It Started in Berlin (Because of Course It Did)
A year without alcohol started in Berlin, of all places. I know — the city with techno clubs that literally go on for days and beer that costs less than water. But after one too many messy nights at Sisyphos and waking up in some stranger’s IKEA-scented loft with no clue how I got there, I was like… okay, maybe it’s time. The final straw? I tried to order a kebab and ended up giving the guy my Metro card instead of cash. Yeah.
Locals say “Berliner Schnauze” is their slangy way of calling someone out — and I got plenty of it that morning. Berlin taught me that even in the most ‘party till your socks melt’ city, it’s okay to sit in a smoky café with a club mate and not feel lame. Life hack? Club-Mate and an attitude. It gets you through.
Sweating It Out in Bangkok
Bangkok was… a trip. You’d think a year without alcohol would be easier in the tropics, but nooope. First week there I walked into a rooftop bar — sober as a monk — and the bartender straight-up offered me something “strong, no ID needed.” Welcome to Thailand, baby. But sticking to coconut water and mango sticky rice in Chatuchak Market? Not bad at all.
One time I got hustled into a Muay Thai fight. Not in it, thank god, but I accidentally wandered ringside and some vendor bet 300 baht I could win. Against a child. (Spoiler: I did not.) The heat, the tuk-tuks, the energy — it’s all high-octane. But it’s alive. Pro tip? Hit up Wat Arun at sunrise, no hangover, no regrets.
Loneliness Hits in Reykjavík
Let me be real — a year without alcohol hurts in Iceland. Reykjavík is chill, both literally and emotionally. The bars are cozy and the people? Icy hot. First night, I sat at Kaffibarinn, nursing a tonic with lemon like it was fine wine, while every table around me laughed over Einstök ales. That hit hard.
I met this guy — Gudjon, I think — who invited me to a geothermal pool instead of a party. He said, “This is what sober Icelanders do.” And you know what? It slapped. Northern lights, crisp air, no alcohol fuzz. Just me and the Milky Way like, “Sup?” Local phrase? “Þetta reddast” — it’ll all work out. And somehow, it did.
The Test in New Orleans
New Orleans during Mardi Gras while doing a year without alcohol?? Actual hell. I was dodging beads and open containers like they were live grenades. Bourbon Street smelled like spilt beer and lost decisions. But I stayed strong, y’all. I found salvation in beignets and a random street jazz guy named Big Earl who called me “Dry Martini.”
One night I sat on a curb by Jackson Square with a giant lemonade and cried a lil’. Not out of sadness — out of relief. I wasn’t missing anything. I was just feeling it all. Local tip? Café du Monde after midnight. Sugar rush is better than any daiquiri.
Total Peace in Kyoto
Kyoto saved me. Like, truly. After months of saying “no thanks” and dodging social pressure like a ninja, Kyoto whispered, hey, slow down. I found myself sipping matcha in a little wooden teahouse near Fushimi Inari, thinking: damn, a year without alcohol kinda rocks. The temples, the gardens, the silence — it was the reset I didn’t know I needed.
Funny story though — I tried a fermented plum thinking it was candy. It wasn’t. My whole face imploded. Local slang? “Majide?” It’s like saying “are you serious?” And yeah, Kyoto was seriously magical. No sake, no drama, just peace.
Lost (Then Found) in Buenos Aires
Buenos Aires was hot, loud, and ridiculously romantic — which is awkward when you’re third-wheeling every date night in town and doing a year without alcohol. I went to a tango club in San Telmo and asked for a non-alcoholic drink. The bartender blinked like I’d asked for a spaceship.
But then I met Camila. She was Argentine, stunning, and totally cool with me being “dry.” She dragged me to a midnight empanada spot and told me about her cousin’s sobriety journey. We danced. I didn’t need wine — I was already dizzy. Pro tip? Say yes to street food, no to Fernet. Your stomach will thank you.
Rock Bottom (and Rise) in Los Angeles
You’d think LA, land of yoga and green juice, would be easy for a year without alcohol. WRONG. Every influencer brunch has bottomless mimosas and “detox” wine (like, what even is that?). I went to a house party in Silver Lake and brought kombucha — people acted like I’d brought a disease.
But one night I stood on Runyon Canyon at sunset, totally alone, watching pink clouds roll in. I felt everything — no filter, no buzz, just raw, me. That was enough. Slang lesson? “That’s so LA” — aka, anything absurdly over the top. Like sparkling water flights. Yep, that’s a thing.
Celebration in Lisbon
The year without alcohol ended in Lisbon, and honestly, I didn’t even want to pop champagne. I climbed to Miradouro da Senhora do Monte, looked out at the red rooftops and that golden 6 PM light and thought — “Damn. I did it.” The city was buzzing with music and trolleys and that pastel de nata smell, and I was buzzing too. Just… naturally.
Met this old lady in Alfama who made cherry liqueur in her basement. She offered me a shot. I smiled, said no, and she winked like, “You’re stronger than I ever was.” Local tip? Walk the hills, wear good shoes, and don’t forget to breathe it all in.
So… Was It Worth It?
A year without alcohol isn’t just about not drinking. It’s about choosing clarity. Feeling awkward at parties, raw on birthdays, fully present in conversations. It’s about learning how to dance without a crutch and laugh without a pint. I had breakdowns, breakthroughs, and probably too many fizzy drinks.
But would I do it again? Hell yes. Maybe not forever, but I’ll always carry this version of me — the me who wandered through Berlin, Bangkok, Kyoto, and beyond — totally clear, totally wild, totally alive.
A year without alcohol wasn’t the end of fun. It was the start of something real.
