There was something admirable about being so unfiltered in the revealing of her true thoughts, but also something I've always found an almighty turn-off: smug pessimism. This isn't merely glum glass-half-empty, it's glum glass-half-empty with a fat dollop of arrogant "I am the oracle of all human behaviour".
Indeed, as soon as she told me we wouldn't keep in touch, I believed her, mainly because I no longer had any desire to keep in touch with her. What a shame to be so defeatist because, for me, so many of the people I still regard as my best friends — even if we're spread across the globe — are people who have reciprocated my efforts at maintaining contact. The much-maligned Facebook has made this so much easier too.
Semi-scarred by this defiant non-keep-in-touch traveller, balance was restored to the universe in 2016 when I explored China with half a dozen other Kiwi travel writers. There were four of us who clicked from day one and when early in the trip it was suggested we were getting on so well we might have to start occasionally hanging out back in the real world in New Zealand, one of the group hesitated: "Come on, we say we'll keep in touch now but we all know that once we're home we'll never see each other again!"
This time I wasn't going to be defeated, but more importantly, this time I didn't want to be defeated. "No! I like you, dammit! And he likes you and she likes you and I like him and he likes her and she likes him and I like her and you like us all."
Well, I'm very pleased to say that three years on, the "China Gang" as we're known still catch up over dumplings every few months. Against the odds, we keep in touch.
The Cambodian rat incident
All this talk lately of a rat plague hitting Auckland suburbs like Titirangi has had me reminiscing back to my main go-to rat-focused travel yarn from over the years. I hate rats. It's a bonafide, fearful loathing, only made worse by that fateful night in Cambodia as a young man.
I was urinating in the wee small hours at a Cambodian military camp in an abandoned hill-station — quite the setting — and mid-stream a rat appeared from behind the bowl and plonked itself on my foot.
With a terrified shot of adrenalin and reflexes to make Ronaldo proud, I soccer-kicked the rat off my jandal and hard up against the wall. Somehow I didn't castrate myself as I intuitively zipped-up almost in unison with my soccer kick, before stumbling backwards out the door. Unfortunately, my not-overly masculine yelp woke up most of the military. It's unclear whether the rat survived.
Tim Roxborogh hosts Newstalk ZB's Weekend Collective and blogs at RoxboroghReport.com