Cara, 57 - Cape Town

Most people buy a new car or maybe a timeshare in the “second phase” of life. Me? I bought a boutique hotel on a hill in Vietnam with my brother. (Because why not complicate family dynamics with a business venture?) To keep things extra spicy, we added a school too — because changing lives seemed like a better midlife hobby than golf.
When I’m not managing this little empire, you’ll usually find me chasing stamps in my passport. I zip around Italy on my motorino pretending I’m in a Fellini film, escape to Bali for peace (and a cocktail or two), and I’m powerless against Vietnam’s cuisine (pho really is a love language). Cape Town is my forever home, though I split my time about 30/70 — 30% home comforts, 70% “let’s see where this flight goes.”
I’m fiercely independent, but even intrepid travellers get tired of eating airport noodles alone. I miss having a partner-in-crime to turn flight delays into comedy, a co-pilot for the adventures, and — let’s be honest — some arms to collapse into at the end of it all.
So if you can pack light, laugh loud, and don’t mind a little turbulence, we might just be the perfect layover.

A guy (60 - 79)

My ideal match? Think less Prince Charming on a white horse and more man with a valid passport who knows how to use a power drill.
He’s got zero jealous bones in his body (seriously, if jealousy is your cardio — keep jogging). He’s comfortable in his own skin — preferably with clothes on, but hey, I’m flexible. He’s spontaneous enough to say yes to a surprise weekend in Bali, but not so spontaneous that we end up in matching tattoos we’ll regret by Tuesday.
He’s kind when no one’s looking (because that’s the only kindness that counts), has a point of view but knows how to deliver it without a TED Talk, and can MacGyver his way through a DIY project without me calling emergency services.
Bonus points if you can dance like no one’s watching (because someone always is — usually me with a camera), and if you’re a professional hand-holder. Not just in public, not just in bed — but through airport security queues, dodgy street food hangovers, and those “where did I put my passport?” moments.
If you can laugh through turbulence, make IKEA furniture your b*tch, and don’t mind me stealing fries off your plate — congratulations, sir, the boarding gate is now open.

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