Paul Yoon
speaker
490 appearances
2 recordings
2 series
first heard Dec 2025
last heard 1 Jul
Paul Yoon’s voice in public audio — every appearance, attributed to the second.
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recordings per month · last 12 monthsRecordings per month over the last 12 months — 2 in all, peaking in Jul 2026 with 1.
Appearances
They said it reminded them of their own student travels through Europe, of being 19 and crawling into each other's beds in crowded dorms.
There was the time at a hostel on Mykonos when, apparently, Roy sat on a top bunk, his legs dangling while Mandy stood between them sucking him off, and some raucous Croatian girls burst into the dorm.
I heard Roy and Mandy tell this story multiple times, separately and together.
Roy told it as if someone had informed him that, if he didn't tell a slightly risque story at least once every year or two, he'd be considered terminally unadventurous.
Mandy told it with genuine pleasure, as if she were astonished at herself for having lived a life in which an incident like this had taken place.
The details changed over the years.
Eventually, the girls became Czech, and they ran from the room shouting, God save the Queen.
Roy and Mandy had had other backpacking adventures, but hasn't every middle-class Australian.
Weren't we all at one time 19 years old and sweet, oblivious amateurs?
There was a night on the roof of a hostel in Marrakesh that I've told my husband about.
Another in Penang in a hotel full of Belgian doctors that I haven't.
A full moon party on Kuta Beach that explains the small scar beneath my left ear.
Everywhere I traveled in the 80s, I found Australians in short shorts carrying treasured copies of Southeast Asia on a shoestring.
We all stank and thought we were poor, and none of the sex we had was interesting enough to talk about even two years later.
But Roy and Mandy continued to recount their escapades.
They spoke with such fondness for their younger selves, as if they had somehow been especially sweet and especially amateurish, that I was always vaguely annoyed by their stories of those times.
The backpacker hostel in their gentrifying neighborhood was made up of three connected terrace houses, leprous with pink paint and festooned with Tibetan prayer flags.
It was being slowly devoured by some enormous bushes of knife-blooming jasmine, which clotted the street with their creamy smell.
No matter the time of day, there were always lights in the windows.
there was always music playing and laundry hanging from the balconies.
Showing 61–80 of 490 · page 4 of 25
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