Travelling compadres

Exotic foreign destinations has always been something of an irresistible fascination for me. Since the day I could climb up on the stool to twirl my grandfather's faded globe, I've always dreamt of travelling. After several months of being homebound, I start feeling that near overpowering, familiar itch in my shoes - a feeling that becomes worse when I see others return from distant lands with that dreamy look in their faces and various doodads in their bags. The Piña Colada song starts playing in my head and I start dreaming of my next escape.

So when someone asks me to join a trip abroad, I'm always one of the first to agree - and with my bags ( and my ever-ready passport insitu ) readily packed too. Then after waving goodbye to my friend, I realized what Graceless Grace actually meant was a trip. With her. Together and alone. In a darkened chalet in romantic tropical Bali.

WTF. Although I assume she hasn't planned an unforeseen ambush from a trio of drunken bridesmaids and a hastily bribed pastor for a gunshot wedding, you can imagine my consternation. Lovely singletons are asking me out and yet I find myself in a quandary. Seriously, why don't I get irresistible invitations for backpacking trips from single, eligible gay men?

Despite my admittedly hideous homely features and my innate inability to walk away from a bargain ( believe me when I say I shop ), I'm a relatively dependable, resourceful traveller with sadly limited funds but an irresistible thirst for adventure and a fabulous sense of humour ( or so I'm reliably told! ). And although I might develop a heady lustfulness for my travelling companion from a tad too many sangrias, a relatively firm no should be enough to save any assumed innocents from untoward molestation.

Surely if it was Charming Calvin, I would have agreed without any reconsideration since it's obvious that both of us need a break - although I admit he sorely needs to practice some financial frugality especially if he has any serious plans of purchasing that dream condo of his! :) Surely if it was Big Bicep Barry offering a sun-soaked, clothing-optional weekend at a beach paradise, I wouldn't have had second thoughts - although I would have vehemently refused any cloying attempts to make me dive for hours searching for that perfect slug / fish / coral.

So, next on my list is Morocco. Italy. Or perhaps Spain. It's obvious enough that I haven't fully made up my mind but any takers? Six-packs and a tendency to lose clothing would be a plus.