• Drinking used to help Bella Falk, 46, get through bad dates.
• She decided to quit both booze and dating apps.
• She's happier making the most of what she has rather than worrying about what she doesn't.

When my ex-partner moved out, among his parting words were: "You're amazing. You'll meet someone else in no time."

But as anyone who's braved the world of dating apps will know, meeting someone you really like, who likes you back enough to show up reliably and not ghost you after a couple of months, is soul-crushingly hard. At least, it has been for me.

Getting matches wasn't a problem, but surviving the tedious small talk without dying of boredom or the conversation fizzling out before we'd arranged to meet seemed next to impossible.

But if by some miracle we did make it to an in-person date, what did we do? Of course, we went for a drink.

Relying on a drink or two

Going for a drink was the default first date. It's cheaper than a meal, quick, and low-pressure, and avoids the potential torture of enduring a three-course dinner with someone who turns out to be duller than a six-hour delay at an airport.

I would grab a casual wine after work, and if there was no spark or the guy turned out to be 10 years older than his profile pictures (yes, this happened), I would make my excuses after a glass or two.

Not only was drinking helpful, but it was often expected. While there is talk that the younger generation is less interested in alcohol, many of my peers still see teetotallers as boring and no fun, hardly the impression you want to give when you're just getting to know someone.

First dates are hard. I relied on booze to make them easier. If there was no spark, wine made me chattier and able to fill the awkward silences. If the guy was a bit creepy, it made me brave enough to face the awkward goodbye and leave early.

On the rare occasions when I did meet someone I fancied, having alcohol in my system gave me the courage I needed to flirt, instead of blushing and running away like a nervous teenager.

Ditching dating apps and booze

But as years passed by, the whole routine became a Sisyphean cycle of hope and disappointment. I would wake up with a mild hangover and another story to amuse my coupled-up friends.

I tried coffee dates, but the concept didn't really work in London, where I live. Many people live out of town, so it makes sense to grab a drink at the end of the working day. And I had no desire to do full hair and makeup and drag myself downtown on a Saturday.

So, a year and a half ago, I quit. Not just the booze, but the dating apps too.

Life is better

Searching for "The One" had become a full-time job. Hours of swiping and tedious chitchat, for it to either fizzle out or end in an excruciating evening wishing I was back home watching Netflix in my PJs. It was an emotional roller coaster, especially when I met someone I liked, allowed myself to get my hopes up, and then ended up dumped or ghosted.

I realized it wasn't being single that made me miserable. It was the constant effort of trying not to be single. The apps were taking up so much of my time — I must have spent days of my life chatting to people I never even met.

The number of words I'd typed into Bumble, I could have written a novel — and then at least I'd have had something to show for it all, apart from RSI in my thumbs.

Without the apps and the booze, I'm sleeping better, I'm healthier, and most importantly, my mental health has improved. I haven't cried in over a year (it used to be a fairly regular occurrence — always caused by a man). When I think about downloading the apps again, I feel that sick dread in my stomach, usually only reserved for my triennial smear test.

Now I focus on enjoying life and making the best of what I do have, instead of worrying about what I don't. I'm a travel writer and photographer, so I'm abroad a lot, exploring the world and having incredible experiences. When I'm home, I go out with friends, attend networking events, or pitch for my next trip.

If I do meet someone, it'll be because we've met through shared interests and have already decided we like each other before we go on an actual date. Maybe I'll even agree to dinner.

• I tried Tinder's new AI chatbot to practice my charm. I can't take it seriously.
• Users try to flirt their way to a date, with AI dishing out feedback and ratings.
• Match's new CEO said last month Tinder and Hinge feel too much like "a numbers game."

In a craft store in Lahore, I reached for the same quirky handmade lamp as Isabella, a scientist "with a spark of curiosity."

Sitting in my Singapore office — not on a K-Drama stage, or in Pakistan — I played Tinder's new game to practice my charm.

Called The Game Game, this new in-app feature uses speech-to-speech AI technology to create "over-the-top, meet-cute scenarios," Tinder said in a statement on Tuesday.

Users try to flirt their way to a date, while AI dishes out real-time feedback and rates their game. I used my editor's US phone in a private room so my colleagues didn't overhear me talking to Isabella.

Flirty wins earned me points with labels like "delightful," "charming," and "victory." Rack up enough, and it'll secure you a date with the AI.

I was given about five minutes to flirt in each scenario. And I had 10 scenarios to play with in the free account.

The game is powered by OpenAI's GPT-4o and GPT-4o mini, and Tinder says your awkward pickup lines won't be used to train any AI models. It's only available to iOS users in the US for a limited time.

A spokesperson for Tinder's parent company, Match Group, said the company is using the game "to learn and explore what future rollouts in other markets might look like."

The game comes as Match struggles with lower user numbers. The company's new CEO has said he wants to bring the focus back to users.

"This project gave us a chance to experiment with how AI can make dating a little more fun and a little less intimidating," said Alex Osborne, Match's senior director of product innovation.

Match's stock is down 10.8% in the last year, while rival Bumble is down 61%.

I tried flirting (and failing) with Tinder's AI

My first scenario was labeled "Easy," and I brought my usual self to the scenario.

Isabella started off strong, asking what brought me here. I complimented the lamp and said I liked crafts. I asked her what her favorite item in the store was, and she launched into a monologue about a handwoven carpet.

Without a visual, it was hard to relate. And she sounded robotic.

Hoping to steer flirtier, I asked what else she liked. She listed pottery, then asked if I was into it. I said yes — cue her AI-generated wisdom about the joy of surrounding yourself with things you make with your own hands.

I took my shot: "What do you like making with your hands?" (Cringe.)

Her answer: Custom lab notebooks and DIY molecular models. Hot.

I feigned interest, the conversation fizzled, and I didn't score a date. Tinder handed me some generic flirting tips, like "ask more about her favorite crafts." Thanks, AI wingman.

Next, a shot at romance with Jackson, a photographer at a lively block party. We were manning the grill together — prime flirting conditions, and I dialed it up.

When Jackson suggested a "nice, sweet tea to cool off," I leaned in: "I've never tried that… but I do want someone to cool me off."

"Well, now, a glass of sweet tea is perfect," he said. (Dodge. But Tinder awarded me points.)

So I upped the ante. When he asked about challenges I've faced, I dropped: "Not being able to keep my eyes off you."

His reaction? "Well, now, that sure is kind of you to say." Then he suggested we find a comfy spot to chat.

If a real person said that, they'd either be deeply into me or deeply uncomfortable. But Tinder? It just kept handing out points — until I actually scored a date.

So, the lesson? Be bold, be flirty, and apparently, AI won't call you out for being too much.

Lastly, I stood in line at a food truck in Venice. Paisley, an architect, struck up a conversation with me about culinary adventures.

This time, I was the human equivalent of dry toast.

Paisley kicked things off, raving about a truffle mushroom pasta —"a masterpiece."

Me? "Never tried it."

She asked what cuisine I liked. I hit her with the dullest answer possible: "Chicken."

Paisley chirped: "Versatile and always delicious!" (In real life, this is where I'd get ghosted.)

Still, she pressed on. "Have you tried any Indian or Thai chicken dishes?"

"No."

She tried again. "Do you like exploring new recipes?"

"I don't cook."

At this point, I was sure she'd give up. But nope: "Let's plan a little food adventure! What do you think?"

"…Okay."

No surprise — I didn't score a date. But Paisley's enthusiasm never wavered. No matter how boring I got, she stayed locked in.

Tinder's AI might handle flirty, but it refuses to acknowledge flop energy.

All in all, I couldn't take this game seriously.

Correction: April 2, 2025 — An earlier version of this story misstated the day Tinder announced its new game. It was Tuesday, not Monday.

• Claire Volkman, 39, tried online dating after her marriage ended.
• She was traveling for work and went on dates in cities around the world.
• She met her second husband after a year of dating across multiple apps.

A few months after I left my husband, I downloaded multiple dating apps. It felt like foreign territory, as I'd met my ex-husband in college before dating apps existed — a time when "swiping right on Tinder" held no meaning.

I had lost 40 pounds, which made it difficult to find the right photo to use on my profile, and I had no idea what to write about myself. Should I be coy? Or blunt? Silly or serious? After hours of deliberating, I created my first account on Bumble and started finding matches.

My goals for the year were to travel the world, go on as many dates as possible, and attempt to find my soulmate in between airport delays and missed connections. As a travel writer, I loaded my schedule up with assignments that would take me around the world.

I traveled to over 20 countries that year. The further I went, the harder online dating got. My 20+-hour flights to countries like Myanmar and Australia made the journeys to cities in Colombia and Spain seem short.

But the red-headed Brit I dubbed Prince Harry in Hong Kong, and the Aussie I fell for as we hiked up volcanoes in Bali did help fill temporary voids of loneliness.

I didn't find love abroad

As I traveled from the beaches of Sardinia to the craggy mountains of Patagonia, I found myself swiping, texting, and occasionally questioning my life choices. I created dating app profiles and swiped through candidates on Tinder, Bumble, and Coffee Meets Bagel.

Was I destined to end up with a guy who explained life's meaning over tapas in Madrid or a tour guide in Macedonia who I later found out had a wife and kids at home? I started to wonder if my life was going to play out as one bad date after the next.

After months of swiping and bumbling abroad, online dating paid off, and I matched with someone back in the US who felt different. We spent hours talking virtually. We'd text at 3 a.m. about everything from childhood trauma to which "Friends" character we compared ourselves to.

He was based in Chicago, two hours away from my temporary base in Indiana. The distance didn't bother me. We were falling for each other even though we hadn't met face-to-face.

I suggested a date on a day when I would be in Chicago just long enough for a coffee before catching a flight to China As I took the train from Indiana, we chatted about where to meet and agreed on a bakery.

I got there first, disheveled after schlepping down Michigan Avenue with a suitcase and a backpack, and sat down. I noticed him when he walked in, and even though we only had a few minutes to talk, it felt like we'd known each other for years.

Online dating paid off

We spent the following weeks texting and Facetiming whenever we could. He became a constant in my life when nothing else was. While I struggled with an eating disorder, broken body image, heartbreak, and the rather desperate life of a freelance writer, he was there to offer support and love — crazy time differences and all.

We met again one month later, on a chilly night in October, and it all clicked into place. He looked almost boyish, with a worn baseball cap and hoodie, and I looked at him and realized that this was it.

The adventure I'd been chasing — across continents, through a series of questionable decisions and awkward dates in Asia, Australia, and Iceland — had somehow brought me here, to this small corner of Chicago, to this guy who made me believe that love doesn't need to be complicated and that online dating can help.

So, in the end, after swiping through countless profiles on the dating app Coffee Meets Bagel, I met the love of my life. First online, then in Chicago — not in a foreign country or on a remote mountaintop, but in a corner bakery.

• Claire Volkman got divorced and spent the following year traveling to 20 countries.
• Some of the dates during her trips across Asia, South America, and Australia led to more heartbreak.
• Volkman, now 39, met her second husband on a dating app after she returned to the US.

It was a hot afternoon in Ho Chi Minh City. I was sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, scrolling through Instagram, about to go ham on a piping hot bowl of phở when I got a buzz. A text from my then-husband flashing six words nobody wants to read: "I think we need to talk."

On that September day in 2016, when I realized my marriage was over, I had no time to grieve. I was in Vietnam, about to embark on an eight-day reporting assignment. I called my parents and asked if they could meet me in Charleston after the trip.

My parents and best friend helped me move out of the house I had shared with my husband for almost 10 years. It took two days to box up nine years of memories. With no place to live and no grasp on the person I was anymore, I did the only thing I could think of: I ran.

I traveled to Myanmar, Colombia, and 20 other countries in 12 months. What I thought would be a year of escapism turned into a transformative adventure.

Finding my feet in Myanmar and South America

Two days after I moved out, I was on a flight to Myanmar for a two-week hiking, biking, and rafting trip. Alongside five strangers who quickly felt like family, my journey to finding myself again began. I found solace in the golden glow of Shwedagon Pagoda at sunset. I laughed while sipping cheap beers in small village restaurants during our bike ride from Mandalay to Meiktila.

I was too tired every night to think, dwell, or feel much of anything. Every morning I woke up, I felt a little more like myself.

During the two weeks I spent back home for Thanksgiving, reliving the divorce by having to tell my entire family what happened, I found myself jumping into the online dating scene.

I met one man online, based in the US, and we stayed in touch after I left to travel around South America. We talked for hours on Facetime as I sat in airports awaiting flights.

After a day of trekking through the jungles of Colombia, I would re-read his text messages before bed, getting butterflies every time. After four days of sweltering heat, mosquito bites, and blisters, I felt something I hadn't felt in years: pride.

I stood atop the ancient ruins of Ciudad Perdida, soaked in sweat but glowing with triumph. And the first person I called after a much-needed shower and change out of dirty hiking clothes was him.

Being alone helped me heal

I was too naive to know it wouldn't last. I had such hope that we'd survive the crash into real life, with him juggling his schedule working at a hospital and me traveling from country to country without an address.

Sadly, it didn't work, and our relationship ended as quickly as it started. Following the break-up, I went on a cruise through the Middle East. I felt alone throughout the trip. I'd walk the streets of Muscat — weaving through bustling markets, looking for ways to feel alive again. I rode camels in the desert of Doha, smiling for what felt like the first time in weeks.

On the next leg of my journey, I started to find some of my spunk again. I traveled to Australia and spent days wine tasting in Yarra Valley and bar-hopping all night in Melbourne. I was laughing again. I let myself have a one-night stand with a chef I just met — and enjoyed every second of it.

From there, I hopped from Melbourne to LA to Hong Kong, where I found myself with multiple dinner reservations and not a single person to dine with. To avoid another night alone, I found a match on Bumble. Eager to enjoy a free meal at a 4-star Michelin restaurant in Hong Kong, he joined for another whirlwind date.

He was charming, an expat from England who helped fill the void of being alone. It was the first and only time I "Bumbled abroad." After this, I met an Australian during a trip across Bali and Lombok. At the end of the trip, we were determined to make it work and said our tearful goodbyes. It didn't last.

I realized that I needed to focus on myself. Why was I so scared of being alone? As a writer living paycheck to paycheck without health insurance, I couldn't afford therapy. Instead, I hopped on another plane. This time to Iceland.

Finding my fearlessness in Greenland

On an expedition cruise through Greenland, I was inspired by some of the older writers I met. They weren't just accomplished journalists, either; they were strong, powerful, and single women whose worth was based on their careers and accomplishments.

Their wisdom, coupled with the landscapes of Greenland and Norway, showed me how resilient I could be. I was determined to focus on my goals and my worth outside a relationship.

After that trip, I sold stories to outlets I had always dreamed of writing for and found myself with more back-to-back adventures to finish off the year.

Back in Indiana, I gave it another shot and scrolled through matches on the dating app Coffee Meets Bagel, until one guy caught my eye. The photos were cute: riding a camel in Morocco, drinking tea in Jordan, and adventuring through Japan. I thought one date couldn't hurt, so we met up in Chicago, on my way to China for work.

It was the start of the end for me — the end of singledom.

What I Learned

I learned that heartbreak doesn't just crack you open — it splits you wide enough to let something new and better take root. That year of travel taught me to trust myself, to say yes more, and to embrace the messiness of life.

And now, years later, as I sit beside my husband and our 6-year-old and look back on that whirlwind year, I can't help but smile and yearn a little for the freedom I felt. Sometimes, you have to lose yourself to truly find your way.

Got a personal essay about lessons learned during travel that you want to share? Get in touch with the editor: [email protected].