I politely declined the offer to rack cocaine off the hostel toilet with a strange drug lord I just met on Tinder. He insisted I participate though, reassuring me of its welfare by blantantly confessing he’d had two lines in the bathroom when I went to get us a drink earlier at the bar.
Here I was just two wines deep and old mate druggy here was ready to shuffle for three days. Don’t get me wrong, Tinder has served me well over the years – particularly when travelling through new places. Often dates are more than willing to chauffer you around their city providing a much more economical service than the traditional tour guide. If everything goes well, your payment can be made in a universal currency that, nine times out of ten, has no transaction fees (unless you contract chlamydia).
Cocaine or no cocaine though, this one was a dud. Our conversation was confined to derelict slang with the intermittent use of ‘fuckin aye’ – always accompanied by a grin feat. grills even Lil Wayne would be proud of. Meanwhile, I’ve visualised my (our) entire future with the sexy boy behind the bar. Three kids and the lot.
A New Yorker comes and plants himself on the seat between Tinderfella and I and offers us a joint. I’ve never been so thankful for an American ego – a blessing in disguise. Well, almost. It’s my last night in Stockholm and I’m sitting on a curb downtown with the Swedish Mafia, listening to some tripper talk about ladyboys and the acid in Berlin. I thought Tinder could really do with some more filters.