Nice was not a place for the poor. And we, my wife Anne and I, were poor. We were backpacking across Europe on a shoestring budget. Nice was a beautiful city, but it was designed for those with money to spend. We spent the morning in the sun drenched courtyard of the youth hostel and plotted our escape to cheaper climates.
As we sat there a man ran up to use with a friendly greeting. We had first met Scott at the hostel in Marseille. Today he was returning from a trip to Monaco. He seemed desperately lonely as he raved to us about how excellent, friendly and spotlessly clean Monaco had been. Of all the people we’d met on our honeymoon, Scott seemed the most ill-suited to the life of a backpacker. Nothing, outside of Monaco, had lived up to his expectations and he complained about every person he’d met. Which was strange, since almost everyone we’d met had been extremely friendly.
The entire purpose of Scott’s trip, as far as we could tell, was to meet women who were away from home for the first time in their lives, free from all taboos and all supervision. He planned to guide these naïve young women into every aspect of their sexuality. He was failing miserably, since his only approach was to tell the women exactly that.