In 1976, my family took our first (and only) extended road trip. We piled into a station wagon and embarked from Caracas, Venezuela, to Quito, Ecuador. I was 5, and while my older sisters have vivid memories of the 1,500-plus-mile journey through three countries, I hold only one. It centers on my stubbornness, already a defining part of my personality despite my tender age.
Somewhere in Colombia, about halfway through the trip, it was my turn in the dreaded middle seat. I pouted as my sisters enjoyed the view from their windows while my father navigated the curvy, mountainous road. In the passenger seat, my mother produced a Thermos of hot black coffee, no doubt hoping the caffeine would sharpen his focus during the treacherous drive.
Growing up in 1970s Venezuela, coffee was the norm — even for kids. We were given mugs of hot milk, sweetened with sugar and stained light brown with a hint of coffee, just enough to make us feel grown up. But black coffee was a whole other beast.
As my mother twisted open the Thermos, a rich, heady aroma filled the car. She began pouring a cup for my father when I proclaimed, with the seriousness of a monk:
“Mom, I want some coffee.”
It amuses me now that my mother never pointed out the obvious — that someone who still needed help reaching the cookie jar probably wasn’t ready for coffee strong enough to fuel a jet. Instead, she said, “It’s very hot. You’ll spill and burn yourself.”
The car lurched around a sharp curve, nearly throwing me into my sister’s lap. Steam rose from the red plastic cup.
“I won’t. I promise,” I declared.
Why she agreed, I’ll never know. Maybe she was swayed by my big blue eyes and blond curls. Or maybe she was channeling Dr. Spock’s popular philosophy of respecting a child’s choices — nurturing, in that moment, my budding sense of independence.
“Be very careful,” she warned, handing it to me.
I sat up, accepting it as if it were a trophy. The aroma was even more intoxicating up close. I clutched the cup with both hands and slowly raised it to my lips, never once considering timing my sips with the hairpin turns.
The shock was instant: the coffee’s bitter flavor (nothing like the cafecito I dunked shortbread into at home) combined with the car’s swerving. In less than 30 seconds, I had spilled its contents all over my jeans.
I went from a confident coffee connoisseur to a flailing wild child, filling the car with a bloodcurdling cry that rivaled Janet Leigh’s iconic “Psycho” shriek. I thrashed and writhed, desperately trying to peel off my scalding wet pants.
My mother calmly asked my father to pull over when he could so she could find me something dry. She didn’t scold me or say, “I told you so.” Instead, she focused on helping me feel heard and trusted — and yes, on letting me learn, even if it meant a bit of drama and a wardrobe change.
That stubborn streak? It’s still with me. Like all of us, I continue to make mistakes. But I am grateful for the humbling lesson I received on that road trip. Even though she was right, my mother let me learn on my own terms. And that, I’ve come to realize, is one of the greatest gifts a parent can give: the chance to stumble, get up and feel loved every step of the way.
Happy Reading!
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com