Nearly five years ago, I broke up with alcohol. I didn’t yet know what it would mean for my day-to-day life, but I knew it would rattle my travel rhythm.
No more hotel bar nightcaps. No more mid-flight Bloody Marys. And no more welcome-drink toasts after check-in.
I braced for less fun and fewer indulgences. Yawning over sparkling water served in wine glasses. But the surprise was that sober travel turned out to be sharper, more vivid, and even more meaningful. I’ve realized it’s not about what I’m missing, it’s about what I get to experience.
Over time, I’ve built a few habits that help me stay grounded, feel like myself, and let me fully revel in every trip. Here’s what I do differently now.
1. I ask hotels to clear the minibar before I arrive
In my first year of sobriety, I checked into a beautiful hotel in Athens, Greece, and immediately came face-to-face with a minibar glowing like a jewel box, packed with tiny gin bottles and chilled white wine. After a long travel day, that tiny, brightly lit fridge felt like a dare.
Now, when I book a room, I ask in advance for the minibar to be emptied. Most hotels are happy to accommodate — some even offer to replace the booze with juices or snacks instead. It’s a small move that takes temptation off the table and makes my room feel like a true retreat, not a test of willpower.
2. I build early-morning excursions into my itinerary
One of sobriety’s most underrated perks? How good mornings can feel when you’re not nursing a hangover or searching for Ibuprofen in a foreign language.
I’ve leaned into that by planning early-morning adventures, and some of them have become favorite memories, like a pre-dawn walk to Istanbul’s Galata Bridge, where fishermen were already casting their lines, or my self-made 6 a.m. bakery crawl through Paris as the streets turned gold. At a resort in Hawaii, I fully became “that person” — up for every activity on the calendar, from sunrise yoga to beachside biking, all before most people had their coffee.
Planning special mornings gives me a reason to skip nightcaps without fear of missing out; rather, I’m making space for something better. Plus, there’s something electric about seeing a place wake up.
In Japan, I wandered the stalls of Kyoto’s Nishiki Market just as the shutters rolled open, exchanging quiet nods and sleepy smiles with shopkeepers prepping for the day. With the steam rising from pots of dashi and the sweet scent of melonpan in the air — a fluffy bun — it felt like I’d been let in on a secret.
3. I have a go-to one-liner for social events
Traveling means meeting new people and inevitably, facing drink offers. Early on, I stumbled through awkward explanations. Now, I keep it breezy and simple, like “I’m good with what I have, thanks!” or “I’m on a cleanse.”
Most of the time, people don’t care. I figure the ones who do aren’t my problem. Once, after I abstained on a boat in the Greek Islands, a fellow traveler raised his wine glass and said, “Well, more for me,” and launched into a soliloquy about his failed Dry January.
Having a line in my pocket is less about convincing someone else and more about keeping myself from overthinking it.
4. I bring comfort items with me
Back when hotel bars were my wind-down routine, I was reaching for a type of familiarity. Now, I intentionally pack comfort items so I don’t end up seeking that feeling elsewhere: a favorite herbal tea tucked into my carry-on, a podcast or audiobook I save only for travel nights, and a palm-sized journal that smells faintly like the German bookstore I bought it in.
They’re tiny totems, but when I’m jet-lagged in an unfamiliar place, they anchor me.
5. I still chase indulgence
Even though booze isn’t in the picture anymore, I’m not interested in depriving myself. So I look for what’s special in each location I visit and chase the best versions of it.
These days, I trade cocktails for other indulgences, like tracking down the silkiest matcha in Kyoto, blending custom perfume at a Mexico City atelier, and splurging on foot rubs in Bangkok that leave me nearly levitating.
Five years ago, I thought giving up alcohol would mean giving up an essential part of my travel life — martinis in airport bars, something fizzy on arrival. But it turns out clarity has its own excitement.
Now I remember everything: The velvet hush when I was among the first visitors in Musée d’Orsay, the way my neighborhood in Tokyo smelled like warm soy and steel, a conversation with a woman who sold savory fry jacks on a corner in Belize.
Sober travel didn’t shrink the world for me, it widened it.
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