My name is Lucinda and I am a hoarder of remote places in the world.
It’s my secret.
Why, you ask?
Alan and I are social people – givers. We like to share, and help, come to the aid of travelers. We think we know a thing or two about getting out and about and we’ll go way out of our way to suggest, research and help plan others’ trips. Sometimes I think Alan would go so far as to pack others’ suitcases for them if I didn’t step in and give him a good resounding, earthbound shake. He’s one of those that stops to help tourists holding maps, looking up at the sky with skrewed up eyes, as if trying to tell which was is north by the direction of the sun. He’ll have them round to dinner that night, if I’d let him.
But I have muzzled him on helping others to find our secret spots. Our happy places. Our g-spots. We have so few. And when the baby’s finally gone down for the night, and the puppy is not pawing us and dropping her gooey, squeaky duck into our laps, we love to dream out loud about returning to these little nuggets of off-the-beaten-track goodness.
I once caught Alan directing his old twentysomething, drinkalot, work mates to one of our gems. I nearly died when I heard they’d booked a bungalow on our deserted beach and had a merry old time. I nearly divorced him.
So when Lonely Planet came out with their “Best Destinations, Journeys & Experiences for 2011“, listing the Gilli Islands in Indonesia, you can imagine how bitter that morning coffee tasted.
Because Gilli Air is one of those rare places in the world I just have to see again. Cabo, you can have. Take Bali away from me anyday. I call Bhutan “Nhotan”. Khatmandu was not my cup of yak tea. Athens is for the birds. I did not get hit by the Spanish bus.
I’m a travel snob and Gilli Air is my Happy Place. Damn you, Lonely Planet!
