She sat on the edge of my bed, just as she used to when I was small. “Sabes,” she said softly, “when we left Peru, I never imagined I’d be returning with my grandchildren.” Her eyes welled up with tears, and mine followed suit.
“But Mamá,” I said, “what if everything goes wrong? What if the kids hate the food, or we miss a connection, or—”
She cut me off with a laugh. “Mija, in Peru, nothing goes exactly as planned, and that’s exactly how it should be.” She patted my hand and added, “Your children will see where their story began. That’s what matters.”
Looking at our flights confirmations – seven seats to Lima, seven pieces of checked luggage, seven different dietary preferences to manage – I realized this trip was more than just a family vacation. It was a journey back through time, an attempt to bridge the gap between my American life and my Peruvian roots, a chance to show my children the other half of their heritage.
As I finally closed my laptop and tried to sleep, I thought about María’s simple question: “¿Vienes o no, prima?” Coming or not, cousin? Sometimes the most complicated journeys start with the simplest questions. And sometimes, saying yes is just the beginning of the adventure.
About the Author: Carmen Rodriguez-Mitchell is a first-generation Peruvian-American writer based in Minneapolis, Minnesota. When she’s not planning elaborate family adventures or translating for her kids, she works as a high school counselor and writes about cultural identity, family, and the bridges we build between worlds.