How mishaps become great memories

A trip to Egypt — the first my brother and I took as adults with our parents — quickly went off the rails.

After spending Christmas in the Sinai Peninsula, we drove our rental car back to Cairo. At the hotel, a well-dressed man, whom my father mistook for a hotel valet, offered to move our car. “Thank you,” my father said with a smile, handing over the keys. The only thing that the imposter left was a 10-foot skid mark.

That car heist unleashed a bewildering series of encounters. First, we had to convince the car rental agency that we were not trying to swindle a Toyota from the company. Then we had to battle the police — who arrived at the hotel at 3 a.m. — armed with dusty books filled with thousands of mug shots — who insisted on baksheesh, or a small bribe, before issuing the crime report.

Then we had to arrange for the bare necessities, like buying underwear, since our luggage was stolen along with the car. At least we could get comfortable Egyptian cotton. 

We considered going home, but instead we accelerated our visit to Kenya, the second destination on our itinerary. I will never forget the astonished reaction of the Kenya Airways staff when the four of us produced a small plastic bag of clothes as our sole check-in “luggage.” 

That first African adventure became the template for two decades of globetrotting with my parents.

We ventured to unfamiliar places at least once every year — often twice. Significant others, friends, and later my son, joined some of these vacations, which ultimately spanned more than 40 countries.

The only rule we followed was to do something new every time. In doing so, we soon noticed a pattern: We Millers are magnets for mishap.

Our second African adventure was even more disastrous.

In Zimbabwe, we decided to raft the mighty Zambezi below Victoria Falls. This area is considered among the biggest and baddest whitewater rafting destinations in the world, with multiple Class V rapids with names like “The Mother” and “Oblivion.” 

We were hanging on with white knuckles and clenched teeth as our raft navigated a nasty section called “Stairway to Heaven,” which drops 30 feet over a 50-foot distance.

Then our raft capsized. The only thing worse than going down the Stairway of Heaven in a raft is going through them without one. My stepmother and I were swept downstream. I was too preoccupied with avoiding the boulders scattered throughout the churning river to care about the crocodiles that populated the waters.

Then it got hyper real. Pulled into the powerful whirlpool, I gasped for air and struggled to stay afloat in the swirling vortex. I did not think that death was inevitable, but I instantly acknowledged it as a possibility. 

I don’t know how but somehow the vortex spit me out. I then swam to calmer waters and found the raft and the rest of my family.

That episode happened 25 years ago. Forever seared into my brain is the memory of my father atop the capsized raft, his angelic white buttocks shining high above the water, which had stripped him to the ankles.

That ravaging rafting trip was an accident, but none of those family adventures happened without intention.  

Each jaunt required serious planning and scheduling to happen. I had a demanding corporate career at a major Hollywood studio that involved frequent business travel. So sometimes I piggybacked family trips on top of work trips; other times I forced a gap in an otherwise crowded calendar.

Usually, I planned a year in advance, making sure to block off time for family first. We were dedicated about traveling together. This quality time with my parents is, by far, the best investment I’ve ever made.

These shared experiences immeasurably enriched our lives and strengthened our relationships. You become a different family, a tighter family, after road tripping across Central America. The joy, laughter and tears that emanated from our trips are core to our family fabric.

We still laugh about Cairo. We may have lost our belongings, but we gained something far more valuable.

Trips have a way of upending family dynamics and hierarchies. At home, it is easy to fall into familiar patterns, many set in childhood. But on the road? It’s a whole new universe. Role reversals between parents and children are common.

Usually, I proposed trip ideas — and my parents were open to almost any adventure. Conversations typically went something like this:

Me: Have you been to a camel fair?
Parents: They don’t have those in Kentucky.
Me: If you only visit one, I hear Pushkar’s the place.
Parents: When are we going?”

Then we would shift to planning mode. We favored offbeat and remote destinations, often combining multiple countries and authentic experiences into one trip.

But sometimes things got too authentic.

At Tikal in Guatemala, we booked a jungle lodge close to the ancient Mayan ruins. We were stunned when we opened the door to a sparse room with two metal-framed beds, dirty concrete floors and a single lightbulb dangling from the ceiling.

The bed linens were stained dark beige and sweat rings adorned the pillows. It was decrepit — a shock amplified by our last hotel, the luxe Blancaneaux Lodge in the Belize rainforest and former retreat of film director Francis Ford Coppola.  

I covered every surface area on my body, head to toe, with clothing before going to bed that night — noting yet another Miller misadventure in the making.

We still laugh about a road trip in Cuba, where our attempt to drive the length of the island — from Havana to Santiago de Cuba near Guantanamo — resulted in hours of driving in circles.

These were pre-GPS days. There were no road signs, and everyone pointed us in different directions. We went round and round in search of the then-two-laned “national highway.” The humor of it all nourished our resilience to carry on.

Then there was the mother-of-all-camel fairs, a celebration that occurs every November in the small town of Pushkar in the Indian state of Rajasthan. Every year, temporary but impressive tents are erected to accommodate visitors.

We stayed in the luxurious Royal Tents with ensuite baths and butlers, and we enjoyed lavish meals in regal tented dining halls. Pushkar was an unusual trip for us because, for once, everything went right.

We started these family flings when I was in my mid-20s and my parents in their 50s. As the decades passed, the adventures became less bold, occurred less often, and happened closer to home.

Then the adventures stopped. 

Thank goodness we made the effort to explore the world together when we did. The reality is: There is a limited window of opportunity, and that window often closes sooner than we think. 

This holiday season, if your family rhythms are drifting into a default setting, and if you’re curious about the world, here is a thought:

Mix it up.
Make life interesting.
Get out and about with your loved ones.
Go beyond your comfort zone.

This will not happen accidentally, and it will take some effort. But you may be eternally grateful if you do.