My Good Travel, Bad Sex Story
Purgatory in Paradise Cove
They say that the best travel stories are the ones that go supremely wrong. The train that leaves the station with all your stuff aboard while you get a gelato on the platform. All you have left is a handful of kopecks and a mango ripple cone.
The toxic tummy bug that strikes you down when you have three flights and a complicated transfer — Milan has two international airports, what poor planning! — and you are down to zero clean laundry. Just a pair of flight socks to hold the tide.
This wasn’t like that. The travel was perfect, to be honest. I love California, and a drive down the coastal highway from San Fran to LA, it doesn’t get much better.
Stunning sea views, the sun pouring into our convertible, dark shades and my ponytail bobbing gently in the warm wind — a welcome change from a cold grey drizzly Melbourne winter, let me tell you! — the golden sunsets over the Pacific, lazy evening dinners where the local wines were both cheap and good, and the waiters — we were served by Jesus, imagine that! — delivered heavenly desserts that were light and healthy and utterly divine.
And a travel companion who punched all of my buttons. Slim, cute, taut, funny, and smart. He liked a lot of the same things I did. Travel for one thing. Maybe he didn’t…
