Lucius Bod | Rogue Diary - tourism in Europe

Beatriz greeted me affectionately at the airport in Ibiza last summer. We took a ferry to the smaller sister island of Formentera, where she had purchased a fantastic little villa at Es Pujols, a lively village with a burgeoning tourism industry. At the station, her daughter Rosario had arranged the arrival of two Vespa scooters for us to drive down dirt roads and beaches the ancient Romans enjoyed centuries ago. I had felt a little homesick a few months before the self-imposed holiday, and after so many emails and phone calls I longed to visit my elegant and gorgeous friend Beatriz, to feel the Mediterranean sun on my pale skin.

Rosario packed two suitcases the next morning for her return to Madrid, where she enjoyed great success as a well-known broadcast journalist in television. I envied her linear path of education, social networking and a fulfilling family life. My own had become a badly drawn, awkward diagramme of trial and error, impulsive behaviour and disorder. She pinched my arm in the kitchen and smiled sweetly before walking out the door.

One terrific week of sun, fascinating conversations and self-reflection by the sea yielded superb results on my looks and mood. My hostess friend showed me the lighthouse at Cap de Barbaria, the Platja de Illetes, Punta Pedrera and I fell in love with the island completely by the weekend. We climbed the rock formations at Cala Saona to watch the yachts and catamarans stalking the coast and stopped at the chiringuitos (open air beach bars) for carbonated drinks, salads and fried fish with peppers. The euphoria of indulging in carefree laughter and dancing was all I needed to trip hop back to life.

The night before my departure from this new heaven was enchanting. Beatriz wore a sheer white blouse with raised polka dots in its weave over a low-cut silk camisole for dinner. The sensual image and romantic alchemy they inspired together made my breath slower, fainter. She startled me with an “Hola, guapo.” I stuttered my “Hola, bella!” Was it all a flirty gambit? She exuded lust and sweetness elegantly.

The greetings filled the space between us comfortably and flared my curiosity at the unexpected and sexually charged mood the scene provoked in me. Two glasses of an excellent Brunello red wine alleviated my paranoia, but not the intrigue. I felt like a novice charlatan, an amateur Lothario trying to look casually at her. Alas, this apprentice of love was not offered dessert at midnight.

A harmonious percussion of Gucci stiletto sandals on the tile floor woke me up, and the sight of gorgeous legs was one of two gifts I received at the breakfast table. Beatriz shook her head at my cheeky grin and gave me a small golden package wrapped in a tawny iridescent silk ribbon. She whispered: “This is for you to remember this holiday with me, of your search for pieces in the puzzle of your happiness.” I asked for her permission to open it immediately and she nodded. It was a point d’esprit handkerchief; beautiful, made of the same gauze as the blouse she had worn the night before. Her tender parting words reverberated on my mind: “I hope to see you next year.”

I stopped in Toledo to kiss Mother on her forehead on the way back to New York, and left one day later with a few souvenirs for my friends. Mother was becoming translucent in my memory from time and distance, but I was happy again.

After Toledo, I made a stop in Paris to say good-bye to my friends. That made me sad and nostalgic immediately. On to New York.