Revenge Travel: Can Hyper Globe Trotting Heal a Broken Heart?

Her ex took his new woman to THEIR places, so Dani Alpert had only one solution: Travel better, farther and more intensely. Did it work?

If you ask my friends whether they think I’m vengeful, they’d probably laugh. I’m more of a “sulk under the coffee table” type than a “plotting elaborate payback” person. But when Julian ended our seven-year relationship and to be with a new woman—the one he’d been cheating with—well, pettiness wasn’t going to cut it anymore.

The final straw came during a phone call with Nicole, Julian’s 19-year-old daughter. We’d stayed close because, as I told her, “We didn’t break up with each other.” Mid-conversation, she casually mentioned her father was in Barcelona with his new flame. Barcelona! Where we’d gone together just the year before, where I’d watched him devour pulled pork while I nibbled on seasonal roots and nuts like some displaced woodland creature.

Three months post-breakup, and he was already collecting passport stamps with his floozy? The audacity was breathtaking. If he could travel with his new girlfriend as if globe-trotting hadn’t been our thing, then I’d show him what real wanderlust looked like. I’d travel farther, faster, and first-class if possible. I’d make revenge travel my full-time job.

Mexico: A Rocky Start

My first revenge mission came courtesy of my friend Melissa, who invited me to a yoga retreat in Sayulita, Mexico. “It’ll be a good distraction,” she promised. The itinerary was set, which meant minimal thinking required—perfect for someone who’d been living under furniture.

“You surf, right?” Melissa asked.

“Not after I nearly drowned in Puerto Rico with Julian,” I grumbled, remembering how we’d been tossed around like rag dolls by violent waves after the world’s briefest surf lesson.

“Okay, no surfing. There are plenty of other things to do.”

A month later, I was on a plane to Mexico, sitting next to a woman and her Chihuahua service dog. The airport looked like a glorified bus stop, and our accommodation was an electricity-free cabana with mosquito netting that seemed designed to suffocate me slowly.

The yoga retreat was supposed to heal my broken heart, but midway through the first evening class, I wanted to tackle Melissa on her sticky mat. If she mentioned my “third eye” one more time, I might have lost it completely. Apparently, I’d contaminated the entire session with what I called “breakup stink.”

Mexico was supposed to be my courageous show of independence.

That first night, struggling with the mosquito netting and my racing thoughts about Julian, I ended up sitting on the toilet seat cover and peeing myself. “I’m fine,” I called out to Melissa. “I just peed myself.”

The next morning, I skipped yoga and climbed some coastal boulders, where I created an elaborate movie montage in my head—complete with “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” soundtrack—imagining myself as a tragic widow receiving casseroles from concerned friends. The fantasy ended abruptly when my butt fell asleep and I nearly tumbled off the rocks.

By day three, I was canceling paddleboard tours (I thought I saw a “dead body” in the water but that turned out to be a drunk tourist) and sulking in my cabana. Even the sacred temezcal ceremony—a sweat lodge experience meant to release emotional baggage—left me feeling like a fraud among the vulnerable, sincere participants.

Mexico was supposed to be my courageous show of independence. Instead, I returned to New York and resumed my position under the coffee table, having learned that settling imaginary scores had some very real negative consequences.

Turks and Caicos: The Couples’ Catastrophe

When Nicole mentioned that Julian was taking his girlfriend to Paris over my birthday—my birthday!—the gloves came off. That’s when a credit card company’s too-good-to-be-true deal landed in my inbox: five days at Sun Stars Resort in Turks and Caicos, everything included.

I couldn’t point out Turks and Caicos on a map, but revenge doesn’t require geography skills.

The plane ride was like a flying fraternity party, with passengers changing into island wear mid-flight while I sat there in clothes that screamed “winter storm approaching.” The hotel shuttle was standing room only, packed with rowdy adults chanting “Freedom!” and fist-bumping strangers.

To save face, I invented a story about my lover having intestinal issues from contaminated lettuce.

It wasn’t until I arrived at the gorgeous oceanfront resort that I realized my crucial oversight: Sun Stars was clearly a couples’ resort. Every corner featured lovers lounging poolside, making heart shapes in the sand, and sipping the signature orange cocktail that I’d mistaken for fruit juice.

The café hostess seated me at a table for two, then pointedly removed the extra setting. Twenty couples stared with what felt like pity. To save face, I invented a story about my lover having intestinal issues from contaminated lettuce.

For the rest of the trip, I hoarded breakfast food like a Depression-era grandmother, eating meals alone in my room while couples celebrated romance all around me. A reflexology session turned aggressive when the masseur seemed to take personal offense to my feet. Even stealing a paddleboard and doing headstands in a DayGlo bikini couldn’t get anyone’s attention.

On my birthday, a staff member delivered a slice of chocolate cake to my room. When he realized I was alone, he shook his head disappointedly and left. “Take a number, dude,” I muttered.

Iceland: Finding My Way Back

Several weeks later, Nicole called with more intel: Julian had just returned from Iceland. Iceland! We’d talked about going there ever since I’d mentioned my ex-husband seeing David Bowie perform in Reykjavík. That was the final provocation.

“Hello, Icelandair,” I said, dialing before I could think twice. “I’d like to make a reservation.”

Time felt different from the moment I stepped off the plane in Reykjavík. Despite the disorienting midnight sun, I felt genuinely curious about my surroundings. The city looked like a Patagonia catalog come to life, filled with healthy, outdoorsy locals in gorgeous sweaters.

Deep in the volcano’s belly, I realized something profound.

I signed up for daily tours, and something magical happened: I started engaging with fellow travelers instead of hiding from them. On the bus to horseback riding, I couldn’t stop talking to my seatmate. The Icelandic horses were gentle giants who behaved more like golden retrievers, and our wrangler—a New York transplant who’d moved for love—made me laugh for the first time in months.

The real breakthrough came during the volcano descent. Standing on that rickety platform, waiting to drop 400 feet into a dormant crater, I felt excitement bubbling up—genuine anticipation that reminded me of my old self. I rushed through the crowd, nearly knocking down an elderly gentleman with a cane, desperate to be first in the cable lift.

Deep in the volcano’s belly, surrounded by yellows, reds, and blacks that looked like an elephant’s drawing of hell, I realized something profound: for years with Julian, I’d let go of my own travel dreams. We’d eaten our way through Madrid when I wanted to walk the Camino de Santiago. I’d watched him play poker in Majorca instead of biking through Scotland.

Now I could be the intrepid traveler I’d always seen myself to be.

The Sweet Taste of Freedom

Over the next few days, I was first off every bus—first to witness spewing geysers, first to walk behind waterfalls, first to drink glacier water while balancing on ice axes. I flirted shamelessly with Skarpi, our sexy Icelandic tour guide, despite his three kids and vasectomy research. I took Iranian-American diplomacy into my own hands by snowmobiling a young boy around glacial slopes while his parents watched trustingly from afar.

Most surprisingly, I started offering to take photos for couples in love instead of resenting their happiness.

The gap between who I’d been and who I was becoming started closing. I’d spent a week adventuring through the world’s most isolated landscapes, and whether it was me or a nearby geyser, I was definitely erupting with joy.

The Real Revenge

Revenge travel didn’t miraculously end my heartache or fulfill my fantasy of making Julian jealous. What it did do was restore my joy of traveling on my own terms, with only my desires to satisfy. The sweetest revenge, I realized, would be forgetting about my ex entirely.

Most surprisingly, I started offering to take photos for couples in love instead of resenting their happiness.

To do that, I had to stop smothering my sadness with hotel reservations and learn to sit still with my feelings. The constant motion had been a distraction, but Iceland taught me that the best journeys—whether geographical or emotional—happen when we’re truly present.

In time, that’s exactly what happened. My middle finger rejoined the other fingers, and revenge travel was permanently grounded. These days, I travel for me—not to prove anything to anyone else, but because the world is vast and beautiful and I’m finally ready to see it clearly again.

Sometimes the best revenge is simply living well, passport stamps and all.

This article is excerpted from Dani Alpert’s Book, Hello? Who Is This? Margaret? Essays.

Read the article on Next Tribe: https://nexttribe.com/magazine/travel-after-break-up-revenge-travel/