Jessie and I briefly met when I was living in Ecuador and she was there to study. Six months later, she was back at Quito airport clutching the ticket I had bought her. But the blue-eyed blonde I clumsily embraced didn't closely resemble the angelic image imprinted in my mind's eye. Perhaps unsurprising, as our romance had lived off emails and crackling phone calls. Her long flight from Oregon explained the puffy eyes, if not the extra ballast she now carried about her waist. But surely her real beauty had been more than skin deep, however much more skin there now was. I had two weeks to find it...

So I made breakfast the next day with a spring in my step. The night before, I had ignored the 'I have a problem with commitment' comment she made entering my newly scrubbed flat - much as she ignored the sparkling Christmas tree I had set by the door. She had little money so I had filled the fridge with exotic local produce with which to deal with the yawning gaps in her stomach and wallet. But when we went to her favourite, expensive, American steakhouse that night, it was the waiter who stole her attention and telephone number. I ruminated on how large a tip to supplement the pricey bill.

We soon realised we had nothing in common. Her impressive powers of consumption needed underwriting too. One day though, she used her own money to buy a Che Guevara badge before asking me: 'Who's he? He's pretty.' I was too depressed to laugh.

She made many new friends, one, a 'totally cool DJ', was kind enough to put her up whenever she couldn't get home. Strange men smiled slyly in the street. It was a long fortnight, which I saw out with masochistic fatalism. Shortly before her final exit, she intercepted a text on my mobile that said: 'Chin up mate - only 36 hours more.' It was the only time we empathised.

Six months earlier, I had taken her to the airport with a heavy heart and moist eyes. I didn't understand why three other forlorn and unconnected men had been waiting in the shadows by her hotel at four in the morning. But only one of us was dumb enough to stump up for a plane ticket to bring her back. Let alone edit her university essays. And remain faithful in the face of sundry Latin lovelies.

· Have you had a crap holiday? If so, write in and tell us about it. The writers of stories we publish will receive a copy of the Idler Book of Crap Holidays. Email crap.holidays@observer.co.uk