What I Learned Traveling With My Mamá for the First Time

There's a version of me that had traveled solo through four continents, booked luxury hotels by transferring points, navigated airports in three languages, and still somehow never thought to invite mi mamá along for the ride. ¡Qué absurdo, verdad? She raised a daughter who eats omakase in Tokyo and stays in design hotels in Lisbon — and for years I just… left her at home with her telenovelas and her garden in San Miguel.

Last spring, that finally changed. I booked us five nights at a small, incredibly beautiful boutique hotel in Oaxaca — the kind of place with thick adobe walls, a courtyard full of bugambilias, and a breakfast spread that made my mamá grab my arm and whisper, "mija, esto es un sueño." I'd stayed there once before on a press trip, so I knew the ambiente would win her over immediately. What I did not know — de verdad, I had no idea — was how much the trip would teach me. Not about Oaxaca. About her. About us. About the kind of viajera I actually am when there's no audience to perform for.

This one is personal, amiga. It's not a packing list or a hotel roundup (though I will absolutely tell you where we stayed and what it cost, porque así soy yo). It's the honest story of what happened when I handed my mamá a boarding pass for the first time and said, "vámonos, Ma." Spoiler: I cried twice, she complained about the thread count exactly once, and I would do it all over again mañana.

She Slowed Me Down — and That Was the Whole Point

I'll be honest with you: I am not a slow traveler. My natural pace is something like — check in, drop the bags, golden hour walk, dinner reservation at 8:30, in bed by midnight, out the door by 9 a.m. Muy eficiente. I've written before about what I learned traveling solo for the first time, and one of the things I took away from that trip was that I move fast because I like moving fast. It felt like a personality trait. A flex, casi.

Then mi mamá arrived in Oaxaca and she stopped — literally stopped walking — in front of a woman weaving a tapete on a backstrap loom outside a tienda on Macedonio Alcalá. She stood there for probably twelve minutes. She asked the woman questions in Spanish so regional and warm that I barely followed. She bought a small piece — $420 MXN, maybe $22 USD — and she held it the whole rest of the afternoon like it was something sagrado. And I stood there next to her, impatient for about ninety seconds, and then something in me just… released. ¡Qué alivio!

That moment reset the entire trip. We stopped at markets not because I'd researched them but because she smelled something and turned toward it. We had a two-hour lunch on a Tuesday because the mezcal was good and the conversation was better. I didn't open my laptop once. La verdad, I didn't miss it. My mamá, without trying, reminded me that the whole point of going somewhere hermoso is to actually be there — not to document being there. That's a lesson I thought I already knew. I did not already know it.

The Logistics I Got Wrong (And How I Fixed Them Mid-Trip)

Okay, let's talk about the practical stuff, because I made some mistakes and you deserve to learn from them without repeating them yourself. First: I booked the flights using miles — I'd been sitting on a stash of Aeroméxico Rewards points and used them to get us both into Clase Premier for the Mexico City–Oaxaca leg, which sounds impressive and was genuinely lovely, but mi mamá did not understand why we were boarding before everyone else and kept insisting we had the wrong gate. Adorable, slightly chaotic. If you're new to flying on points with someone who isn't, I'd recommend reading up on how to use miles to fly first class — specifically the part about managing expectations with your travel companion before you're standing at the priority lane.

Second mistake: the hotel room. I booked us a single room with two queen beds because I thought, ¿cuánto tiempo pasamos en el cuarto anyway? The answer, when your travel companion is your mamá and she goes to sleep at 10 p.m. and you are a person who edits photos and texts Mateo at midnight, is: a lot of time. A lot of time in that room. By night three I'd moved my whole operation to the courtyard with a glass of mezcal and my laptop, which was actually magical, but amiga — just book the connecting rooms. It's worth the extra $80 a night.

Third, and this one I'm proud of fixing quickly: I had built an itinerary. A real one. Color-coded, con todo. My mamá looked at it on the first morning, said "qué bonito, mija" in a tone that meant she had zero intention of following it, and folded it in half. By day two I had abandoned the schedule entirely and we were just… wandering. And the wandering produced the best meals, the most unexpected finds, and a mezcal tasting at a family-run palenque outside the city that cost us $300 MXN total and was genuinely one of the most memorable afternoons of my year. Soltar el control is terrifying for me. It was also, de verdad, the right move.

What My Mamá Taught Me About Being Seen in a New Place

Here's the thing nobody tells you about traveling with your mother: she will talk to everyone. Every vendor, every waiter, every señora sitting outside her house in the afternoon light. My mamá collected names and stories the way I collect hotel amenity kits — enthusiastically, without apology, with genuine delight. And because she did, we got invited into a courtyard to see a family's altar, we got a table at a comedor that technically had no tables left, and we got directions to a viewpoint above the city that wasn't in any guidebook I'd read. ¡Increíble! Every single one of those moments came from her warmth, not my research.

I've always thought of myself as someone who connects with places deeply. But watching mi mamá move through Oaxaca made me realize that what I actually do is connect with the aesthetic of a place — the light, the architecture, the plating of a dish. She connects with the people. There is a difference, and it's humbling to see it up close. She has this gift of making a stranger feel like a vecina within four minutes of conversation, and I think — I hope — some of that rubbed off on me this trip. I'm trying to be more like her when I travel now. Menos performance, más presencia.

We flew home on a Sunday evening, and somewhere over the mountains between Oaxaca and Mexico City, my mamá fell asleep with that little woven tapete in her lap and a smile on her face. I took exactly one photo. I didn't post it. Since Mateo and I got engaged, he keeps telling me that the best moments don't need a caption — and watching my mamá sleep on that plane, I finally understood what he means. This trip was the most luxurious thing I've done in years, and it cost less than a single night at some of the hotels I write about here. Vale la pena, mamá. Mil veces, vale la pena.

Viaja bien, vive al máximo, y repite.
— Sofía

Viaja bien, vive al máximo, y repite.
— Sofía