Passport & Pent-Up Energy: My First Post-Pandemic Fling With the World
The borders had barely cracked open when we booked our tickets. After months of lockdowns, banana bread, and existential dread, the world was open again—and we were gone.
First stop? The Maldives. Because, obviously. There’s no “easing into travel” when you’ve been caged inside for a year—you cannonball into it with turquoise waters, floating breakfasts, and sunsets that feel like they’ve been waiting just for you. I honestly can’t tell you the name of our resort, but when you’re in the Maldives, the only directions you need are left to ocean, right to heaven.
After three or four days of pretending we were castaways in paradise (with better swimsuits), we hopped over to Dubai. Bold, blazing Dubai. The kind of place where the air smells like ambition and oud. We rode into the desert like sandy sirens—headscarves flying, golden hour kissing our cheeks, the whole thing feeling wildly cinematic. One night we had dinner in the sky—yes, literally. Suspended above the glittering skyline, toasting to life while our legs dangled above the world.
Some of my friends jumped out of a plane, over that iconic palm-shaped island. I, however, chose to remain alive. I was the designated mom of the moment—holding phones, bags, and my breath until everyone landed in one piece. I don’t do heights, but I do applause from a safe distance.
In Abu Dhabi, we tried to visit the Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque. I wore my most modest flowing gown—high neck, long sleeves, the whole nine. But there was the tiniest slit, just enough to scandalously reveal… my ankles. Scandal. I didn’t make the cut. No entrance. But we pivoted to the Louvre Abu Dhabi instead—same reverence, just a bit more art and a lot less ankle judgment.
Then came Egypt. And wow—Egypt. Cairo and Luxor unfolded like a golden scroll. The pyramids, the Sphinx, the Nile, the temples, the tombs—it was like walking through the pages of your childhood history book, except now you’re grown, glowing, and taking selfies with hieroglyphs. We rode camels, took boats down the Nile, and stared at statues that had seen centuries rise and fall. Time felt different there, heavier and holier.
And just when we thought we’d peaked, we flew to Colombia. Because why not end with a bang? Cartagena wrapped us up in its colorful arms and let us dance again. Music in the streets, rum in our systems, confetti in our hair—everything was alive, and so were we. After ancient gods and sandy prayers, this was our finale, our fever dream come true.
Each place was four days, give or take—but it felt like a lifetime. A lifetime we had earned after the year we survived.
The world had hit pause. We hit play. Hard.
