I spend a very long time sitting on the floor and sifting through bins of glittery baubles, staring hard to decide between one hunk of rock and another.(No boyfriend in the world would be patient enough to sit through this sorting process.) When I put a pile of chosen crystals on the counter, the Indian man shrugs and gives me a great deal.(The same is true for creepy strangers, too, I suppose, but life is all about dualities.) It's a weird time to go to bed, but I'm tired and in control of all of the room's lights, so I call it and starfish in the middle of the king-size bed.Also, I do not shower even though I smell like fish market and sweat, because I personally don't find the smells repulsive, and I'm the only one with the good fortune of being in this feathery bed.
I've hooked up with hot dudes in far corners of the world, and I finished my novel with my feet buried in Balinese sand.
Hotel rooms start with queen-size beds, most organized tours charge a premium for solo travelers, and every damn deal on Travelzoo bases its per-person prices on double occupancy.
Not to mention how nice it is to have a date to every meal, a plus-one to every cultural outing, and someone to help you navigate as Google Maps inexplicably decides that you just airlifted yourself off the freeway and chirps, "rerouting! But something happened when I turned 30: I was single and there was so much of the world I wanted to see, I just said screw it, set aside more discretionary dollars, and began traveling with my own damn self. There's no one at home I terribly miss or need to check in with.
"The rocks are my children, so if I don't want to see them go I ask for much more," he tells me—perhaps a great salesman tactic, but one that made me smile.
"I know you'll treat them well." I head back the first night clutching a bag of twinkly crystals.
He shares the interesting factoid that reclaimed land has narrowed Hong Kong's main waterway, speeding up the rushing river to the point where it grew dangerous for small boats.