How Hinge Dates turned into Exchange Rates

Two Boys, Two Cities, One Very Expensive Character Development Arc

I’ll preface this article by assuring you I’m not out of my mind; I’m just a girl who’s very skilled at rationalising her delusion.

God forbid a woman have a little optimism.

But yes, you heard me right: Europe did, in fact, get an invite to my Hinge dates. While to some, these spontaneous trips may look irrational, like I accidentally mixed up data roaming with date roaming, to me, they helped me connect with a version of myself I’ve always wanted to know.

At that point, choosing what to do after university felt like staring at a Ryanair departures board after too many Aperol Spritzes: too many options, none entirely sensible, and I was convinced a spontaneous flight would solve everything.

It didn’t. But maybe it was a good start.

I thought chasing a man across the globe would be romantic. Following a boy to Rome. Following a musician to Paris. But when I finally caught up, I found myself wondering: why stop now? Why not run straight past the finish line and see what else is out there?

For years, the man was the prize. The destination. The finish line. But after running the 5K, I realised I was capable of a marathon. And suddenly, the finish line didn’t look like a boyfriend at all. It looked like freedom.

So, I think it’s time I provided a little more context. Technically, the first Hinge date, let’s call him Romeo, never officially happened. We booked to go to Rome together, and he cancelled a few nights before. If only my flights had been as refundable as he seemed to think I was.

Thankfully, I had the best last-minute replacement: my mum.

I ate cannolis without wondering if I’d eaten too much, devoured pasta without a second thought about bloating, and—bonus—saved myself hours of mansplaining at every attraction, where somehow every landmark had the potential to turn into a guided tour I definitely didn’t remember booking.

In hindsight, swapping Romeo for my mum may have been the upgrade of the century.

Now, the Paris situation is a slightly touchier subject, as this experience hurt me the most, but also taught me the most. Let’s call this boy Snare (he was a drummer), and boy, did I fall into this man’s trap.

What made it worse is that he had practically love-bombed me for three weeks. I knew his extended family, bandmates, and friends, and I genuinely loved them all. It was giving fairytale energy. Until it wasn’t. Until it slowly turned into a nightmare with better lighting.

The worst part is this boy didn’t just say he cared. He performed it. With actions, with words, with full conviction. I genuinely thought I’d hit the jackpot. That was until he invited me to Paris, and I actually said yes. I don’t think he was banking on that, despite the begging and guilt-tripping, as it was his first gig with his new band.

On my way to the airport, I texted him like normal, but noticed delayed responses and a slight tone shift when I mentioned our Paris plans. Take this as a warning, ladies: trust your gut.

I arrived, and he walked to the station with me, keeping a noticeable distance between us. Mind you, this was the same man who had joked about baby-trapping me a few days earlier and our hypothetical destination wedding.

God, men deserve Oscars. That switch-up was nomination-worthy.

I stayed calm at the first sign of turbulence and decided to wait until we got back to the apartment to bring it up.

Ladies, I want you to guess what happened when I brought it up. Any guesses?

I was gaslit. Shock horror.

He told me I was overthinking, that nothing was wrong, and somehow managed to make me feel like I’d ruined the whole experience by being “insecure.”

That was the last time I doubted feminine intuition.

I ignored red flags like low battery mode, obvious, urgent, and still somehow not enough to make me act. I compromised my feelings and apologised. Yes, I want to scream at myself, too.

We went to his gig, and I supported and played full-on due diligence situationship, but I noticed his continued distance, though I convinced myself I had caused it with my pre-gig questioning.

We headed home shortly after the gig and got into bed. To my surprise, he was very much in the mood. Being the love-stricken, slightly delusional girl I was, I gave him a part of myself, thinking it would solidify our connection and that any doubts he had about me would simply evaporate like steam on a mirror.

I was, in fact, incorrect. And yes, I’m laughing at myself while writing this.

The next day, I had a little pep in my step, convinced our intimate night meant my worries were just that.

Cut to a romantic lunch by a romantic monument in Montmartre.
“I think we should slow this down and follow the three-month rule, as that’s when you truly see someone’s colours.”

I wanted the ground to swallow me up. I wanted to throttle him over the table and perform a hex I’d seen on TikTok, but instead I just sat there, smiling like I understood anything at all.

Validated. Confirmed. Satiated with the truth. This man was avoidant. I’d never encountered one before. I didn’t have the field guide for this species, but it turns out I was trying to pet a wild rabbit that had absolutely no intention of being domesticated.

I avoided him for the rest of the trip, and he kindly moved into a different room, as if we were having a very polite emotional separation.

I put my little black dress on and explored the streets of Paris alone, and you know what? I had the best time of my life. The sexy French men and daily pain au chocolat helped… a lot.

Men won’t change, but your scenery can.