Outnumbered in Hanoi, Vietnam.
You would think that being in a country where male backpackers seem to far outnumber female everywhere I go would be heaven. But, quite frankly, it’s getting old. You never really know if someone actually likes you for you or if they like that you’re a girl and you’re there.
It didn’t help that on the day I arrived in Hanoi, as Matilda and I chilled out in the common room watching movies, I found out that Gabriel, who I haven’t heard from since Thailand, is in Vietnam, going the opposite direction. And so we probably crossed paths at some point. And so I have to accept that he was just a story.
It didn’t help that the day before I had met someone new that I think I really liked but didn’t have the time to find out. And could only assume that I’d never hear from him again either.
I’m not stupid. I know that the chances of me meeting someone out here is slim. I know that most backpackers just want a fling, just want sex, and just want to move on. That this isn’t a situation that will lead me to find the love of my life.
The more men I meet, and I meet a lot, the more I realize that there are plenty of them out there, that I can move on and find someone new at any turn. That I can test the waters and kiss a boy who isn’t my type or who I know I don’t want to see again. That if I never hear from someone I really liked, it’s OK. I’ll manage. I’ll move on.
Still, it’s hard to meet someone that I really like. Someone I kind of feel I’ve clicked with only to face the fact that I’ll never get a chance to see if it could go anywhere. And while I accept it, that that’s how things work when you’re traveling, I sometimes wonder why. Why is it that it’s OK to have these too quick relationships on the road and just forget about the person? Why is it that I have to believe that things can never work out?
On our first night in Hanoi, after a rousing game of beer bingo that left me a little drunk off of too many shots, everyone left for another bar.
Bars here are odd. At around 11 or so the cops come and kick everyone out. It’s weird because you never really know what’s going on or what to do. And so you wander down the street and are eventually ushered in to the top floor of a place that seems hidden to the world.
I got a drink at the bar that was covered in tin foil and started talking to another American. When I asked if his beard was normal or from travel he asked if it being normal made him more or less attractive. And said if it was less he would know he no longer has a shot with me.
And then an Ozzie tried to kiss me within about two seconds of meeting me, and continued to try to dance with me. And I later let him buy me a drink and some shisha, which was luckily interrupted by him just about passing out and by another boy who tried to save me from him.
And this boy was British and after talking for a short while asked if I knew that the Brits were the best kissers.
And he kissed me. And I asked him to walk me home.
Because I was just getting a little tired.