Number One, if you’re not going with another woman, don’t bother bringing a whole lot of clothes. I brought five pairs of pants, seven tops, one of the new floaty cover-ups, two bathing suits, and a pair of shorts. I wore only the bathing suits, the shorts and the cover up, the last of which made me look like Mamma Cass.
I never wore the slacks. What was I thinking, five pairs of slacks in the Caribbean? I did once wear the pair I had travelled in, just that one night when we went to the real restaurant rather than the poolside one.
No, you should only bother about the nice clothes if you’re with your women friends who will appreciate every last stitch and bangle.
You should totally NOT bother wearing them for your man, who is never going to notice what clothes you have on, but will look at you twice only when the clothes come off.
A bald assertion but a true one. In my experience. Ahem.
Number Two, hotels have all the white-noise action you need. You really CAN travel without your tiny fan and your whirring white-noise machine. You really can. Terry.
Number Three, if you’re at a hotel high in the hills where you take your life in your hands to travel by taxi on narrow cliffside roads, you’d better have brought your book. Or, as my daughter said upon hearing about the place we just stayed at, you’d better really LIKE your book – because your book will be about it unless you are one who can sit in the ocean for hours at a time, letting the surf bat you softly about like a sea anemone.
Number Four, Yes you can have fun finishing three books and the last six issues of The New Yorker, and yes it’s always satisfying to catch up on a million work-oriented emails while also keeping abreast of events in the whole known world; but if you want your head to really clear, next time, NEXT TIME, sit more in the surf, until you feel yourself floating like all that nice aquatic plant life.