Once a Globe-Trotting Enthusiast, She’s Now Vacationing with Purpose

The last two months have been such the proverbial whirlwind, it’s hard to know what to write about. March, with its birthday celebration in Vegas and impromptu anniversary celebration in Nigeria? April, with its girls’ trips to the Calistoga mud baths and Napa vineyards? The pending meltdown as I prepare to leave for Morocco this month? Is there such a thing as too much travel, too fast? If we stack trips, can our bodies actually process the experience? And can our minds avoid clicking into acquisition mode, consuming a community’s resources just for the ‘gram?

In March, my husband took me to Vegas for our birthdays (we’re four days apart). Apparently, Vegas holds special meaning for us, so I’ll give it a pass. We went once back in the day, back before it was a foodie mecca or a place you’d take your kids. I remember him wandering, head swiveling, mouth agape, at this proof of “American ambition and ingenuity!” Years later, after we got back together, he arranged for us to celebrate our birthdays there – him flying in from Nigeria, me from Pennsylvania.

This birthday (a big one for me), he booked two Vegas shows and spa treatments; I booked a tiki bar with problematic decor and the wacky portal that is Meow Wolf. He won with a 19-course, literary-themed tasting menu in a whimsical distillery (a four-hour event that deserves its own column). Soon after our seventy-two hours in Vegas, we left for Nigeria.

I excused the fast turnaround because it was spring break and we were headed to a funeral—not two events you normally hear in the same sentence. Originally, we’d planned to spend spring break in Vietnam to commemorate the big birthday/big anniversary. He’s never been to Southeast Asia, and although I lived and set my first memoir in Thailand, he only became interested when some guy at work raved about Vietnam. If we left Friday morning after class, we could get to Hanoi Saturday night, giving us exactly one week on ground and one day home to recover before classes Monday. Friends looked skeptical, but neither of our minds is apparently in conversation with its aging body. We’re stupid optimistic.

When I was young, I wore fast travel like a badge of honor. Once, after presenting at the Ubud Writers Readers Festival (one of my favorite literary fests), I left Bali at midnight and landed in Pittsburgh, two stops and twenty-fours later. Leaving my bags circling on the carousel (it was a different time), I hopped in my car, drove straight to campus, grabbed a coffee, and strolled into my classroom. As soon as I finished teaching, I hopped back in my car, drove back to the airport, collected my luggage from the baggage claim office, and walked onto a flight to Louisville, Kentucky, where I was scheduled to deliver a keynote address the next day. As the auditorium burst into applause, my tears were half-gratitude, half-hysteria. This was my Super Bowl win.

Nowadays, not only am I slower on my feet (hence the Calistoga mud bath and Napa winery recovery programs), but I worry about the carbon footprint those feet are leaving and my own sense of travel entitlement. Trying to reassure myself that one week in Vietnam isn’t revenge travel (after all, how often does spring break coincide with a big birthday and a milestone anniversary?), I was in the process of purchasing our flights when Nigeria called: We were wanted at home for a burial.

We replaced the Vietnam itinerary with Nigeria. (Apparently, it takes a full day to get overseas from California, no matter if you go west to Asia or east to Africa.) After a few days in megapolis Lagos for the funeral, my husband headed to his hometown in Nigeria’s midwest and I headed to mine in the east. It had been twelve years since my last visit, though it felt like just yesterday. Until I saw my nieces and nephews.

When I showed up unannounced for school pick-ups, the kids – some who’d never met Auntie Faith before – stopped in their tracks, eyes bugged and mouths agape. The adults roared with laughter. When I announced that I’d be leaving in a few days to get back to classes, it was my adult siblings’ turn to stare open-mouthed at my Americanness. My brother-in-law insisted on showing me his furniture workshop, where he crafts beautiful bespoke pieces from hand, insisting on the finest materials, taking his time to follow the grain of wood. I understood my sister’s frustration at his business model, but afterwards, I texted my husband: What do you think about extending our visit a week? We could celebrate our anniversary here. We could slow down.

Faith Adiele founded the nation’s first writing workshop for travelers of color through VONA. Her award-winning memoir Meeting Faith routinely makes travel listicles, and her travel media credits include A WORLD OF CALM (HBO-Max), Sleep Stories (CALM app), and MY JOURNEY HOME (PBS). A member of the Black Travel Alliance, she publishes in HERE MAGAZINE, OFF ASSIGNMENT, BEST WOMEN’S TRAVEL WRITING, OPRAH MAGAZINE, ESSENCE, and others. Find her in Oakland, Finland, Nigeria or @meetingfaith.

This story was originally published May 24, 2023 at 12:21 PM.