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I told my travel buddy, 'Let's go to a beach town for the weekend.' We drove three hours. The beach was a strip of sand the width of a parking space, squeezed between a parking lot and a restaurant.

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I booked a hotel room with an ocean view.

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My travel buddy said, 'I want to take a cooking class.' We signed up. The kitchen was the size of a closet. There were eight of us. The instructor said, 'Today we make pasta.' I looked at the counter. There was one pot. One. For eight people.

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We went on a trip and forgot our toothbrushes at home.

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I booked a 'rustic cabin' for our weekend getaway. The listing said 'peaceful, surrounded by nature.' I arrived and the nearest neighbor was a raccoon that had been evicted from a nearby trash can.

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I booked a 'boutique hotel with a rooftop terrace.' The hotel was a converted laundromat. The 'boutique' was a single shelf with three mugs. The 'rooftop terrace' was a fire escape with one plastic chair.

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I tried to book a flight to a remote island, but the travel agent said it was impossible.