13
AWOL.COM/Alice Edwards’ Travel Blog: Living My Dream and Feeling Very #Blessed
17 May – 5.17 p.m.
Good evening, dream chasers,
Well, here it is. After four long weeks, tomorrow evening I will depart my new home, here in the US. I shall be heading onwards and upwards to Thailand, even though I don’t think Thailand is technically upwards according to my globe.
I am happy to say my last few days here have been wondrous and magical. My friend Patrick and I travelled to Palm Springs, where we met very many deep people and had many fun times. Transparency is key with blogging, so I must admit to you, dear followers, that we didn’t quite get round to horse riding or playing tennis though. We nearly played golf at one point, but that was sort of an accident whenwe got trapped on a golf course after hours. Instead of trying to play sport, we decided to focus on meeting and connecting with other people, and so tonight, for our final evening, we are hitting up a very exclusive club to meet talented and inteligont people.
GoodbyeLA, farewell,sayonara,adios,hola, so long.
Adieu,
Alice x
#FinalNightOnTheTown #PalmSpringsJoy #AccidentalGolfing#TravelBlogger #GoneAWOL#AliceEdwardsBlog #BloggerLife #Blessed #Brave #DreamChaser
5 Comments · 14AWOLs · 53 Super Likes
COMMENTS:
Karen Gill
|It will be great for you to meetlike-minded intoligent people
Mark Edwards
|Text me when you’ve landed safely. I do care a little bit.
Noah Deer
|Can’t believe you’re leaving already!Seems like you just got here :/
Isabelle Moore
|Byeeeeeeee!
Eva Slate
|Have a fab final evening in America!
‘Over here, babe! Babe!’ Patrick is waving at me from across the room, trying to get my attention. ‘BABE,’ he shouts this time, grinning from ear to ear. I clear my throat, my face red as I slide off my bar stool. I slowly make my way over, clutchingmy undrinkable whiskey sour. I made the mistake of trying to flirt with the sexy bartender by telling him to ‘surprise me’ with a drink of his choosing. And then I didn’t want to seem uncool by spitting the disgustingforty-five dollar cocktail in his face. Even though he deserved it.
‘BABBBBBBBBBE,’ Patrick yells, even louder this time, even though I am fucking coming.
Patrick has takento calling me ‘babe’ because I accidentally said it the other day when I was drunk, and he is now fully leaning into the joke. It’s one of those nicknames I never used to say, and then I said a few times with Evaironically– but then my brain forgot it was ironic and started saying it all the time and at inappropriate moments: on the phone; at work; to the postman.
Either way, it’s embarrassing,and especially so here in this venue. ‘Shut up,’ I hiss, reaching over to swat at him while simultaneously checking over my shoulder to see if any of the suave, understated clientele around us are taking any notice of this oaf. Luckily it is way too dark in here for anyone to be aware of anything. TheUSpresident could be getting a blowie in the booth next to us and I wouldn’t be able to see.Thankfully.
This is maybe the fanciest place I’ve ever been in my life. And you know it’s fancy, because from the outside, you wouldn’t even know it’s a bar. There is no name or sign or bouncers, just a random door built into a wall. We needed a password to get in, and you just know everyone in here is big time because no one’s really talking, they’re justexisting. They are rich shapes inthe darkness.
It’s wonderful.
I’m pretty sure Patrick had to pull some major strings to get us on the guest list for this place, and I know it’s because he’s trying to cheer me up.
I’ve had a nice few days in Palm Springs, but I also know I’ve been a little ... distracted. I’ve been blue about what happened with Dom and I’m all too aware that this part of my trip is coming to anend. Plus, I’ve been dwelling a little bit on the awkwardness with Eva the other day. We’ve exchanged a few messages since our Skype chat, and we’re both pretending all is normal, but there’s an edge to it. And I don’t know how to feel. Eight years of living together and we’ve never had a cross word. Now, this.
