Introduction
by Jennifer L. Leo
Webster's defines "misadventure" as "a mishap; misfortune." But doesn't that sound sterile? True misadventure is when someone who is taking herself too seriously gets schooled. Humbled. Sent to her room and told to "Think about it."
Because of the "adventure" half of the word, people associate misadventures with travel. And right they are. However, there is a big difference between misadventurists and whiners. The latter always think they are having misadventures. The former, well, they are the masters of the pub, the center of the circle, the great storytellers at the well. They know how to add the cheese to the whine and spin their story in such a way that we wind up snorting, crying, and doubling over begging for mercy instead of apologizing for their bum trip.
We've all seen (or been) the kind of tourist who bragged about her upcoming vacation or "business trip," fretted over packing and finding the best bump-me-up-to-first-class outfit, only to wind up on the flight from hell that lost her luggage. Folks, don't mistake this for the official prissy definition of misadventure—no, this is travel. The darker, smellier, rotten side of travel, but still travel just the same. You know why? Because it happens to everybody. And yes, your feet are supposed to hurt. If they didn't, you either didn't play hard enough or you're going home with the scoop on the best walking shoes on the market.
In both Sand in My Bra and Whose Panties Are These? we've tried to go beyond the ordinary been-there-done-that stories and bring you the outrageous. We've collected true women's tales of trips that went south and have had the kind of makeover to take them from groans to gutbusters. Why? Because laughter is, and always will be, the best medicine.
The laughs in this book range from snappy one-liners to pulling for heroines like Susan Lyn McCombs who saves her friend from a preying Italian man in "Blind Faith," or Lynn Santa Lucia who goes all out for a hunky fling in "Miami Spice." Most of us can relate to a partner who pushes us over the edge, but how many have the killer come-backs that Felice Prager does in "Waiting for the Big 'O'" when her new husband just doesn't get it? We would not want to experience the beating that Bridget Kelso gets in "Open Up and Say Om" on a visit to a spiritual healer in Nepal, or share Liz Scott's horror at finding a burrowing bug in her ear in "Entomology and Earplugs." But they sure make good reading.
So, what's with the underwear titles? Sand in My Bra represented the discomfort that trips gone awry can bring, that icky, let-me-throw-aside-all-grace-and-dig-down-into-my-bikini-top-to-get-the-itch-out feeling. But Whose Panties Are These? I thought of this title because it reminded me of my favorite joke that I played on someone else.
I was in Chicago for a book conference with Travelers' Tales. We were staying at the Essex Hotel and were amused by the burned out "Es" on their sign. To prolong the humor I pulled out my sexiest purple lace string bikini and shoved it in my pocket. When editor Sean O'Reilly and I walked into his room, I slipped it into the sheets of his bed. He was checking out the bathroom. When he uncovered the pair, he started laughing. He just couldn't believe what he had found. Sniff check showed that both the undies and the sheets were clean.
It's been eight years. This will be the first time he finds out they were mine. Didn't think my butt was that small, eh, Sean? You'd be surprised what a girl will wear to look good at the right time.