I’ve lived in my new New York life for 16 months, which means if I’d had a baby on the day I moved it would be walking and teething and might even have the motor skills for stacking two to three blocks to build a tower (source). I really do love it (New York, not my metaphorical baby), just like I thought I would. For all the pigeons pooping on my sweatshirt and men calling me a bitch in the street (both of those things happened within the past two hours) the City So Nice makes up for it in good old-fashioned Romance. Not romance like boyfriend, Romance like genre. Romance in the looking-out-a-train-window way, the clutching-a-stack-of-books-to-your-chest way, the three-bucks-two-bags-one-me way.
It's one of my main hobbies, Romance. And it’s so easy to achieve here. Anything can be Romantic when you say things like “well, there’s the Empire State Building so that must be north.” And I allow myself these insufferabilities by necessity, because only the insufferable, those who have graduated from concern for perennial embarrassment, can experience any real joy. Ergo, If I’m above 68th street, I am GOING to listen to my Frank Sinatra and Friends playlist and I am GOING to start with “Theme from New York, New York” and stare up at the buildings in awe. Those are the rules. That’s Life.
I was playing that game last weekend and my wireless headphones* made that sad sound and died right there in my ears, Dean Martin’s “Baby Oh” cruelly chopped at the knees (*refraining from naming brand should Apple like to sponsor me. Oh shoot!) Thus began a state even more Romantic than an uptown walk scored by the Rat Pack, and that is an uptown walk in silence. Adapt or die! I become analog.
When public displays of “I’m listening to a podcast” are the default, the instant anyone’s ears appear unoccupied they might as well be begging for conversation. Just as soon as I’d tucked my headphones back into their tiny coffin, I met Tom Robinson, a man in his mid 70s wearing a pair of green cargo shorts and a French blue t-shirt, backwards. I sat down next to him at the only half-open picnic table in Central Park, and I nodded and smiled and sipped my La Colombe.
In the same breath as we’d made our introductions, Tom Robinson was ready to tell me how to live. I love when strangers offer me advice, which is good because it happens all the time. I think because I have a dumb face. I take comfort in the reminder that I don’t know anything, and am at the same time optimistic that I might learn the thing that changes my life on any given day. Within the bounds of our 20-minute conversation, Tom Robinson offered me his strong and incontrovertible opinions on wellness, culture, and cats, in that order.
The Things Tom Robinson Told Me:
“If you’re going to keep running like this you’re going to need to take up the Fleischenstein method or your joints will deteriorate. This time last year my left hip was so bad I couldn’t lift my knee like this.” (He lifts his knee.)
“You live in the East Village? Have you seen ‘STOMP?’ It’s the most incredible performance. Every time my wife and I have visitors that’s the first place we take them.”
“Oh you do not want a cat. My daughter got a cat from a shelter and it must’ve been abused or something because it was terrible to her. Scratched her in her sleep. So she got another cat because she thought it needed a friend but now they’re both terrible to her. She lives in Philadelphia.”
Tom Robinson said goodbye and wished me good luck as I left for the 6 train, closing the leather-bound book on a perfect moment of Romance realized — an experience from a bygone era, where I might speak to a complete stranger who doesn’t have an Instagram. I leaned my head against the plexiglass of the subway window and sighed. And then I remembered where I was and I picked up my head and started instead to breath shallowly through my nose, though still blissful, reader. Still blissful.
What I’m Wearing For Romance
Whimsy can happen in any clothes, but I find it’s easier to achieve when wearing an outfit as insufferable as I am.
For Rat Pack Walks Above 86th Street
This MNZ trench, Babaà sweater, Carolina Machado shorts and hood, and Loeffler Randall boots
For Green Leather Booths But No Martini Because I Hate Them No Matter How Hard I Try
This Toteme blouse, Proenza Schouler skirt, and vintage Dior mules
For Sitting in the Window of a Coffee Shop, Tote Full of Golden Deliciouses
This Bode shirt, Maria De La Orden pants, Molly Goddard flats, and MNZ scrunchie