I'm a vegan but I eat meat when I travel—here's why

The lamb tagine arrived in Marrakech's medina, and I ate it. All of it. After three years of veganism, I sat in that tiny restaurant—four tables, no menu, grandmother cooking—and didn't mention plant-based anything. My traveling companion nearly dropped her spoon. "But you're vegan?" she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I'm complicated," I replied, which felt truer than explaining my entire philosophy between courses.

Back home, I read ingredients with forensic intensity. I bring nutritional yeast to restaurants. But somewhere over the Atlantic, my rigid food rules soften. Not because I miss meat—I don't—but because I've learned that sometimes veganism travels poorly, and not for the reasons you'd expect.

The grandmother problem

In rural Vietnam, an elderly woman spent two hours preparing pho for our small group. She'd killed the chicken that morning. Through our guide, she explained each ingredient—recipes passed through generations. Refusing felt like telling her that her culture, her care, her morning's work meant less than my dietary philosophy.

This isn't about every meal abroad. Street vendors, restaurants, hotels—these are transactions where "no meat" translates fine. But in homes, at family tables, where food is love made edible? That's where my veganism gets complicated. I've watched hosts deflate when travelers refuse lovingly prepared dishes. There's violence in that rejection too, just a different kind.

The translation impossibility

"Vegetarian" shapeshifts globally. In Spain, ham wasn't meat. In Japan, dashi didn't count. In Mongolia, they had no word for it—our guide tried "person who doesn't eat animals" and everyone laughed, thinking he was joking.

Apps exist. Cards explaining veganism in forty languages. But interrogating a Bangkok vendor about fish sauce feels like peak tourist entitlement. Sometimes "yes" respects more than "no." Sometimes participating means eating what's offered with gratitude, not suspicion.

The privilege check

Standing in a Cambodian market, explaining I don't eat eggs while locals struggled to afford rice—I heard myself. Really heard myself. The privilege of voluntary restrictions hits different surrounded by involuntary ones.

My veganism makes sense at home—infinite choices, clear labels, entire stores devoted to plant-based everything. But explaining to a Guatemalan family why I won't eat their only protein source? That requires nuance I lack in Spanish, context that doesn't translate, privilege I can't justify.

The connection paradox

Food opens doors. Accepting builds bridges; refusing builds walls. In Istanbul, saying yes to köfte led to kitchen invitations, recipe sharing, three-hour conversations about family. The meat was incidental. The trust was everything.

I've tried the "I'm vegan" conversation abroad. It derails into explaining, defending, navigating assumptions about judgment. By the time we've crossed that minefield, actual connection has evaporated. The meal becomes about my restrictions, not about sharing something real.

The sustainability question

Here's uncomfortable math: my imported quinoa and year-round avocados aren't necessarily more ethical than local lamb in New Zealand. Carbon footprints get fuzzy when you're shipping cashews across oceans versus eating what's next door.

One chicken feeding a Vietnamese family creates less impact than my typical Brooklyn grocery haul. The good/bad binary I apply at home doesn't map cleanly onto global realities. Sometimes the most sustainable choice is what's already there, already prepared, already part of the local ecosystem.

The messy middle

I've developed guidelines, not rules. Commercial settings stay vegan—restaurants, hotels, anywhere with options. But grandmother's kitchens? Family celebrations? Places where refusing genuinely hurts someone who cooked for hours? I eat with appreciation.

This middle ground satisfies nobody. Vegans cry betrayal. Omnivores cry hypocrisy. They're probably both right. But travel taught me that food rules designed in privilege don't always serve connection, understanding, or even ethics when context shifts. Sometimes the kindest choice isn't the purest.

Final thoughts

I know this position is messy, inconsistent, probably indefensible in vegan Facebook groups where I'll definitely get dragged. But ethical eating isn't simple once you leave your bubble. It's contextual, cultural, complicated.

Home means immediate return to strict veganism. No adjustment, no cravings, no crisis. The context works here—I have choices, money, language to navigate them. My veganism fits my world. But I've stopped expecting my world's rules to fit everywhere.

Truth is, I'd rather share meat-containing meals with people whose stories I'll carry forever than eat perfect vegan food alone, Instagramming my ethnic food while missing everything that matters about where I am. Food is never just food when traveling. It's invitation, bridge, communion.

Some will read this as elaborate justification for convenience. Maybe. But traveling with rigid rules means traveling in bubbles, seeing the world through restriction lenses. And honestly? That seems like the opposite of why we travel.