Nearly five years ago, I decided to stop drinking alcohol. I didn’t fully grasp how it would change my daily life, but I knew it would shake up my travel style.
Gone were the hotel bar nightcaps, mid-flight Bloody Marys, and welcome-drink toasts upon check-in.
At first, I braced myself for a duller experience, imagining evenings spent sipping sparkling water from wine glasses. However, the unexpected joy was that traveling sober became more vibrant and meaningful. It’s not about what I’m missing; it’s about what I’m fully able to experience.
Over time, I’ve established a few habits that help keep me grounded, allowing me to truly enjoy every trip. Here are some changes I’ve made.
### 1. I request the minibar to be emptied before I arrive
During my first year of sobriety, I checked into a beautiful hotel in Athens, Greece, only to find a tempting minibar full of tiny gin bottles and chilled wine. After a long journey, that brightly lit fridge felt like a challenge.
Now, I ask for the minibar to be cleared before my arrival. Most hotels are happy to accommodate this, and some even replace the alcohol with juices or snacks. It’s a small step that removes temptation and makes my room a true retreat instead of a test of willpower.
### 2. I schedule early-morning outings
One of sobriety’s most underrated benefits is how wonderful mornings feel when I’m not nursing a hangover or hunting for pain relief in a foreign place.
I’ve embraced this by planning early-morning adventures, which have led to my favorite travel memories. For example, a pre-dawn stroll to Istanbul’s Galata Bridge, where fishermen were busy casting their lines, or a self-made 6 a.m. bakery tour in Paris, as the streets turned golden with sunrise. In Hawaii, I became that person, engaging in every activity on the calendar—from sunrise yoga to biking along the beach—all before most people have had their coffee.
These special mornings give me a reason to skip nightcaps and open up opportunities for something even more enriching. Plus, there’s an electric thrill in witnessing a place awaken.
In Japan, I explored Kyoto’s Nishiki Market right as it opened, exchanging quiet nods and sleepy smiles with shopkeepers preparing their goods. The rising steam from pots of dashi and the sweet aroma of melonpan made me feel as though I had discovered a secret.
### 3. I have a go-to one-liner for social events
Traveling often means meeting new people and facing offers of drinks. Initially, I struggled to explain my sobriety, but now I keep it simple and light: “I’m good with what I have, thanks!” or “I’m on a cleanse.”
Most people don’t really mind, and those who do? They’re not my concern. Once, on a boat in the Greek Islands, a fellow traveler raised his wine glass and quipped, “Well, more for me,” launching into a story about his failed Dry January. Having a quick response helps me avoid overthinking and keeps things breezy.
### 4. I pack comfort items
In the past, hotel bars were part of my wind-down routine, driven by a desire for familiarity. Now, I intentionally pack comfort items to avoid seeking that comfort elsewhere. This includes a favorite herbal tea tucked in my carry-on, a podcast or audiobook saved for travel nights, and a small journal that carries the faint scent of the German bookstore where I bought it.
These little treasures ground me when I’m jet-lagged in unfamiliar surroundings.
### 5. I still pursue indulgence
Just because alcohol is off the table doesn’t mean I’m interested in depriving myself. I seek out the special aspects of each destination and go after the best of them.
These days, I swap cocktails for other treats, like seeking out the silkiest matcha in Kyoto, blending custom perfume in a Mexico City atelier, or treating myself to foot rubs in Bangkok that leave me feeling euphoric.
Five years ago, I thought giving up alcohol would mean losing an essential part of my travel experiences. But now I see that clarity brings its own kind of excitement.
I remember everything: the serene hush of Musée d’Orsay before the crowds, the warm scent of soy sauce and steel in my Tokyo neighborhood, a conversation with a woman selling savory fry jacks on a street corner in Belize.
Traveling sober didn’t shrink my world; it expanded it.