This article was originally published in AFTER Alcohol-Free Magazine
Summer 2024 Vol 3, Iss 2
“We travel not to escape life, but for life not to escape us.”
-Anonymous
I’ve always had an immense eagerness to explore the world—you could say I was born with it. Family lore told of my quick arrival at birth that surprised even the doctor, and I’ve had a sense of curiosity and adventure ever since. Growing up as a small-town girl in Wisconsin, family vacations usually involved road trips in our camper and time in the woods around a campfire. My first airplane ride was at age twelve when my family attended a wedding at the St. Jerome Hotel in Aspen. I was wide-eyed with wonder at this magical destination. It affirmed life outside my 100-mile hometown radius, and a spark was lit. Grander travel was in store for me. I wanted to see the world!
In college, I was envious of the girls who returned from Spring Break with suntans and tiny braids, swapping stories about drinking cervezas at swim-up bars in Mexico. I promised myself that I would get there someday and eventually I did. My first international trip was my honeymoon in Puerto Vallarta at age 25. My equally adventurous husband and I fell in love with exploring the world outside the resort, interacting with locals, eating cactus (me), and ordering a whole fish with bones (him). Our nights included endless rounds of tequila shots at Señor Frogs offered up by enthusiastic waiters who commanded us to drink, blowing whistles like drill sergeants. We reported for duty until we moved up the ranks into drunken stupors.
Our second trip together was to Italy, this time feeling more grown-up ordering casual glasses of wine in the afternoon. Years that followed involved more travel with both my husband and with friends. For my 30th birthday, I left my then one-year-old baby for the first time and enjoyed a celebration in the Bahamas with girlfriends. I was drunk in a string bikini every day, enjoying the temporary freedom from motherhood. A decade later, I traveled to Costa Rica with these same friends and our growing families. This time, as a 40-year-old mother of two, I tried to moderate my drinking. One night, it got away from me. I was put to bed early and awoke to the fear that I had done something wrong and that everyone was mad at me. This was becoming an awful, familiar feeling in my life. To protect myself from the dread and shame, I started distancing myself from my friends and family, an invisible wall between us built by alcohol.
My patterns and hobbies were well-established by this time: I loved to travel, and I loved to drink. I drank on boats, rooftops, and beaches. I drank on country roads and airports all over the world. I drank in dive bars and luxe taverns in New York City and like Carrie Bradshaw, “I couldn’t help but wonder”…what would happen to my vacations if I ditched the drink?
My patterns and hobbies were well-established by this time: I loved to travel, and I loved to drink. I drank on boats, rooftops, and beaches. I drank on country roads and in airports all over the world. I drank in dive bars and luxe taverns in New York City. It was all a lot of fun, but like Carrie Bradshaw, “I couldn’t help but wonder…” what would happen to my vacations if I ditched the drink?
I wanted to deny the glaring truth: drinking was starting to wear on me. I began to explore cutting back with varying degrees of success. I was five months into one of my alcohol-free “experiments” when my husband and I were invited on an all-inclusive trip to Cabo with his company. In my mind, I was not committed to a lifetime of sobriety; I was merely “taking a break from alcohol.” I had been doing these experiments quietly for years. My goal was always to drink less so I didn’t have to quit drinking for good.
The plan for Cabo was that I would fly with my husband’s colleagues and their families and he would be flying from another work trip to meet us there. I worried about how I would travel alcohol-free without telling anyone, but I assured myself I’d figure it out as I went. I met the group at the airport and avoided drinks on the plane. When we landed, everyone immediately went to the bar. I stuck with my water bottle.
At the resort, I chose an alcohol-free margarita but as I took a sip, I tasted the warm, welcome shock of liquor going down my throat. The thrill of adrenaline rushed through me. Unsure of what to do and shaking with nerves, I set the drink down and stepped away, but I couldn’t let it go. Having the first sip of booze was an accident, but I quickly turned back and downed the rest of the drink. I was on Cloud Nine. While we waited for our rooms, everyone ordered another drink. Did I want one, too? Yes, please. We ordered a second round. My husband arrived. I was thrilled to report that I was drinking, and everything was fine. I fit in splendidly!
I vowed to keep my drinking in check during vacation and not bring it home with me. I told myself that I’d overreacted to the whole “sober thing” anyway. By nightfall, I was reunited with my old, reliable red wine. It was a relief to be back in the arms of Cabernet again. I drank with a thirsty lust after five months of being dry. My husband went to bed alone.
The next day, I slept until 10:30 a.m. and woke up with a pounding headache. I missed the sunrise, breakfast, and yoga. I missed everything I had planned to do. I hated myself. I wished I were different. Yet I would spend every day of this vacation exactly like this: hungover and going through the motions until it was time for drinks. Drinking too much and waking up to self-hatred. I missed every beautiful thing Cabo had to offer because I was pretending to be fine and normal, just like everyone else.
When we returned home, I planned to not drink. The plan quickly shifted to drinking only on weekends, then Fridays, which became Thursdays, which became Tuesdays. I tried to limit myself to a certain amount, except for special occasions. Tuesdays became special occasions. It took me another year before I finally had my last drink.
I made a commitment to myself in that moment that this sober life was not going to be a life of sadness and deprivation. This was going to be the most beautiful and indulgent life I could possibly have.
When I was just three weeks alcohol-free—this time for good, although I didn’t know it yet— I embarked on my first sober Spring Break with my family. Our first day there, my husband, daughters, and I were at the pool next to a boozy beach bar, Jimmy Buffet playing on the speakers. It was 10AM and everyone had a bucket of “5 o’clock somewhere” beers next to their lounge chairs. My heart sunk. I looked at my steady anchor, my loyal and optimistic husband, for some encouragement. I asked him, “How are we going to do this?” He took a deep breath, looked me in the eye, and then answered honestly saying, “I don’t know.” I had expected him to have the answer and was terrified when he didn’t.
I was itching to get out of my own skin. I felt like crying, giving in, and ordering a drink. Instead, I decided to stay present with myself. I used my sober tools, the same ones I had been practicing to get me to this point. I decided to delay my drinking by doing “one more thing.” Putting space between myself and alcohol. Instead of getting a drink, I got up and went for a beach walk. I cried. I talked to God. I dug deep and gathered up all the strength inside me to remind myself who I am. The voice of craving was not me, it was alcohol. I was determined to beat it.
I returned to the pool feeling more confident and marched straight up to the bar with a new fervor. I ordered four alcohol-free daiquiris in four different flavors. I made a commitment to myself in that moment that this sober life would not be a life of sadness and deprivation. This was going to be the most beautiful and indulgent life I could possibly have.
My kids were thrilled with their frozen drinks. We toasted each other. “Mom, can I try yours?” my little one asked. I was proud to be able to say, “Yes you can!” My husband beamed at me and gave me a wink. I realized in that moment, that it was me, not him, who was going to guide us through this change. I was determined to lead with joy. I didn’t want to be the drunk mom at the pool. I wanted to be present in my own life.
When I was two years sober, I returned to Cabo with my family. I was well-practiced at sober travel by this point. My value system had changed. I no longer was on a mission to see how fast I could go from first drink to black out. My new purpose was to be present for every moment of making memories with the people I care about. This time I saw the sunrise, I ate fresh fruit for breakfast, and I heard the sound of my breath during yoga. I cried in a steamy hut with a shaman. It felt like healing.
Since then, I have traveled to the Riviera Maya, Africa, Vegas, London, and back to Puerto Vallarta (this time with kids in tow), all alcohol-free. With all of this travel, there remained for years one destination that caused me to stumble in my sobriety journey when I thought of it: PARIS. When I thought of Paris, I still held on to a vision I’d always had of myself sipping wine (and smoking a cigarette)—possibly in a beret—seated at a sidewalk cafe. This was a dream of mine for so long I wasn’t sure I had completely let it go. Would I be able to travel to Paris—the land of wine and Champagne—and stay sober? “No, that’s dumb,” the voice in my head insisted, and then I would imagine myself ordering a bottle of French wine and calling the whole thing off. Never mind that I had no plans, itinerary, or ticket to go to Paris. Just the idea of Paris had me drinking again in my mind on multiple occasions.
Last summer, I finally did travel to Paris. It was as wonderful as I hoped it would be, and I’m happy to report that I came home with my sobriety. Before the trip I was a bit nervous. Even with five-plus years of sobriety under my belt I still worried I might cave to my longtime vision of Paris. My sober tools were pretty sharp at this point, but I could still recall the feeling of an overwhelming craving and I wasn’t sure how I would react if that happened.
The reality, however, was quite different. Not only did I not drink, but I didn’t even see any alcohol during my trip. I know that sounds crazy coming from someone who was obsessed with drinking (and then obsessed with not drinking). Yet there I was in Paris and never once even saw a glass of wine, my once-beloved drink of choice, synonymous in my mind with the City of Lights.
What did I see instead? I saw the sunset from a river cruise on the Seine and the Eiffel Tower glowing at midnight with my head resting on my husband’s shoulder. I saw croissants and coffee every morning. I saw the gardens at Versailles and watched my family explore the Hall of Mirrors. I saw the Metro and Notre Dame. I saw the one and only Mona Lisa. I ate delicious soufflé, brie, and escargot in the back of a tiny, wooden cafe. I saw artistic calligraphy detailing alcohol-free menus on chalkboards outside many, many brasseries. I saw busy streets and striking people. I saw flowers spilling out of boulangeries. I saw iron balconies adorning old buildings. I saw a romantic thunderstorm from under a red-striped awning. I saw alleys, nooks, and cobblestone streets. I saw the Moulin Rouge and gave my highest kick in front of it. I saw the Champs Elysees, Louis Vuitton, Le Chat Noir, and the Arc de Triomphe. I saw absolutely everything I ever wanted to see in Paris.
Then, I saw a reflection of myself in a window. I was dressed in a new European dress accessorized with my white American sneakers. What I was really seeing was myself as the most “me” I have ever been—happy, wild, sober, and free—the kind of sight a curious small-town girl from Wisconsin dreamed of for as long as she can remember.
Sober travel. Two words I never believed belonged together have now become gloriously intertwined. Sober travel has given me heart-bursting gratitude and deep appreciation for the present moment. No one is having more fun than my family and me as we create these life-affirming memories. Alcohol was never the escape I needed; seeing the world with clear eyes and a full heart after ditching the drink has taken me to the most beautiful places I could ever go.
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