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Bora Bora
A mere week after returning to New York City from South Africa, still in a brain fog from operating 12 hours ahead of EST, I set out for French Polynesia – 5 hours behind EST.
A mere week after returning to New York City from South Africa, still in a brain fog from operating 12 hours ahead of EST, I set out for French Polynesia – 5 hours behind EST. Do the math on that, and my body was going to be 17 hours off-kilter and out of whack. Jetlag is like being high. Your brain goes all soft, you lose motor control and you're like a kid who desperately wants to stay up late to see Santa Claus, but short of inserting toothpicks as props, just can't keep his eyes open. There was a time in my 20's when I could stay up for three days straight on just coffee. But since I hit my 30's, I need and treasure sleep, and can't fight jetlag, no matter how strong my resolve or tempting the destination. So I don't make any hard or fast rules about adjusting to new time zones, I just go with the flow.
My defenses are down when I'm jetlagged, which is a plus, especially when dealing with airport security. Unfortunately, though I am a petite Hawaiian surfer chick who favors teenage mall attire such as Juicy Couture tracksuits, chunky platforms and LeSportsac tote bags, I am always red-flagged. Maybe there is a mafia of trendy Japanese Hello Kitty-sporting criminals and I vaguely fit the profile? Or perhaps it's the sheer frequency and diversity of stamps in my passport, but it never fails – I am stopped and stripped down within an inch of my life at every airport checkpoint.
The way jetlag naturally lowers my defenses may also be why I seem to meet new boyfriends when traveling (and I mean boyfriends, because except for the occasional make-out session with a tan, brawny, washboard abs-type surfer dude, ten years my junior, I'm looking for quality over quantity). First there was the dentist I met in Jamaica - he flirted by saying my teeth were so pretty, they looked like I had some whitening done. He lived in New York, so that went on for a few months. Then the genius scientist who worked for NASA I met in Maui – he was a former New Yorker who bailed after 9/11. I tried to keep that going off and on for over two years. Then there was the hunky Australian head chef at a resort in Antigua – I kept trying to make it work, even after he stopped emailing or returning my calls. And then there was the French Canadian journalist I met in Thailand, who I was sick of after the two week press trip, but couldn't break up with once I found out he had survived a bout of testicular cancer with only one ball. Thankfully, he got back together with his ex-girlfriend in Montreal.
I first met the French Bastard (his nickname from day one) on the 20-cabin private yacht that employed him. It was my second trip to Tahiti, which I had disloyally declared even more beautiful than my homeland (its okay, Hawaiians are all descendent from Tahitians). I flew from JFK on the brand new direct 11-hour Air Tahiti Nui flight in business class, which was heavenly - endless food and entertainment choices, a comfy reclining chair and charming flight attendants who included at least two "rae rae" (Tahitian transvestites). There were only two other journalists – one mysteriously obese vegetarian woman I really wanted to like and one gay guy I was pretty sure I despised (this in part because he showed up in business class in shorts, a cut-off tee and Tevas). But it actually turned out to be the opposite – I ended up loving Mr. Vanity (I call him this because he uses a picture of himself in just a Speedo for his contributors page photo). He made me laugh out loud, often at the expense of "fatty," his nickname for the woman, who just got more bizarre as the trip went on. She never seemed to eat anything (except double portions of dessert), but revealed at one point that she had an entire suitcase filled with boxes of Saran Wrap (?).
Anyway, it was Mr. Vanity (who also had a law degree and was a moonlighting college lit professor), who first noticed that the French Bastard was lavishing me with extra special care. We were two days into a spectacular 10-day cruise through the Society Islands – the best way to see the place since the country is, like, 75% ocean. Every time you turned around, someone was handing you a drink and cool scented towel – the service on the yacht was impeccable, so it took me longer than usual to notice he was flirting. Hard to believe too since fraternizing with guests is strictly prohibited for staff and immediate grounds for firing. But that didn't stop the cocky FB from engaging in a 30 minute conversation with me during champagne cocktails and asking me out on a date the next day – a trip for just the two of us to a private beach. Unfortunately, it was a private beach well-known to the yacht staff - we ran into several of them, but as the FB was technically their boss, he didn't care.
That was the day I fell for him. Because, sure, he was dashingly handsome, thoughtful and considerate, his English was near perfect (he had formerly managed the Conran Shops in London and the Drake Hotel restaurant in Chicago), but it was the conversation we had that got me - notably one question that inspired a three-hour conversation I had never had with anyone I'd known for 74-hours – "What is the worst thing you've ever done?" It was a clever question, at once allowing us to ascertain each other's moral character and ability to edit (lie), as well as sense of humor (and, no, I'm not going to tell you what I said or he said!). By day four we were meeting at night on the top deck and making out under stars, bathed in the moonlight. And then, the tricky part – getting him back to my cabin on night five. Luckily, I was on the lower deck with the wine cellar – so he had a key to the corridor and an excuse to be lingering. With the sneaking around as foreplay, him whispering urgently to me in French and the rocking of the boat adding to our already athletic sessions, it was the best sex ever.
And surprise, surprise - the romance continued. I wasn't sure I'd ever see him again as we tearfully waved goodbye, eyes locked as the skip took me away from the yacht to the airport, but I managed to get back to Tahiti five more times (by breaking into new territory – bridal magazines, where Bora Bora is evergreen). And each time, the FB was just as dynamic, charming, fun, sweet, sexy and intriguing, and we talked and laughed and challenged each other and became much closer, but I never fell in love with him. Maybe because I knew, as juicy and romantic and alluring as it was, there was no future – he was firmly installed in his world (actually under contract to that yacht, and for all his complaining, not thinking about leaving), and I, in mine.
My defenses are down when I'm jetlagged, which is a plus, especially when dealing with airport security. Unfortunately, though I am a petite Hawaiian surfer chick who favors teenage mall attire such as Juicy Couture tracksuits, chunky platforms and LeSportsac tote bags, I am always red-flagged. Maybe there is a mafia of trendy Japanese Hello Kitty-sporting criminals and I vaguely fit the profile? Or perhaps it's the sheer frequency and diversity of stamps in my passport, but it never fails – I am stopped and stripped down within an inch of my life at every airport checkpoint.
The way jetlag naturally lowers my defenses may also be why I seem to meet new boyfriends when traveling (and I mean boyfriends, because except for the occasional make-out session with a tan, brawny, washboard abs-type surfer dude, ten years my junior, I'm looking for quality over quantity). First there was the dentist I met in Jamaica - he flirted by saying my teeth were so pretty, they looked like I had some whitening done. He lived in New York, so that went on for a few months. Then the genius scientist who worked for NASA I met in Maui – he was a former New Yorker who bailed after 9/11. I tried to keep that going off and on for over two years. Then there was the hunky Australian head chef at a resort in Antigua – I kept trying to make it work, even after he stopped emailing or returning my calls. And then there was the French Canadian journalist I met in Thailand, who I was sick of after the two week press trip, but couldn't break up with once I found out he had survived a bout of testicular cancer with only one ball. Thankfully, he got back together with his ex-girlfriend in Montreal.
I first met the French Bastard (his nickname from day one) on the 20-cabin private yacht that employed him. It was my second trip to Tahiti, which I had disloyally declared even more beautiful than my homeland (its okay, Hawaiians are all descendent from Tahitians). I flew from JFK on the brand new direct 11-hour Air Tahiti Nui flight in business class, which was heavenly - endless food and entertainment choices, a comfy reclining chair and charming flight attendants who included at least two "rae rae" (Tahitian transvestites). There were only two other journalists – one mysteriously obese vegetarian woman I really wanted to like and one gay guy I was pretty sure I despised (this in part because he showed up in business class in shorts, a cut-off tee and Tevas). But it actually turned out to be the opposite – I ended up loving Mr. Vanity (I call him this because he uses a picture of himself in just a Speedo for his contributors page photo). He made me laugh out loud, often at the expense of "fatty," his nickname for the woman, who just got more bizarre as the trip went on. She never seemed to eat anything (except double portions of dessert), but revealed at one point that she had an entire suitcase filled with boxes of Saran Wrap (?).
Anyway, it was Mr. Vanity (who also had a law degree and was a moonlighting college lit professor), who first noticed that the French Bastard was lavishing me with extra special care. We were two days into a spectacular 10-day cruise through the Society Islands – the best way to see the place since the country is, like, 75% ocean. Every time you turned around, someone was handing you a drink and cool scented towel – the service on the yacht was impeccable, so it took me longer than usual to notice he was flirting. Hard to believe too since fraternizing with guests is strictly prohibited for staff and immediate grounds for firing. But that didn't stop the cocky FB from engaging in a 30 minute conversation with me during champagne cocktails and asking me out on a date the next day – a trip for just the two of us to a private beach. Unfortunately, it was a private beach well-known to the yacht staff - we ran into several of them, but as the FB was technically their boss, he didn't care.
That was the day I fell for him. Because, sure, he was dashingly handsome, thoughtful and considerate, his English was near perfect (he had formerly managed the Conran Shops in London and the Drake Hotel restaurant in Chicago), but it was the conversation we had that got me - notably one question that inspired a three-hour conversation I had never had with anyone I'd known for 74-hours – "What is the worst thing you've ever done?" It was a clever question, at once allowing us to ascertain each other's moral character and ability to edit (lie), as well as sense of humor (and, no, I'm not going to tell you what I said or he said!). By day four we were meeting at night on the top deck and making out under stars, bathed in the moonlight. And then, the tricky part – getting him back to my cabin on night five. Luckily, I was on the lower deck with the wine cellar – so he had a key to the corridor and an excuse to be lingering. With the sneaking around as foreplay, him whispering urgently to me in French and the rocking of the boat adding to our already athletic sessions, it was the best sex ever.
And surprise, surprise - the romance continued. I wasn't sure I'd ever see him again as we tearfully waved goodbye, eyes locked as the skip took me away from the yacht to the airport, but I managed to get back to Tahiti five more times (by breaking into new territory – bridal magazines, where Bora Bora is evergreen). And each time, the FB was just as dynamic, charming, fun, sweet, sexy and intriguing, and we talked and laughed and challenged each other and became much closer, but I never fell in love with him. Maybe because I knew, as juicy and romantic and alluring as it was, there was no future – he was firmly installed in his world (actually under contract to that yacht, and for all his complaining, not thinking about leaving), and I, in mine.
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