James Brawley

And there's no way she's seeing my bear claws.

So when we meet on the beach, the girls are in French bikinis, and I'm in my shorts and my button-down shirt from the train ride, like I forgot to undress half myself.

And after a couple of hours of swimming, then swimming, Franz comes over to me and says, do you not swim?

And I say, indoors.

I burn easily.

And she hands me her bottle of sunblock and I start to shake my head sadly and point to one of the ingredients and I say, I'm allergic.

And there are six more days to go.

So the next morning, after an all-nighter with Let's Go Europe, I have a comprehensive understanding of all the cultural high points within a 30-mile radius of the city of Positano.

none of which include the beach.

There is Mount Vesuvius and the Grottos of Capri and the Hanging Gardens at Ravenna.

And we can go to a beach anywhere, but there's only so many places you can see this kind of culture.

That's the position I'm taking.

And the French love culture.

And the Germans admire the French.

So six days later, we're all just about as pasty as when we stepped off the hydrofoil.

My secret waste is still a secret.

And I make it to the last night.

We have a little farewell dinner at a seaside restaurant.

And we're walking on the beach one last time for old time's sake, saying our goodbyes.

Everyone's a little misty, except me.