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So before I left, I watched that movie “Mamma Mia: Here We Go Again,” and developed a set of wildly unrealistic expectations in regards to the sort of lads one might meet while traveling. Naturally, I assumed that I would end up performing a hit musical number in a fancy Parisian restaurant with a playfully awkward boy named Harry. And then I’d sail across the Mediterranean with a singing, long-haired, blonde hippie boy named Bill. And then finally, I’d snag Sam, I thought, who I’d of course meet while saving the life of a black stallion during a monsoon. So far I’ve actually only managed to attract one extraordinarily hairy pimp. This weekend, I decided, I was going to go to les Calanques de Cassis. I was going to hike the mountains and jump into the ocean. There would probably be lots of sailboats. Bill would probably be there. I believed all of these things, because I am an idiot. My tragic sense of direction spoiled all of my plans first thing in the morning. As it turns out, I woke up early for the express purpose of confidently and immediately boarding the wrong bus. I attempted to board both a metro and as well as another bus before discovering that neither would take me anywhere even close to Les Calanques. I eventually got on a train. Before this Saturday, the only forms of public transportation I had ever really experienced were the Hogwarts Express and the Polar Express, so I was disenchanted by all of the ticket machines, maps (maps are my worst nightmare) and the lack of singing elves and candy trollies. Luckily, I did have a friend with me, and so the two of us got off the train and began walking in a direction. We did not know, however, in which direction we happened to be walking, and for a while it did seem like we were walking toward civilization, but then we feared we were lost, because we were supposed to be hiking on cliffs and we were actually just walking along the sidewalks of grape farms. We eventually heard voices and ran to ask whoever those voices happened to belong to for help. And as fate would have it, those voices happened to belong to three lovely Italian goddesses and one beautiful Italian god named Lorenzo. And when he spoke, I swear he sounded like gelato. I cannot tell you what a relief it was to hear the sound of gelato after a long morning of being lost. Their divine souls took pity on us and THEY INVITED US TO SPEND THE DAY WITH THEM and—because I am delusional, I knew in that moment that I would marry Lorenzo. I then tried to make Lorenzo my boyfriend, but then it turned out that one of the girls with us was his girlfriend. I will admit, though, that it can be awkward going to a European beach with tan machines. When we got to the shoreline and these gorgeous Italians were stripping down to their underwear, I realized that only two other ladies besides myself were sporting full coverage one-piece swimsuits, and that these ladies were in their mid-sixties. I also found that there was not a bottle of sunscreen in sight except for the bottle that I brought, because apparently these people all have the kind of skin that not only soaks up the sun, but also radiates it right back out. I briefly considered pretending that I didn’t need sunscreen either, but then I figured out that Lorenzo was taken, and after staring at my feet for a while—two of my toenails are noticeably decomposing, I’ve got Cheeto toes, and a crusty Band-Aid was beginning to flake off of my heel—I decided that I just needed to own the look I had going on. So I doused myself with Hawaiian Tropic until I looked like a sweaty pink salami. And then for good measure, I sat there and ate an entire bag of potato chips. When I was done, nobody could tell if the salt on my towel and face and in my hair was a result of the saltwater or the chips.