Free Around the World in 80 Dates by Jennifer Cox

and I were no exception. It was as bright as the afternoon and there was a friendly party atmosphere, the warm air heavy with possibilities. As the night porter of my hotel opened the taxi door for Ann-Charlotte to climb in, she gave me a big hug and wished me luck for the days ahead.
    â€œI think maybe it is a crazy thing that you are doing, Jennifer,” she said intensely. “But you are brave enough to do what the rest of us can only dream of. Go date the world for every woman,” she declared flamboyantly, collapsing into the back of the taxi and giving me a wobbly salute. I watched the taxi drive off. Just as it rounded the corner, I heard her shriek: “And don’t forget—for your date with Anders, you must take a bikini.”
Date #5: Anders—Gothenburg, Sweden
    When I woke at 11 a.m. that morning, I was immediately confronted by two facts: Firstly, I had the kind of hangover that made my eyes look like a hamster’s cheeks stuffed with peanuts, and secondly, in six hours I had to wear a bikini.
    I’d brought one with me. Before I’d left London, Ann-Charlotte had repeatedly impressed upon me that it would be needed, but I’d managed to block it out until she’d reminded me last night that I was actually going to have to wear it.
    All she’d told me about tonight was that her friend Anders would pick me up from my hotel at 5 p.m.; I should pack a bikini and be ready for a boat trip.
    As I have already explained, I will never be ready for a boat trip.
    My crushing hangover made it impossible to focus on anything, but—as much as I was capable—I was worried. People who don’t suffer from seasickness refuse to accept that the condition is genuine. Instead, they see it as a kind of laziness that can be cured with a little effort and a better attitude. I was forever being told by sailing friends: “Oh, if you sit up on deck / eat a cookie / keep your eye on the horizon…you’ll be fine.” Did they not think I had tried all these things? I mean, it wasn’t like I was some kind of aquatic bulimic and wanted to be sick.
    Mariah and Whitney don’t do stairs; I’d told everyone who had anything to do with my journey, I don’t do boats. My Dates seemed to think they knew better, though, stubbornly championing the inherent romance of man woos woman on the open seas. Well, fair enough, maybe they’d see the inherent romance in man watches woman throw up on the open seas.
    However, my concerns about being sick were nothing compared to my feelings about wearing a bikini in front of a complete stranger. I had great thighs, and I don’t mean that in a good way.
    When I first heard about the whole bikini nightmare, I went straight to the gym and asked my Swedish trainer, Emma, for a high-impact, fast-result program. As I sweated and shook through a series of lunges and lifts, I explained the reason for the emergency. Emma immediately wrinkled her perfect nose, pursed her pink, cupid-bow lips, and declared, “Oh, but Swedish men are so boring.”
    â€œReally?” I gasped, turning to look at her, my lunge wobbling off to the side. “I thought they were all tall and utterly gorgeous.”
    â€œExactly,” she replied with the judgment of Solomon. “They have never needed to develop a personality. You should try Australians,” she added helpfully.
    Could this be true? Had the Swedish gene pool developed a race so beautiful, evolution had deemed personalities as superfluous as the male nipple? Or did we all just have a “familiarity breeds contempt” attitude toward our homeboys?
    Pushing all futile thoughts to one side, I booted up my laptop: I had work to do. I needed at least three hours a day, every day, to keep on top of the practicalities and logistics of my trip, as well as taking care of the minutiae of “normal life.” Although I had started my traveling and dating, there was still so