What Does Your European Getaway Say About You? This version keeps the meaning while making it more conversational and natural. "Vacation destination" is simplified to "getaway," which is a common

Here’s a more natural and fluent rewrite of your text while keeping the original meaning and tone intact:

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I’m not currently on a yacht living my best Euro summer. Which is funny, because everyone else seems to be—Dua Lipa, Kylie Jenner, Dakota Johnson, Charles Leclerc, even that beauty influencer I once sat next to at a dinner party in Soho. She was dating my friend’s college roommate, and we bonded over Sofia Coppola’s collab with Augustinus Bader, which somehow led to us following each other on Instagram. Two weeks later, they broke up, and we never crossed paths again. But now she’s posting pics on a unicorn float in the Tyrrhenian Sea with some new guy. Good for her.

I won’t bore you with what I’m actually doing this summer (office grind, swatting lanternflies, sweating through existential crises on non-AC subway cars). But every night, back in my NYC apartment, I scroll through it all—the yachts, the St. Tropez villas, the Ibiza beach clubs, the girls who treat Cartier Love bracelets like Claire’s accessories but still beg someone to sublet their Nolita apartment for August.

It’s weird, being stuck in this uncanny vacation limbo. Once you click on one post of Hôtel du Cap or Le Sirenuse, the algorithm floods you with more. Suddenly, a lifestyle only a few can afford starts to feel like the default… and you’re the odd one out. It’s eerie how these digital sirens—beautiful, hypnotic, dangerous—lure you in, just like the myths warned.

But then I shut off my brain, turn on The Summer I Turned Pretty, and lean into being petty instead.

Below, my thoughts on what your European summer says about you. If you’re offended, just remember… your credit limit is probably three times mine.

### St. Tropez
“But babe, I want Shellona. BLOND:ISH is playing,” your girlfriend says as the tender pulls up.
“I told you,” you sigh. “They couldn’t do a 3:30 seating. So we’re going to Cinquante Cinq.”
“What?” She adjusts her Jacquemus mini. “That just sounds like vowels.”
“Club 55.”
“Why didn’t you say that?”
You gesture wildly. “Because it’s French! We’re in France!”
She lowers her Celine sunglasses. “You’re in Ray-Bans and a Brooks Brothers shirt. Everyone knows you’re American.”
“It’s Loro Piana,” you mutter, wounded.

Silence. The tender chugs toward Pampelonne. You glance back at your 80-foot Sunseeker—massive, until the 300-foot Blohm+Voss parked behind it.

(“Girlfriend” is generous.)

### The Dolomites
You’re over party Europe—you’ve evolved. Less cocaine at Gospel, more IV drips at Remedy Place. Now you’re in the Dolomites like some AmEx-wielding, Alo-clad Captain von Trapp, hoping mountain air will undo the hearing damage from Rüfüs Du Sol at Shellona last year.

Back home, you’ll brag about the elevation you conquered. Reality? You never left the Forestis pool.

### Mykonos
You’re under 30, say “yacht daddy” without irony, and live for raving at Alemagou in a crop top and glitter. Over 30? Congrats, your liver’s on borrowed time.

### Patmos
Mykonos? Please. You’re not a degenerate. You care about wine. Art. Culture. You’re reading a 1,000-page James Baldwin biography, for God’s sake. That’s why you chose Patmos—a refined escape from fist-pumping crowds. Here, you sail the Aegean on a kaiki, pondering life’s mysteries while finding yourself.

Too bad the beaches are… rocky. And you didn’t—

—

Let me know if you’d like any further refinements!You didn’t realize you’d have to share your private cabin on the eight-hour ferry from Athens with three strangers—one of whom demolished four bags of Cool Ranch Doritos. That night, sitting at Benetos with the Meltemi wind howling so hard it reveals your bald spot, you find yourself wishing you’d brought Gwyneth Paltrow’s biography instead.

Ibiza
You used to go to Mykonos. But after two shamans and an ayahuasca trip, here you are, ordering chocolate mushroom bonbons with raspberry ganache and picking out the perfect DC10 outfit from Annie’s Ibiza (gold disc mini skirt and matching top—$3,000 total). You considered renting a villa from Le Collectionist ($30,000 a week) in Es Cubells but settled on the Six Senses ($2,700 a night) to “embrace your spirituality” on the island’s quieter north side. Thirty-four minutes into your Mercedes Sprinter ride to Jondal (where dinner for four costs $2,000), you deeply regret this decision. You don’t even like yoga that much.

Back home, when friends in New York/London/Los Angeles/Dubai ask, “How was your summer?” you sigh knowingly. “Ibiza is just so chill and bohemian. Really makes you think about what matters in life.” Then your financial manager texts: you’ve maxed out your third credit card.

“Can I still do Burning Man?” you reply.

Capri
You asked ChatGPT where to have the “perfect Euro summer,” and it said Capri. So you arrive at Caesar Augustus with a suitcase full of Pucci dresses, Hermès Oran sandals, and dreams of a viral TikTok at La Fontelina’s blue-and-white umbrellas.

But the moment you step onto the island—alongside that girl who fell for her psychiatrist—you realize how badly that little AI tricked you. This isn’t the glamorous haven of Sophia Loren, Audrey Hepburn, and Clark Gable, or the mythical sirens’ home from The Odyssey (not that you’ve read it—too long). This is the island where you nearly get trampled by a mob of tourists racing for Gelateria Buonocore.