I Swear He Seemed Normal

It was my first date in Bali with a man I had met on a night out earlier that week. His name was Harry, and he seemed normal. I arrived at the restaurant and waited, watching the minutes tick by. Ten minutes later, he finally showed up. Late. In skinny jeans. And flip-flops. That’s already three strikes in my book, and I should’ve taken the hint from the universe. But hey, I was still learning the fine art of dating etiquette in Bali, so I figured I’d give him the benefit of the doubt. We ordered a drink, and the conversation flowed... sort of.

In case you're wondering, the unofficial dress code for Bali dates goes something like this: skinny jeans? A hard pass. Flip-flops? Totally fine, but proceed with caution. And "Bali time"—you know, that local phenomenon where 30 minutes late is considered punctual—well, that's a maybe.

After finishing our drinks, he suggested we head to a club in Seminyak. Ew, I thought. But it was my first week in Bali, and I figured, why not, it's not like I have something better to do. Turns out, anything would have been better, because what he didn’t tell me was that we weren’t actually going into the club, but rather to the restaurant under the club, where, instead of sharing a meal like two normal humans, he would be ordering food from the restaurant while I sat there and watched him be rude to the waitstaff. Classic.

We didn’t even make it into the club. He paid and I asked him to walk me outside where I politely told him I appreciated the evening, but I wasn’t feeling any real connection. I was too nice. Time of death: 9:15 PM.

Now, despite the fact that he had driven us both to the venue, Harry bolted. No goodbye, no acknowledgment—just dust in his wake. I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself. I had clearly made the right choice.

Feeling just the right amount of tipsy and thoroughly entertained by my newfound freedom, I called a bike to take me home. But as I cruised along the roads, something caught my eye: Harry, of course. On his bike, riding right alongside mine, yelling and gesturing wildly about something—what he was moaning about, I don’t know, I wasn’t really listening; my headphones were in and my music was on full blast, as any self-respecting person would do to avoid engaging with a man who couldn’t even manage basic decency at dinner.

That is, until my driver tapped my knee, pointed to Harry, and gave me a thumbs-up. "Friend?" he asked, clearly enjoying the show. Oh, no.

Before I could say or do anything, another bike coming from the opposite direction clipped Harry's bike, and all three of us (my driver, Harry and myself) watched as his sideview mirror dropped to the floor. Harry was as embarrassed as he was lucky, and I watched his face turn bright red before speeding off into the distance.

It took me another couple weeks before I could get back out there.