People We Meet on Vacation Free PDF, Epub, Mobi By Emily Henry Book

POPPY,” SWAPNA SAYS from the head of the dull gray conference table.

“What have you got?”

For the benevolent ruler of the Rest + Relaxation empire, Swapna

Bakshi-Highsmith could not possibly exude any less of our fine magazine’s

two core values.

The last time Swapna rested was probably three years ago, when she

was eight and a half months pregnant and on doctor-mandated bed rest.

Even then, she spent the whole time video-chatting with the office, her

laptop balanced on her belly, so I don’t think there was a ton of relaxation

involved. Everything about her is sharp and pointed and smart, from her

slicked-back high-fashion bob to her studded Alexander Wang pumps.

Her winged eyeliner could slice through an aluminum can, and her

emerald eyes could crush it afterward. In this moment, both are pointed

squarely at me. “Poppy? Hello?”

I blink out of my daze and skootch forward in my chair, clearing my

throat. This has been happening to me a lot lately. When you have a job

where you’re only required to come into the office once a week, it’s not

ideal to zone out like a kid in algebra for fifty percent of that time, even less

so to do it in front of your equal parts terrifying and inspiring boss.

I study the notepad in front of me. I used to come to the Friday meetings

with dozens of excitedly scribbled pitches. Ideas for stories about

unfamiliar festivals in other countries, locally famous restaurants with

colloquial deep-fried desserts, natural phenomena on particular beaches in

South America, up-and-coming vineyards in New Zealand—or new trends

among the thrill-seeking set and modes of deep relaxation for the spa

crowd.

I used to write these notes in a kind of panic, like every experience I

hoped to someday have was a living thing growing in my body, stretching

branches out to push on my insides, demanding to break out of me. I’d

spend three days before pitch meetings in something of a sweaty Google

trance, scrolling through image after image of places I’d never been, a

feeling something like hunger growling in my gut.

Today, however, I spent ten minutes writing down the names of

countries.

Countries, not even cities.

Swapna is looking at me, waiting for me to pitch my next big summer

feature for next year, and I’m staring at the word Brazil.

Brazil is the fifth-largest country in the world. Brazil is 5.6 percent of

the earth’s mass. You cannot write a short, snappy piece about vacationing

in Brazil. You have to at least choose a specific region.

I flip the page in my notebook, pretending to study the next one. It’s

blank. When my coworker Garrett leans toward me as if to read over my

shoulder, I snap it closed. “St. Petersburg,” I say.

Swapna arches an eyebrow, paces along the head of the table. “We did

St. Petersburg in our summer issue three years ago. The White Nights

celebration, remember?”

“Amsterdam?” Garrett throws out next to me.

“Amsterdam’s a spring city,” Swapna says, vaguely annoyed. “You’re

not going to feature Amsterdam and not include the tulips.”

I once heard she’s been to upwards of seventy-five countries and many

of those twice.

She pauses, holding her phone in one hand and tapping it against her

other palm as she thinks. “Besides, Amsterdam is so . . . trendy.”

It is Swapna’s closely held belief that to be on trend is to be already late

to that trend. If she senses the zeitgeist warming to the idea of Toruń,

Poland, then Toruń’s off the docket for the next ten years. There’s a literal

list pushpinned into a wall by the cubicles (Toruń is not on this list) of

Places R+R Will Not Cover. Each entry is in her handwriting and dated, and

there’s something of an underground betting pool on when a city will be

freed from the List. There’s never so much quiet excitement in the office as

those mornings when Swapna marches in, designer laptop bag on her arm,

and strides up to the List with a pen already out, ready to cross off one of

these banned cities.