The hunky Swede I met by chance at a sidewalk cafe in Bangkok started to explain to me why he can’t tell anyone back home what he and his buddies saw (and did?) in Pattaya, the raunchy sex capital of Thailand. He seemed genuinely disgusted.
I am eager to hear the lurid details—practically salivating—but before he can spill them the driver of the van taking him to the airport blasts his horn.
I was so disappointed, but felt better the minute I moved Pattaya to the top of my list of places to visit. I can’t wait.
Mosquitos? I’ve met many, but none were as excited to see me as the ones I encountered at a modest guesthouse in sleepy Nong Khai in northeast Thailand.
They laughed hysterically every time I slathered myself with repellent then buzzed with glee as they furiously attacked me gorging on my blood until bursting.
What’s worse? They ruined my chances for a sizzling tryst with a new friend, a rakish Dutchman. Apparently, he was put-off by my incessant scratching, scratching, scratching and my body (once so luscious) with dozens of ugly red bumps failed to entice him. I’ll never forgive them.
Often, on the road, travelers regale each other with stories about their recent escapades. Sadly, in Los Angeles where I live, no one wants to hear mine. Thus, out of necessity, I’ve perfected the art of interrupting almost every conversation with stories from my latest adventures. Perhaps I overdo it. I have noticed people are starting to avoid me.