“What?” she cries, adjusting her Jacquemus minidress. “It sounds like you’re just mumbling a bunch of vowels.”
You sigh. “Club 55.”
“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”
You wave around. “Because it’s French! We’re in France!”
She pushes down her Celine Triomphe sunglasses to look you straight in the eye. “You’re wearing Ray Bans and, like, a Brooks Brothers shirt. Everyone knows you’re American.”
“It’s Loro Piana,” you say, a little hurt.
You both sit in silence on your ride to Pampelonne. You look back at your charter—an 80-foot Sunseeker. It looked so huge when you first saw it. Until a 300-foot Blohm+Voss anchored right behind you.
*girlfriend is a generous term.
The Dolomites
You are so over party Europe—you’re a changed man now. Less cocaine at Gospel, more IVs at Remedy Place. So off to the Dolomites you go, like an Alo Yoga-wearing, AmEx-wielding Captain von Trapp, seeing if the mountain air will magically undo the hearing loss you got when Rüfüs Du Sol played at Shellona last year.
When you return to the States, you’ll tell everyone how many vertical feet you hiked. In reality, you never left the pool at Forestis.
Mykonos
You are under the age of 30, say “yacht daddy” unironically, and just want to rage face at Alemagou in a crop top and some body glitter. If you are over the age of 30, congratulations, you’re on the fast track to a liver transplant.
Patmos
Mykonos? Oh, please. You aren’t a degenerate. You care about wine. Art. Culture. You’re reading Nicholas Boggs’s 1000-page biography of James Baldwin, for God’s sake. That’s why you chose Patmos, a remote, civilized retreat away from the fist-pumping crowds. Where you can sail the deep blue Aegan Sea on a kaiki and ponder the mysticality of the island while finding yourself.
Although you didn’t realize the beaches would be so…rocky. And you didn’t realize you had to share your private cabin on the eight-hour ferry ride from Athens with three strangers. One of them went through four bags of Cool Ranch Doritos.
That night, as you sit at Benetos, the Meltemi blowing so hard it’s exposing your bald spot…you kinda wish you had the Gwyneth Paltrow biography to read instead.
Ibiza
You used to go to Mykonos. Yet two shamans and an ayahuasca trip later, here you are, ordering chocolate mushroom bonbons with a raspberry ganache and picking out the perfect DC-10 outfit from Annie’s Ibiza. (Gold disc mini skirt and matching top. Total cost? $3,000.) You considered renting a villa from Le Collectionist ($30,000 a week) in Es Cubells, but settled on the Six Senses ($2,700 per night) in order to “embrace your spirituality” on the north side of the Island. Thirty-four minutes into your Mercedes Sprinter van ride to Jondal (where your meal for four people cost $2,000), you deeply regret this decision. You don’t even like yoga that much.
