Attention, Parents of Littles: Traveling with Adult Children Might Just Be the Greatest Gift of the Second Half of Life

But over time, things change, I’m happy to report. When the kids are grown, as mine are—in their 20s and not yet saddled with children of their own—most travel hassles simply fall away. By now, they have matured and are fully socialized, no longer pitching fits when faced with yet another steep flight of stone steps up to yet another musty must-see cultural institution. They carry their own bags, help with the planning, and happily pick up the occasional tab. (I nearly fell over the first time that happened.) Simply put, they are a pleasure to travel with.

And yet new complications arise. For starters, our children live across the country, making our time with them inordinately, achingly precious (no pressure there). Furthermore, they have robust social lives and full-time jobs; it’s a legit miracle when all our dates line up.

And then there’s the great next-turn-of-the-wheel looming up ahead: when they have families of their own, with all that implies, and diminished parents, less able to sightsee or handle a long flight. Now our times together thrum with the bittersweet sense of knowing we won’t always be able to do this.

Consider our most recent effort to achieve family nirvana, which offered a hint of what is to come. In recent years, some leisurely, far-flung excursion was a given; they had the time, and we all had the will. Now, though, our daughter and her boyfriend were up to their eyeballs in friends’ weddings, making a two-weeker with us a non-starter. So we pivoted, planning an extra-long weekend instead, convenient to them and our son in Southern California. We’d take what we could get.

Where, though, would be special and versatile enough to serve us all over such a short period of time? The guys in our gang of five are golfers, so that emerged as an organizing principle. As for my daughter and me, both hardworking, anxiety-prone professionals, we defaulted to self-care. Rancho Valencia was suggested, a resort in Rancho Santa Fe, California. Crucially, it was a mere 20-minute drive to Torrey Pines golf course and had a highly regarded spa. Two-for-two.

An aerial view of Rancho Valencia Resort & Spa, Casa Valencia, and fresh-squeezed orange juice.

Mindfully laid out over 45 acres with Technicolor hot-air balloons suspended in the sky, the place exuded a palpable ease, starting with the staff. From the woman who welcomed us at the security gate, to the concierge, to the guy who showed us to our own private casitas, we were handled with a light touch—none of the abject bending and scraping that some posh places seem to pride themselves on, making me feel like a bad person, an impostor, or both. Here, the amenities are more gracious than showy: glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice awaiting us each morning on a little ledge outside our front door; the free-of-charge minibar. No, it wasn’t stocked with splits of Champagne or artisanal chocolates—just juices and snacks. Still, the tone-setting decision to eschew minibar gouging struck me as the height of class. (To be clear, some of the amenities at Rancho Valencia are pretty darn showy, like the Bentleys and Porsches parked outside reception that guests can take for a spin, although even those were proffered in a lighthearted, isn’t-this-a-gas? kind of way.)

After the guys tromped off with their golf bags (provided by the hotel—another nice touch), my daughter and I hit the spa. If I’d had any concern about the trip being too much about golf, it quickly vanished in this tranquil, unfussy, Me-Time haven. Wearing lush robes and slides, holding cups of tea in both hands, we made our way, monk-like, to the hushed rooms, where we’d receive the best facials of our lives—I have to believe the layered potions and rapid finger work of my Natural Lift treatment sped up collagen synthesis, as the spa menu promised. The experience left us feeling emotionally exfoliated. On chaises afterward, eyes closed, side by side, my daughter and I indulged in some deliciously deep and open conversation—unimaginable during the fractious teen years, utterly the norm for us now.

Rancho Valencia Spa mosaic shower, private pool, and Kaylin and her daughter enjoying the spa.

Another day, we all did the sauna/steam/cold plunge circuit, goosing our heart rates before setting up camp at the secluded spa pool—not to be confused with a second pool used by families with little kids. I love little kids, but, boy, was it nice to be spared their shrieks and detritus, their food-flinging lunch. Been there, did a lot of that.

At night we had dinner by candlelight amid the olive and citrus groves on the terrace at the hotel. We ate steak and sea bass, squash blossom quesadillas and lobster tacos, artichokes and Brussels sprouts grown there at the ranch.… Our table was a blur of revolving small plates as we each endeavored to taste everything. Between practically every bite, we raised our glasses to toast our good luck at having this time together.

It goes fast, four days; we packed in what we could. There was open-air yoga, cornhole, and pickleball (my first time!). There was a visit to the vegetable garden, the herb garden, the flower garden, and a large coop housing the chickens that had supplied the eggs for our breakfast burritos and omelets (many thanks!). There was an afternoon in nearby La Jolla where we visited the aquarium, perused a funky bookstore, and ate lunch at a literal fish market serving insanely fresh sashimi. And there was a tour—my husband’s, of the humble homes he’d crashed in, the Mexican restaurants he’d worked in, and the surf breaks he’d mastered when he lived there decades ago during college. It moved us, the full-circle-ness of it all.

Breakfast, lobster tacos, and craft cocktails.

One of my favorite moments came late at night, at the mosaic-tiled firepit at Rancho Valencia. It was postprandial drinks (more toasts), crackling heat in the cool canyon air, and war stories from the links. Yes, I guess we’ll get old someday, but times like this, wherever we are, never will.

Lucy Kaylin is the Editorial Director of Hearst Magazines.