Traveling With Tía: Reflections on an Adventurer
At 21, I’d never left North America and had only flown out of state once—from California, where I grew up, to New York, for a cousin’s wedding. So spending 12 weeks backpacking through Europe after college graduation with two dear friends was one of my first big adventures.
Backpacking with friends Thu and Christine in 1994.
I came home from that trip feeling proud, brave, and worldly. I was eager to share every story, every border crossed, every lesson learned. And when I sat down with my Tía Julieta and told her where I’d been, I was surprised and delighted to learn that she'd already been to every place I named—and many, many more.
Tía Julie celebrating earning her Master’s degree before starting her work as a psychiatric research nurse.
I imagine the first great journey my Tía Julieta took was when she too was in her 20s: from Panama to the United States, where she studied to be a psychiatric research nurse. She was one of the first of her siblings, along with her sister Vesper, to immigrate. Their baby sister, my mother, came later. My Tía’s spirit of courage and curiosity shaped her life—and, in many ways, mine.
Tía Julieta traveled to Puerto Rico, Australia, Egypt, New Zealand, the edge of Antarctica, and too many other places to name. She was also one of the few people to fly on the Concorde from New York to Paris during its early years. She didn’t just visit countries—she drank them in with reverence and wonder. She wasn’t only my brilliant, beautiful, loving aunt. She was someone in whose footsteps I’d longed to follow—a woman whose lifelong curiosity shaped how she moved through the world.
Standing in front of the Taj Mahal in 1998.
Before that first international trip of mine, my Tía Julieta and I were already close. But my newly discovered love of travel gave our relationship a new dimension. I’d caught the travel bug—and I now saw, in a whole new way, how I was walking a path she’d paved for all of us in our family. For nearly three decades, we traded travel stories. More often than not, she’d already been to the places I was heading next—Thailand, the Caribbean, the Yucatán Peninsula, Indonesia. India was the only place I reached before she did, which tickled us both.
I loved flipping through her photo albums with her beside me, telling me more about the moments she’d captured. I was in awe of her sense of adventure. She encouraged others to see the world, and she encouraged me too—through her stories, her example, and her quiet belief in how transformative travel could be.
Standing in Kwame Nkrumah Memorial Park in 2023.
A six months after she died in March 2023, I found myself in Ghana for the first time. She’d preceded me there, of course; as part of her lifelong commitment to serving others, she’d helped build a school there. While I was there, I visited the Kwame Nkrumah Memorial Park. As I stood in front of one of its monuments, I felt goosebumps up and down my arms… and I knew. I knew that she’d stood right in that place too. I could feel her beside me. In my heart, it was our first trip together, at last.
Tía Julieta once told my mother, “If Itzel had been my daughter, we’d have traveled all over the world together.” And now, in a way, we are. I carry her with me—not just in memory, but in the spirit of how I travel: with reverence, with curiosity, and with a spirit of service and giving back.
This September, I’m returning to Ghana to co-lead Rest and Remember, a Yoga and cultural retreat rooted in ancestral remembrance and collective healing. Together, we’ll practice reverence to the land that we’re on, be guests with awareness and humility, and honor those who came before us, known and unknown. For me, this work is deeply personal.
It’s for my Tía Julieta, and for all those whose stories travel with us still. I hope you’ll come, and I hope you’ll bring someone you love with you, even if only in your heart.
(If you’re interested in joining us, you can learn more about the retreat by clicking here or going to YogaInGhana.com.)
Querida tía, que en paz descanses. Siempre te recordaremos.