If I had a stamp in my passport for every D.C. embassy I’ve visited through my time as a scene reporter, I’m pretty sure I’d be on par with those first-class business travellers on their fourth passport book.

Technically, I’ve stepped foot in more than half a dozen countries while physically remaining within a five-mile circle in the heart of Washington, D.C. From charity auctions at the Swedish Embassy to fundraisers for Iranian girls’ education at the British ambassador’s residence (Talk about powerful cross-cultural politics), I’ve been just about everywhere.

Unlike Rihanna, though, my “I’ve been everywhere, (man)” does not end with “searching for someone.”

I don’t bring this up to everyone I meet, but I was hoping it would be clear from my general attitude. Apparently not.

Enter: Francois. (No, not his real name.)

I had just arrived at the French Embassy in Georgetown, ready to embrace my nonexistent French side to celebrate Bastille Day. Vive le France, right?

The event suffered from severe identity issues. From the Spanish salsa band, to the mixed drinks heavy on imported Russian vodka, to the questionably costume-clad guests, I couldn’t help but find myself obviously confused at the center of it all.

Mistake number one: I appeared vulnerable and approachable.

Add my loud pink pants and cheetah print heels (I promise, that combination looks a lot better than it sounds) to the mix, and I screamed “TALK TO ME.”

I didn’t even see Francois coming, but before I knew it, out of the mass of sweaty, dancing people, appeared this 50-year-old man.

I hate to be rude, so I indulged Francois in a chat. The conversation ran along the lines of the recentBuzzfeed list “25 Things ‘D.C.’ People Say but Don’t Really Mean.

Then Francois broke out the big questions: “Can I get you a drink? What are you doing after this?”

Me: “Yeahh, um, gotta go.”

Surely not my finest exit. I vowed that the next time I found myself in such a bind, I would remove myself in a more graceful manner.

The opportunity arose a few weeks later at a far from glamorous affair. I hate to say it, but I found myself at a mixer sponsored by the dating app Hinge. The crowd wasn’t as hopeless as you would imagine, probably because the event took place at a popular U Street bar and a majority of the guests didn’t know the event was going on — deceptive marketing at its finest.

Regardless, I soon found myself scuttling through the venue, in search of a particular VIP I needed a picture of, when out of the corner of my eye I saw a lanky, boy-ish man, wearing a neon ’80s-stylewindbreaker, approach. I’ll call him Boris.

Boris arrived with opening line in tow: “I’ve passed you four times already, and you’ve been the only person to smile at me all night.”

If that doesn’t melt your heart, then I don’t know what does. Naturally, I gave into conversation with Boris, and I must give it to him, he really tried. He put serious effort into learning my name and even more rigorous passion into trying to get my number and setting up a “real date.”

A girl knows when to take her leave however, and this time I was ready with something better than a“Gotta go!”

“Why don’t I find you at the next Hinge mixer, and we’ll talk then?”

Ah, sweet rejection. He barely bought it.

Who knew that the childhood white van speculation rules apply into adulthood — only now the white van is parked in the glitzy embassy’s parking lot.

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