The Holiday

Honestly, it was like I stepped into the pages of a romantic comedy.  You know the kind, where the girl randomly meets the boy, and they instantly hit it off.  And neither one of them saw it coming.



This weekend was a fairly tame one.  Friday night, I went to dinner with friends stopping by on their cross-country move before I fell asleep with a book.  Half upright.  With the lights on.  With my dress, tights, and cardigan on.  Saturday night was much of the same.  I watched multiple hours of iZombie on Netflix before deciding I would be too freaked out to sleep if I watched even one more episode and fell asleep in bed with my book again.  But in pajamas this time, at least.

Only, Saturday night, as I was worrying that I would actually lose sleep over zombies (my imagination lacks rational thinking, ignore it), I thought to myself, You know what, this is stupid.  I could use a man in my life if for no other reason than that I sleep better knowing someone else will be there to help me fight off the zombies.  So, as any reasonable person would do to prepare for an (all in the head) zombie attack, I installed Tinder.  Again.

It makes me think about that quote about insanity.  You know, the one about doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.  (Oh?  You were thinking the zombie thing was crazy?  Yeah, that, too.)

Nonetheless, I waited for the app to download, put in a short blurb that represented my personality and interests to some degree, uploaded some old pictures, and started swiping.  I ended up matching with more than 20 people between Saturday and Sunday night.  I talked to several of them for a while, made a few dates, and hoped these dates wouldn't suck as much as the last round.  I matched with a couple of tourists, and most of the conversations didn't go anywhere.  I do sometimes see men from other parts of the country visiting and think, Damn, I need to move away to wherever they're from, but rarely do I bother right-swiping them.  Because what's the point?  They live somewhere else.

But there was this one guy.  We'll call him P.  (Because his name starts with a P.)

He went to one of the best tech schools in the country.  He has a really nice smile.  He has a really nice everything.  Smart and attractive?  How could I pass that up?

So I swiped right.  And we talked briefly.  And he invited me to come and hang out with him and his friends in the Quarter.

And I thought about my less-than-thrilling Friday and Saturday nights.  And I thought about the last time I'd done something spontaneous and a little risky.  And I thought about how I could use a little excitement in my life right now.  And I decided to go for it.

(Keep in mind, I also texted a friend of mine a screenshot of the guy's Tinder profile and told her to call the cops if she didn't hear from me again in the next 12 hours.  Because I'm a responsible risk taker.)

So, at five minutes to midnight on what would normally be a school night (after drinking a sleepy time tea because I'd had every intention of going to bed), I got dressed again, put on a little mascara, got into my car, and drove to the Quarter.  It took us almost half an hour to find each other.  He didn't know where I was.  He didn't know where he was.  Eventually, we settled on a location, and then we changed the location, and then he walked the opposite way of the location....all of which finally led to me running down Bourbon street in my boots and skinny jeans to find him.  (Technically, I spent the final block walking to catch my breath so he wouldn't know I'd run most of the way.  It's hard to explain to a stranger why you just ran down a crowded street to meet him.  For you, though, I will: cold + bourbon st + waiting + 12:30am = bleh.)

I found him, leaning against a pillar below a Bourbon street balcony, wearing a gray suit that was a little too thin for the temperature.  He was a little shorter than expected, a little taller than me, but what I noticed first were his eyes.  And then his smile.  And then the fact that I was super attracted to him, even though we'd barely exchanged a sentence in person.

This doesn't normally happen to me.  I'm not normally out meeting strangers in the Quarter at midnight, much less finding myself magnetized by one.

We went back and forth about where to go before I decided to take him the 8 blocks to Frenchmen Street, which actually turned out to be 16 blocks in forty-something degree weather.  My bad.  But I barely noticed.  It's funny how you can meet someone and just have stuff to talk about.

We spent all of maybe half an hour in Cafe Negril on Frenchmen before the not-so-good music and the not-so-subtle volume level drove us back out on the street with go cups.  It was probably 1:30am by this point.  Maybe 2.  The crowd was thin.  It was cold.  We'd already talked politics, music, school, family, hometown, you name it, but we kept talking.

A short walk brought us to Molly's, the closest bar with noticeable heat, and we sat for another hour or two, talking about anything and everything that came to mind and adding a couple more drinks to our total.  He held my hands in his to warm them.  We kissed.  A lot.  And we had a decision to make.

Now, I'm not that kind of girl, but I was tempted to hop in a cab with him and head straight to my house.  Thankfully, his brain was working better than mine, and we didn't.  We finished off our drinks and headed back out into the cold.  We made out in front of Jackson Square (to keep ourselves warm, of course) until a taxi brought us to Deja Vu Cafe, where I drank water and he drank Purple Haze, and we talked and kissed and talked and kissed, and he changed his flight to stay a few hours longer, to give us a few more hours.  But we couldn't feasibly stay out in the Quarter any longer.  It was at least 5am by this point.  It was already later than I'd stayed out in a long time.  Than I'd stayed out maybe ever.

I wasn't tired, though.  Dopamine is no joke.

We went back to the place he and his friends were staying to pick up his things, we sang two Disney songs with them (because why not), and then we left.

We got to my house after 6am.  We were in bed by 6:30.  We slept and talked, on and off, all morning and into the afternoon, until the alarm went off, and it was time to take him to the airport for his 4 o'clock flight.

Thirteen hours, and I didn't want him to go.  Thirteen hours, and he'd said I should move to California.  Thirteen hours, and we were both wishing it was more.

The car ride to the airport was awkward.  It felt weird to acknowledge my disappointment--I literally hadn't even known he'd existed the day before.  So I stayed quiet, for the most part.  He didn't talk much either.  When I pulled up to the departure hall, he kissed me and told me to visit.  To keep in touch.  He got his things out of the trunk.  We said goodbye through the back door before he closed it (literally, the word "bye"), and I drove off, wondering whether the thirteen hours of talking and kissing and realizing that the other person was pretty freaking awesome was worth the massive ache in my chest.  Wondering whether I'd actually keep in touch.  Whether I'd actually visit.  Whether he really wanted me to do either.  He'd been so affectionate all morning.  He'd been so quiet in the car.

I got home and went for a run.  I'd say to clear my head, but really, just to dull one kind of ache with another.  To mull over when I became the girl that ached after thirteen hours.  To try and figure out why this incredible guy--this smart and handsome and funny guy--had to live four states away.  Eighteen hundred miles away.

And just when I'd nearly decided that I'd cut my losses and leave it for the memory books, he texted me.  And sent me a picture of us from that morning outside of Deja Vu Cafe.  "First meeting memory captured," he wrote.

And hope springs eternal.

The morning--all of it--began to remind me of that Christmas movie, The Holiday.  The one where Kate Winslet and Cameron Diaz switch houses and each fall in love with a guy who lives in a totally different country.  The movie ends with a New Year's scene.  You don't know what's going to happen to them.  You can't imagine they'll be able to overcome the country and ocean between them.  But they're enjoying their time together all the same.

The romantic in me loves it.  The pragmatic in me hates that they're putting off the inevitable.


I have no idea what to expect in the days and weeks and months to come.  I like him, but I don't have the funds to visit him regularly.  And it seems unlikely either one of us would move.  And on top of all of that, we've only just met.  Thirteen hours together.  That hardly gives us enough to go on.

Still, even if it bombs in a catastrophically emotional way, and I weep--majorly weep--like Jude Law's character in the movie, I'd drive down to the Quarter at midnight all over again.  In a heartbeat.  Because what's life, if you don't feel a little?