I'm tired of paying for compliments

Tourist traps love the vain.

It’s day three in Portugal, and I feel like I’m floating.

I don’t know if it’s the high of being on holiday, or the freedom that comes with being a tourist without a reputation to uphold, but I’m way more at ease. I’ve been saying yes to everything without as much as a second thought.

On my first day, right after I checked into my accommodation, I went for a sunset walk by the river to reacquaint myself with the views that had drawn me to the city in the first place.

During my stroll, a man with frazzled hair approached me. Holding a bulky camera, he told me he was a photographer.

I thought I was about to get trafficked. But before I could open my mouth or blink the “help” Morse code to passersby, he whipped out his phone and showed me some proof of photos he took. After regulating both my breathing and blinking (and making a mental note to work on my overly active fight-or-flight response), I took a closer look at his work.

It was nothing special, honestly. The pictures were quite bland, docile, and tame: people posing, hands on hips, elbows jutting at a 90-degree angle, in front of Portuguese monuments.

He told me he quit his job to dedicate his life to art and photography, then asked me if I’d like to help him live his dream since I must be very photogenic.

With that, he’d disarmed me. I’m a sucker for flattery.

I truly thought he saw me for who I am: a rare delicacy, one so special that I must be documented and preserved for future generations by all means necessary. Either that, or he was a Humans of New York-type photographer who found my mere existence intriguing. Both options seemed plausible to me.

What didn’t seem plausible to me, however, was the truth.

I don’t know if it was sleep deprivation or travel exhaustion that made me so unaware of the fact that I was a tourist in front of a popular landmark. In my delusion and self-absorption, I genuinely believed I was doing this man a favor by helping him with his little hobby. The fact that I was falling for a tourist trap didn’t even cross my mind.

So I said “sure!” Who was I to deny this man the pleasure of using me as a launchpad for his career? I had nothing better to do anyway. I would either start striking poses or return to my accommodation to unpack 30 kg worth of luggage.

As he racked his brain for a shooting location, he asked me the usual questions you’d ask a tourist you couldn’t care less about: where I’m from, what I’m doing in Portugal, and whether I’m enjoying my time so far. I replied honestly, elaborating extensively—almost diplomatically—thinking he would use these bits and pieces of information in his project, perhaps as a caption or as a brief introduction to who I was.

My answers fell on deaf ears—in one ear, out the other.

Once he found the perfect spot, he was very precise with his instructions. He told me to stand on top of a specific rock by the river, and “look at the first row of windows on the blue building behind you, head facing it, then walk toward me like you own the fucking world. Keep your left hand holding the top half of your bag strap.”

Even though I knew I’d look constipated and rigid doing all of that, I did it anyway. I thought this was part of a specific vision he had in mind for his project.

After that, he asked me to lean my whole body against the slanted concrete wall of the dam, the part that led down to the river. “Keep your left leg bent, right hand across your body—almost hugging yourself—and left hand playing with your hair, then gaze at the yellow building over your shoulder.”

As the helpful Samaritan that I was, I obliged. Again, I thought I was contributing to his vision—even though I didn’t see it, nor feel it. My neck was craned at such an odd angle a vein start throbbing in my temple.

At the end of my little photoshoot, he showed me the pictures, pointing out his favorite ones (all of which were shit). The pictures looked exactly how they felt: awkward, rigid, and strained. I looked like I was recreating those goofy ’90s couple shoots, except I’d just found out my partner was cheating and didn’t want to lose the deposit, so I went ahead with it solo.

Even though they weren’t my favorite pictures, Mr. Frazzle Dazzle looked happy. Having done my volunteer work, I patted myself on the back, wished him continued success in his creative endeavors, and thanked him for including me.

He then airdropped the photos to me and requested a generous donation so he could “continue providing this experience for everyone.”

Oh.

It was a cold shower. A reality check. A reminder that I am not, in fact, all that—and people can seemingly smell the stench of my vanity so strongly that they know it can be easily exploited.

I handed him the cash and scurried back to my accommodation, eyes glued to the pavement and AirPods jammed in, dodging any other tourist traps that might rope me in by calling me pretty.

I’ve fallen for so many of these tourist traps before that I genuinely should know better. Except I don’t. Because, like love bombing, I think I deserve nice things for no reason.

This experience was like a deja vu, and I was taken back to when I was 19, visiting Milan with one of my close friends.

Upon arrival, we headed straight for the Duomo. Right in front of it, a street seller wandered, holding a box full of colourful, bohemian-style crochet bracelets. As soon as he spotted us, he beelined towards us to tell us how gorgeous we were. He then asked us to extend our hands, which we did, of course. How could we not? He called us pretty. It seemed like a fair exchange.

Lathering on the compliments, he started tying these bracelets onto our wrists. My friend and I exchanged glances of amazement, awed by all the compliments and gifts we were being given, not even two hours into our holiday.

After knotting these bracelets so tightly they nearly cut off our circulation—and so securely they could only be removed with scissors—he aggressively demanded 20 euros.

We couldn’t believe it.

We thought this man gifted them to us because we were so astonishingly gorgeous and he wanted to impress us: two beautiful teenage girls marveling at the Duomo in their Birkenstocks.

I wore that ugly crochet bracelet for a long time. It served as a reminder of my stupidity. And after about a year, thinking the lesson had been drilled into my head, I finally cut it off.

Well clearly I shouldn’t have.

Turns out seven years later, I’m just as gullible and vain as before. Except now, instead of an ugly crochet bracelet as a reminder, I have the most hideous photos of myself as proof that not only am I still naïve, but my vanity might also be unwarranted on top of that.