What Your Euro Summer Destination Says About You

A definitive and mostly unfair guide.

You are here, probably. Photo by Nick Page on Unsplash

Copenhagen

You are riding a rented bike through the city, though you ran into a parked car twenty minutes ago, but if you’re being honest, that fifteen-dollar cardamom bun you were eating with one hand was not helping your steering. At ten at night, it is still light out, and you have missed your dinner reservation by two hours because no one mentioned how late the sun sets. Ultimately you’re fine with this though since you are not sure whether you had to forage for the lichen yourself or not.

Sicily

Dua Lipa got married here earlier this summer, and the island didn’t seem to mind, so your friend is getting married here too. The twelve-page itinerary she provided is on the passenger seat of the Fiat you rented, and the welcome bag includes limoncello and a hand-drawn map of the old town. A man on a Vespa speeds past you on a blind curve carrying a child and two grocery bags. Two hours later, the hand-drawn map has not worked for you, and now you are being honked at on a one-way street and are considering opening the limoncello rather than trying to reverse.

Albania

You are discovering it this year, along with twelve million other people who saw the same TikTok and two others who “discovered it from a friend’s yacht." Your drone is charged, and your caption “why is nobody talking about thisss” is already written, but now you are debating if the content is the beaches or the island. The beaches themselves are stunning, as are the concrete bunkers on every hillside, which you will describe to friends back home as “random.” You ordered the homemade raki because it looked like white Gatorade, and now you know that it is not.

Barcelona

You are here for the architecture, by which you mean the Sagrada Familia, which was finally topped off after one hundred and forty-four years in time for the cool Pope. You also wanted to hit the beach, and the only free space was wedged between two families who appear to be hosting separate birthday parties. Afraid to not remember where your towel is, you don’t even swim. That night you head to a tapas bar where you are the only one eating patatas bravas at seven p.m. because dinner does not start here until ten. On the walk home, a local empties a water gun into your face.

Budapest

Hungary got a new hot prime minister, which happened to be the same week you booked your flights. It is a hundred degrees out, and yet you are sitting in a thermal bath next to a man playing chess in a Speedo that predates the European Union. Last night you went to a ruin bar with a dentist’s chair for a barstool and a chandelier made of bicycle wheels.

London

London isn’t in Europe. It left, remember?

Montenegro

You are ahead of the curve, and you know this because you have told everyone. Montenegro is the new Croatia, which was the new Greece, which was the new Italy, which is still Italy but now charges admission to the Trevi fountain. You have a beach mostly to yourself and have found a restaurant other tourists haven’t, according to you, although it has four thousand reviews and a laminated English menu. If you have some time later, you will try to find a local who can actually tell you how to get to Casino Royale.

Ibiza

You’re yelling at the person next to you that you saw DJ Grëtzl at a warehouse in Berlin, but that this is next level. A bottle of water costs thirty euros, so you have instead bought two pills called BamBams for fifty euros that look like Flintstones vitamins from a man in the bathroom who accepted Venmo. You are shirtless and so is every other man here, and you are all built the same way, which is either very well or not at all. Tomorrow you will do a sound bath on a cliff and post something about wellness.

Sardinia

You are eating pecorino in a mountain village where you stopped hiking after a man who is a hundred and four walked past you carrying firewood. You’re here for the longevity, so you’re drinking cannonau straight from the bottle. It’s the antioxidants, you tell yourself, though it’s also because you offended the waiter by saying you couldn’t eat the pane carasau due to a gluten allergy. You asked an old man his secret, and he told you to mind your own business, which may in fact be it. You are going to live forever, or at least long enough for next summer. 👙

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