On Rekindling the Passion

... Ugh. You make me tired.

New York City was love at first sight. But now we've been dating for 12 years, and since we moved in together just over three months ago, I've been discovering all these little things about him that just. drive. me. nuts. In other relationships, people might say, "How many times have I asked you not to leave the toilet seat up?" or, "For the love of god, stop leaving the sponge in the sink!" But for me, it's, "Why does the R never run right on weekends?" and "Who the hell isn't wearing deodorant?" and "Why does stepping out of my office building feel like walking into a blow dryer?" and "Can you seriously fit one more jackass on this train? Can you try?"

Sometimes I feel like our love is suffering a long, slow, relationship death.

But a few weeks ago, I was sitting at the table in my sister's apartment, mentally damning how hot this summer has been and how especially intolerable the city makes that heat - much like a lover you want to shove out of the bed when it's too humid out because every time you touch each other, it feels like flypaper and it makes you want to murder him a little bit - when I randomly started perusing Time Out New York. And lo and behold, I stumbled across something that very much piqued my interest: An event deep in Brooklyn called "The Lost Circus." Described as "circus meets dark cabaret with a steampunk twist," I was pretty much in before I even decided to go. There were only a few factors holding me back. It started at 11:59 p.m. and went until 4:30 a.m., it was located in a desolate and slightly questionable part of Brooklyn I had never been to before, and I would be going alone. Indecisive, I turned in the spinney chair to look at the TV I'd undoubtedly end up watching HBO OnDemand on all night if I decided not to go. Petra, my sister's grouchy, porpoise-like, spinster of an old crone cat let out a long, abrasive yowl. Holding back a yowl of my own, I stood up and said, "Screw it. I'm going."

"New York," I thought. "I want to be in love with you again."

We eat out every weekend.
Let's try something different.

As I'm writing about all this in retrospect, it's needless to say that I survived. And I didn't even have to use my pepper spray! Although my sister's friend was right when she said it was in the warehouse district, and I, meanwhile, showed up looking like a bumbling mix between a failed Lolita and a high school, western cowgirl (we won't explore that any further). It's not a good sign when you stop at a diner for directions and the local cops whistle and shout out, "You can stay here with us, sweetheart!" It was that kind of neighborhood.

However, The Lost Circus was well worth the six blocks of anxiety that I click-click-clicked my way through in my sister's high-heeled leather boots. It delivered what it promised: belly dancers, stilt walkers, fire dancers, a contortionist, a dominatrix, a visual feast of fascinatingly intricate steampunk costumes, an amazing band called The Vagabond Opera (seriously, check them out), and a few strange, sweet, geeky men who - through the compliment of their company - made me feel like I didn't look quite as absurd as I thought I did. And I got to get painted up like a cat! And who doesn't like face paint? I like face paint! Maybe a little too much. And at the end of the night, as I was dragging my sore feet out of the venue, I spotted a well-known steampunk author hanging at the bar. Though I'm not very familiar with steampunk and had never read any of his work, one of my friends was a great admirer of his. So in one of my slick moments, I walked up to him, addressed him as J.D. Faulksen, and obtained an autograph to mail to Massachusetts. It was later (earlier?) that night (morning?) when I found out his name is actually G.D. Faulkens, and I wrote him an apology, to which he replied that "these things do happen."

After I left the venue, but before I got back on the subway, I was feeling a slightly more fearless, and so I went to the diner where I stopped for directions in order to mentally absorb the evening over a cup of coffee. By the time I climbed back into the bowels of the city, it was well past 5 a.m. As the train passed over the Brooklyn bridge, I looked out at the river, which was slate gray under a gradually lightening sky and I thought, "This is first sunrise I've ever seen in New York City. This is home, now."

As if on cue, however, because this is how my life works, I noticed a man sitting across the car gesturing to me. Taking my headphones out of my ears, I turned away from the river and said, "What?" After several attempts to understand what he was saying through his very thick accent, I finally got it. He wanted to know whether my cat face paint was a tattoo.

Laughing, I exclaimed, "Oh, no, no!" and to demonstrate, I licked my index finger and smudged a small spot of the paint on my cheek.

Suddenly he smiled, looked slightly alarmed and said, "Oh no! Don't do that!" Getting up, he hurriedly crossed the train, sat next to me, and then reached his hand out and gingerly attempted to fix the paint. On my face. With his unidentified-strange-subway-person-at-five-in-the-morning finger.

courtesy of hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com

My brain shorted out. After a night of tireless stimuli, all I could do was look at him awkwardly and wait. Yup. Thanks for fixing that, sir.

After that, we chatted about life for a couple minutes. As it turns out, he's a man from Egypt who makes hookahs for a living. A man from Egypt who makes hookahs for a living and reaches out to touch girls' faces on the subway at five in the morning [sigh]. When I refused to give him my number, he absolutely insisted on giving me his. When I said, "Erm, I have a boyfriend," he smiled the broadest and most genuine smile in the universe and said, "No, no, sweetie! I just want to be friends!" Then, just as I finished programming his number, because "no" was not an acceptable answer, he reached out - yes, again - placed his hand under my chin, and tilted my head up ever so gently. "Let me take a picture," he said. Cocking one eyebrow, I hesitantly smiled. CLICK went the iPhone. My cat face lives on. And then patting me on the shoulder, because I clearly have an inviting presence, he said, "Get home safe, sweetie," and got off the train. 

What a nice man... ?

I swear, these things only happen to me. 

I swear, I'm the only person who lets these things happen to me. 

Turning, I looked back out the window, but all we were passing now were graffiti-covered tunnel walls. A reaffirming experience, I thought, "Yup. This is my home now, like it or not."

Since that evening, I'm pleased to announce that New York City has taken me on several dates. I watched a Woody Allen flick on the Elevated Acre with Dana as part of a summer art festival. We spread out a picnic blanket on the plastic grass and enjoyed some cheese and fruit. I explored Governors Island and attended the Time Traveler's Picnic with Anne. I chilled out in Battery Park and took the free ferry from Manhattan to Staten Island just to see the skyline light up after sunset. I even had a job interview this week. And I have another one tomorrow! Can you believe that?

I was pretty convinced that our relationship was on the rocks. But after the last few weeks, I can safely say, I heart New York City. Like real people in love, we're finding ways to keep the passion alive.