A Little Girl in a Man's World

"I got in a fight with the security guard in my building today."
"You did?"
"Yeah, he was just being such a jerk. And I couldn't hold my tongue."

"You have a problem with men. You have a chip on your shoulder. You even do it with me sometimes."

I didn't respond. A chip on my shoulder?

My whole life I've been the little blonde girl. I'm not very big. I'm not very tough looking. I've always looked younger than my age. And for as long as I can remember, I've been underestimated, undermined, coddled, and patted on the head. "You're very pretty, but what will separate you from all the other attractive blonde girls?" a professor in theater school once asked. At a bar one time I got, "You're very pretty. Do you have anything else going for you?"

If I have a problem with men it's because I have something to prove. I can't sit back and wait for someone to discover that I'm smart or funny or that I can throw a perfectly spiraled football. Someday I'll be completely comfortable with who I am and I'll let people uncover that on their own. But today is not that day.

Long Awaited Meet and Greet

I met him outside. He had been so built up in my mind; this tall, familiar, comforting stranger that caused my head to turn. Never being one to get caught in a fantasy, I was shocked by the effect this man had on my imagination. What a strange feeling it was to wait outside for him. I felt as if I knew him, although, I did not. We only had months of distant attraction between us and a recent bombardment of text messages. Finally a face to face meeting, perhaps it could be considered a date. I had dreamt of this moment, filled with witty banter and possibly an overwhelming attraction shared by the two of us. Alas, there hung that looming hope, perhaps this is something real, perhaps this will turn into something lasting and true; perhaps I need to get to know him.

Stepping through the door in his entire six foot six inch splendor, stunning in his perfectly tailored, beautifully crafted pale grey summer weight suit; I noticed instantly his nervous energy. Leading me through the crowded streets of midtown Manhattan, he took the lead deciding which streets to cross and which lights to patiently wait for. Making comments about my city and commenting on the neighborhood as if I were the newbie; I found it quite endearing. Turning to enter the park to my regular favored spot, he stopped and gently guided me on to a further entrance. Laying out a blanket he chatted on boldly full of fumbles and mumbles.

The suiting jacket came off, the French cuffs were rolled up, socks and shoes discarded, he made himself comfortable exposing his perfectly sun browned skin. Situating myself on the blanket next to him, my shoes remained on, my stature much stiffer, I sat in puzzled amusement, something wasn't quite right. There was a familiarity about him, a comfort and ease about him that did not match his scattered dialogue or inappropriate over-sharing. Conversation was not easy or fluid as I had hoped. In fact he began to share of his family's dysfunction in detail. He let his heart leak out of the pain he'd experienced from his childhood, in front of me spilling out into a pool between us. He spoke of it with sarcastic tones as if it were all a joke. I was embarrassed by his nakedness, the brash bare reality of his situation. It was laid on me like a sack of dry bones. Though not what I was expecting during an afternoon picnic meeting this man for the first time, I felt for him, taking on his details like precious relics to be protected. He shot jabs at me too, using every piece of information I shared with him as ammo for his sarcasm. I realized, despite his cool demeanor, he must have been rambling out of nervousness. This conflicting confidence and unmistakable self doubt keep me confused. I left taken a back by his seeming insecurity.

I haven’t heard from him since, though the thought of him lingers. He remains a mystery and an unquenchable puzzle. Perhaps he will reach out again and we will give it another go. I can only pray he is more relaxed, a bit more himself. I wish to get a true glimpse of who he really is. If he does reach out again, I will make sure to bring a flask.

Before Sunrise, Before Sunset

I carry you / You'll carry me / That's how it could be / Don't you know me? / Don't you know me by now?

By no means am I film critic. However, that does not mean that I do not have discerning taste, because I do. I much prefer a low budget, critic's darling to an over the top Hollywood spectacle (though certain superhero movies are an exception). Eyes roll whenever I casually mention an obscure foreign gem or say I haven't seen a universally deemed "classic." But, all of the above notwithstanding, I love a good movie. And I absolutely love Before Sunrise and Before Sunset.*

In Before Sunrise (1995), Jesse meets Celine on a train from Budapest. He spontaneously asks her to get off the train in Vienna (she was supposed to continue to Paris) and spend the afternoon/evening/night with him, since he will be on a flight back to the States in the morning. To their surprise, she agrees. Unsurprisingly, it's totally awkward at first - neither knows what to say to the other - but during the course of the night, they say it all. They have those intelligent but entirely nonsensical conversations about life and death, love and heartbreak that you have with your closest friends. They shop for records, watch street performers, play pinball, drink beers, and kiss. It's both realistic and idealized, in the sense that, should you meet someone in such a way, you'd hope for the same. (At least I would.) What makes the film so charming, though, is that it manages to capture the innocence and spirit of their nascent love without schmaltz.

They meet again in Paris in Before Sunset (2004). I won't reveal under what circumstances, but let's just say much has changed in nine years. He has to leave, again, for a flight to the States, so they decide to walk around the city for an hour or so (the film takes place in real time). At the beginning, they exchange pleasantries, but as the day wears on, they delve into the heavy stuff - fate and circumstances, successes and failures. Since you know these characters, it's neither too melodramatic nor too burdensome. For lack of a better word, like Before Sunrise, it seems real. That being said, the ending always makes me cry.

Out of happiness or sadness? Watch and find out.

*Be warned! What follows may include some spoilers. Now, I won't divulge everything, but maybe just enough to compel you to (re)watch the movies.

The Start

I had read all of their bios, seen all of their photos, and he didn't stand out. But there he was across the room, leaning on the counter, one foot in front of the other, head down, smiling. I want to meet him, I said to myself.

We talked of things I can't remember, and yet it was enough to keep my interest. So much so that after a couple of days of chatting (read: innocent flirting) in between meetings, I arranged it so we sat next to each other at the closing dinner. This time, we talked and talked about everything: his requisite rebellious phase as the son of a career diplomat, my multicultural upbringing, Paris, my grad school aspirations, his crisis of confidence at work. He ordered one last glass of white as they were kicking us out of the restaurant, and I turned to see he had had mine refilled. It's Hungarian custom never to leave a place without finishing your glass, he said, eyes twinkling.

The group of us spilled out into the street. I was charged with choosing the next venue, but how to please 10 wildly different, European personalities? At the helm, he accompanied me, darting into one place and then another, finally deciding on a lively if slightly unhip piano bar. Don't want to disturb the couple, the loud one said.

The next day was their last in Washington before embarking on their whirlwind trips through the States. Kisses on the cheek. Until New York, two weeks from now, we said.

Across the seven seas

I give the rickshaw-wallah directions with confidence. "Turn left." "A right after that building." I count out the change.
I bargain with the fruit seller. "That's too expensive. Every other day a papaya is ten rupees, how come today it's fifteen? Nothing doing. Here's your ten, and I'm taking that papaya."
I walk down the street nonchalantly.
I speak the language.
I have the same hair, the same skin, the same eyes, the same height.
This is home.

Is it at this corner? "Turn..." No. Next one. Next one. "Turn left." Was that correct? Yes. There's that building. Okay.
My heart flutters in my throat as I ask him the price. He has never seen me before, he knows I am new. I summon up brash arrogance. I swagger my way through buying a papaya. Did I under-pay? No. Okay. Okay.
I keep my pace quick and efficient. I feel their eyes on me. I am afraid of tripping on this road without a sidewalk. Rickshaws and two-wheelers hurtle past me. Too slow and I'll look like a tourist. Too fast and I'll look like a scampering rabbit.
I don't know the slang. I feel my accent as I utter the syllables. I keep the conversation at surface level; my vocabulary doesn't go that far.
I dress differently without knowing it. Even in a traditional salwar-khameez I look out of place. I walk differently. My jeans are too tight, my shirts are too long. My umbrella has polka dots on it.
This is home




...?

One Fine Day

Yesterday I decided that from here on out, things are going to be different. I will stop putting a negative spin on everything, I will stop expecting the worst from everyone I meet, and I will try not to protect my heart with an iron wall. But in looking to the future, I have to bring a few bits of the past with me. Only the best parts, of course. And one of the very best parts happened in one of the very best places… Dublin. Of course.

“What would you do if I asked you to run away with me?” Julie and I looked at him, then at each other, and then at him. My height, bright green eyes and black hair, an amused smile playing on his lips. Because we were in Dublin, I chose an answer I’d never used before.
“We’d probably run away with you.” We started chatting and he introduced himself as Graham, from Dublin, born and raised. He told me he played the bass and I told him I was an aspiring journalist. During our walk to the next bar, he pulled a book out of his bag: A. A. Gill is Away. I took it as a sign that this stranger off the street that I found so charming would happen to have a book of travel journalism with him in his backpack. He told me I could have it (three years later and I still pull the book out every once in awhile to smell the paper and reread his signature on the front page).

Late that night I got a text: “If you’re not busy tomorrow, I’d like to take you to the dead zoo.”
“The dead zoo?”
“It’s actually the museum of natural history but we call it the dead zoo. You’ll find out why tomorrow.”

He picked me up around one o’clock, grinning and upbeat as ever, and he took me to the dead zoo. He wasn’t kidding. It should’ve been called The Museum of Taxidermy, complete with a polar bear with a visible (and shoddily covered) bullet hole in its head. From there he took me to get coffee and meet up with his lovely friends. He suggested we go to an outdoor movie that night, so we bought tickets for the 9:00 show. I expected that I’d go home, change my clothes, have some dinner and meet him for the movie. Instead he turned to me with that bright smile and asked, “So, what should we do til then?”

For the next six hours we talked, we looked at books, we ate sandwiches outside and people-watched at Temple Bar. We toured the city, we went in search of ancient bog people, and we listened to live music over pints in a dark, dusty bar. And all the while we laughed and talked as if we’d known each other for years. It was so easy.

That night we went to the movie (Shakespeare in Love… crazy, I know) but it wasn’t flirty or romantic. We rolled our eyes at the same cheesy moments and I shivered against the cold and against the anticipation of what might come next. The movie ended in the dark square of Temple Bar and he asked if I wanted to grab a pint. I was low on cash and I was exhausted but to this day I have no idea why I said no. I was afraid to ruin the perfectness of the day or something equally ridiculous but I did, in fact, say no. He hugged me goodbye at the front gates of Trinity College and we parted there. We keep in touch via Facebook but I haven't seen him since that one untouchable day in Dublin.

Connecting

I admit it.

I troll Craigslist Missed Connections every now and again. Not that I need to justify this behavior, but it is the single most interesting cross-section of humanity possibly ever. From the pathetic to the perverse, the hopeful to the hateful, it's really unbelievable what anonymity and technology provide. End of justification.

I never expected to read one about myself. Actually, that's only half true. Deep down I secretly wished that that adorable spectacled fellow at that cafe sipping that latte would write about that time we caught each others' eyes while reading those books. Or something of the sort. Realistically, I knew the chances were slim. And then I read one about myself.

Oh, here's one from the concert I took that dumb boy to! Girl was at show with boy who seemed bored out of his mind, we made eyes, you pick the next show, and I promise to have a good time. How funny, I think, this could've been me, though in all likelihood it's not me ... meh, I'm in a silly mood, I'll just reply anyway and ask what row.

We went on three dates. He was a great guy, but it wasn't really there, great story notwithstanding.

That was two and a half months ago. Haven't spoken to him since. Then I saw him last week at (where else?) another concert.

I grabbed his arm. Mutual surprise. He was with a girl. Exiting the venue, we chatted for a minute. And then, in the cold night, we looked at each other unblinkingly for a couple of seconds, bemused expressions on our faces.

How funny indeed.

"It is easy to see the beginnings of things, and harder to see the ends." - Joan Didion

Boy and Girl meet for the third time in a group of mutual friends. Palpable chemistry. He's tall. She loves that. He's a little sarcastic. She fires right back.

"So," she asks, "What are you doing for the Super Bowl?"
"I'll probably get a lot of food and eat it at my place," he answers, new and lonely in the city. "Want to come over?" She should've said yes. But she was lame instead.
"Dude! Come out with us!"
"Okay."
"Well, I don't have any of your contact info."
"I don't have yours." Pregnant pause.
Well, ask for it, you dummy. "Why don't you ask for it?" Whoops. She should've been nicer.
"Because I don't do that."
"Well, maybe you should make a little effort."
"I should, huh?"

Maybe it was supposed to be a joke, but she'd been burned in the beginning way too many times to waste breath on a Boy and not a Man. He left the bar that night, still without any of her info.

Cut to the next night... Girl lazing on Friend's couch. Late. Sans makeup. Text message... unknown number.
"What up sunshine, this is Boy. What are you up to tonight?" Blood rushes to her cheeks.
"Hi! I'm actually being super lame and going home soon."
"That is lame. So when can I see you? This is me making that effort that you talked about."

This is the story of how one tiny word creeps into Girl's psyche, curls up in her brain, and hibernates for all eternity...

Effort. And it made all the difference.

The kindness of strangers

Today I will once again walk out into the below freezing temperatures of this city. My eyes, stung by the icy breeze, will tear up and I will hastily wipe the tears away before they congeal into salty little icicles on my lashes. Inevitably someone I know will be walking by and will stop to ask – everything okay?

This is not New York.

There was another time when I walked through city streets with tears streaming down my face. These tears were real, not just some weather inspired phenomenon. Someone very dear to me was in the hospital – on his deathbed actually. I walked along holding my cell phone so tightly that my fingers were later white from the strain. I ended the call not even knowing that I was already crying from the terrible news. I cried my heart out, not caring to even put up a fight for presentability and appearances. The streets were full of strangers, all moving on without a second glance, protecting me from questions and feelings I did not have the strength to face, allowing me my moment by the very lack of interest that might make them appear heartless.

If that happened here I would stifle my sobs and postpone my fear and sadness just to avoid the concerned questions. I would risk slipping on the ice and walk quickly to avoid a look of sympathy that would make me break down completely.

I crave the warmth and comfort of anonymity that New York offers.

Sometimes when waiting to cross a street I remember a story JKL told me. She had been standing, waiting to cross the street, and there was a little boy and a dog also waiting to cross. As she watched them engage in a staring contest, the boy barked at the dog! Mrphrhaha. Even now I chortle out loud to think of it. I don’t even know if the story is funny, but JKL’s expressions and the mirth of the moment still bring a chuckle, sometimes even a guffaw, to my lips.

I strain to change my chuckles into sneezes here. I wouldn’t want an acquaintance to think of me as “that girl who laughs for no reason as she walks.” A friend would ask what was so funny. I think explanations kind of kill the joke. New York would let me double up with laughter over seemingly nothing at all if I so pleased.

Well, out I go now. I must remember to school my features into not-my-walking-face. Apparently I look angry or upset when I’m just walking about. I have been asked “what’s wrong?” or been told “smile a little!” even when in a perfectly good mood. Apparently I am supposed to go around like a nutjob grinning at the world all day long. Who knows. I prefer not to invite questions of “what’s wrong” when nothing, in fact, is wrong. So even if my new walking-face invites the flyer-people to think they have found a friend and even if it’s difficult to keep from frowning at the inhumanely cold conditions here I shall de-furrow my brow.

Perhaps when I leave this place I’ll miss the friendly hellos and smiles that I encounter here as I’m walking out to get some milk. Or, of course, I’ll be able to stumble out in pajamas looking an absolute horror to get milk for my cereal and not give a damn.