My desk is a disaster. Cold brew from this morning, now room temperature. A stack of unopened mail that’s been piling up since the holiday break. Outside my window: rain. Not the romantic kind. This downpour is more Mary J. Blige and Ja Rule than Soul for Real. When I log on to my first video call of the day, I see the same gloom in everyone else’s backgrounds.
Well, everyone except Sam.
Unlike most people at the Seattle-based organization, Sam, a content strategist, has been working remotely from Mexico for the past four months. His Zoom backdrop almost looks virtual. The solar glare on his forehead makes questions about the weather seem rhetorical. His floor-to-ceiling windows—with palm trees swaying on the other side—scream, “I’m living my best life at 28,000 pesos per month.”
On a recent call, when Sam casually mentioned grabbing lunch at a restaurant on the beach, I felt it. That ugly little pang of envy.
Mase and 112 have a hilarious song about jealous men. I could never relate … until recently. The remote work revolution has tested my emotional limits. Taking Zoom meetings from Zanzibar. Sending emails from Barcelona. Slack messages sent poolside. The digital nomad lifestyle sold us a fantasy: Why be miserable in Maryland when you could be equally employed in Morocco?
Last month, Sam and his tropical background were absent for a day. He was offline the following day as well. His Slack status read “traveling.” Everyone on the call knew what was up.
After Mexican authorities killed a major cartel leader in February—reportedly with U.S. help—parts of Jalisco erupted in violent retaliation that led to road blockades, burning vehicles, and warnings for Americans in Puerto Vallarta to stay indoors. Sam was in Mexico City, about 500 miles away, but he decided not to take any chances and haul ass. Turns out that “work from anywhere” hits differently when the “anywhere” is under a travel advisory.
I understood the appeal that landed him beyond stateside borders in the first place. Once upon a time, I spun my desk globe and contemplated an expat adventure of my own.
I’d been to Dubai years ago and loved it: the energy, the extravagance, the man-made island. After I got home, I started imagining a version of my life with better weather and a better skyline. I did some cursory research about relocating there. Looked at neighborhoods. Crunched the numbers. Then I took an in-office job here, and the idea disappeared like shisha smoke in the air.
That old fantasy came back to mind recently after the U.S. attacked Iran, which responded with missile and drone strikes all around the Middle East. Airports in Doha, Abu Dhabi, and Dubai—major travel hubs for all, including remote workers—have been experiencing shutdowns and delays amid regional instability. I keep coming across tales of Americans stuck out there, steadily refreshing the State Department website, trying to figure out whether they need to escape by any means necessary.
I know Black folks who left the States entirely—tired of the politics, the anti-Blackness, the everyday microaggressions. They went searching for destinations where they could breathe easier. Accra. Lisbon. Bangkok. The digital nomad life offered an escape from Uncle Sam’s oppression.
But here’s the thing: American foreign policy has a long reach. When the U.S. starts launching airstrikes, it doesn’t matter if you’re in Atlanta or Abu Dhabi; you’re still American. And suddenly that little blue booklet feels less like a golden ticket.
Obviously, every place isn’t unsafe. I’d never discourage anyone from chasing the digital nomad dream. If you’ve got the opportunity and the resources, do it. See the world. Take your conference calls from Costa Rica. All I’m saying is that current events have shown me another perspective. The recent news made me realize how quickly paradise can turn into frantically checking Skyscanner for a flight to literally anywhere else.
Sam has since resurfaced on our team calls. He’s in London now, staying with a friend until he figures out his next move. His Zoom background was gray that first day. Overcast. It looked a lot like mine.
“How’s the weather over there?” someone asked.
“Rainy,” Sam said. “But I’m good with it.”
Maybe I projected a lot onto Sam. Maybe he’s just a guy with decent Wi-Fi, a great view, a tatted-up passport, and quarterly goals just like mine. But in my head, he was the poster child of the digital nomad experience.
I looked out my window at the familiar downpour and realized something: I’m still open to working from abroad.
I’m just no longer romanticizing the people already doing it.
