By the time my kids, Mila and Joe, were tweens, they’d become pretty savvy travelers. We had traveled as a family all over Mexico and Central America, to French Polynesia, and around Southeast Asia—Joe had even tagged along with me on a work trip to Egypt. But a family trip to Europe? Nope. I had been urged by a few well-traveled friends to save Europe for a time when my children would really appreciate it, when they could enthusiastically spend not just hours but consecutive days wandering museums and historical sites, when their palettes could handle sophisticated flavors, and when 10 p.m. dinners wouldn’t destroy the following day. I’m not sure why I chose to listen to this parenting advice while cavalierly ignoring all sorts of other cautionary tales and whispered warnings, especially since my kids ate everything, had been visiting museums since their toddler days, and frequently stayed up to 1 a.m. But I did, and year after year, kept punting on a family trip to Italy or Greece, countries I knew and loved and couldn’t wait to share with my kids when the time was right.