Life in Ink and Footsteps

So, I met someone new. And surprisingly, I do remember this one. Quite unfortunately, if I’m being honest. Okay, that’s a lie. He was an important part of the story for a while, but I wish I’d been smarter back then. There are several people I met during my time in New York who stuck with me, who affected me, and helped me grow into who I am today. Many of them became close friends, and we are still in touch—mum and grandma of the family, Mr. FoodAdventure, and of course my bestie, S… Many are only part of fond memories—the third one of our group, sunshine C., friendly Dutch girl F., all the family members, many other aupairs, and yes, some of the random hookups as well. But one of them, one of them is not all that pleasant. And not because we didn’t enjoy some fun times, but because I was young and stupid and let another man fuck with me. Quite literally, may I add.

We met on Tinder, which must come as a big surprise to everyone. We matched and clicked. I liked him immediately; he was very attractive, all dark and mysterious—an Arab man from Afghanistan living in Queens. He was funny and respectful. He knew the hardships of being an expat in America, let alone being a minority not only racially, but religiously as well. We had a lot in common: tragic loss of a father at a young age, problems at home, and terrible homesickness. On a more casual level, we had absolutely nothing in common. But I didn’t care; he was flaming hot. And so I agreed to a date. And it was one hell of a date.

He picked me up at home, got out of the car, gave me a soft half-hug—he smelled phenomenal—and opened the door for me. Already a great start. To any men reading this: open the car door for your partners. It’s a small yet beautiful gesture. We drove to Brooklyn; he wanted to take me to his favorite sushi place. We talked and laughed—he was absolutely hilarious and charming. His eyes were beautiful and soft. We talked a bit about religion in a very comfortable way. He answered all my questions and asked me in return what it was like to live without faith. It was an intriguing conversation. I did get the feeling that faith might become a problem, but I pushed it away. I wasn’t going to make a decision about someone based on a silly thing like faith. I should have listened to my gut.

And before you get upset because of my religious opinions, the problem wasn’t him believing in God. Whichever God. The issue was that he was devoted to his faith. That is not a wrong thing, but it makes it a wrong beginning to a potential connection with someone who devotedly doesn’t believe in any religion. If I’d actually listened to him and asked the important questions, I would have realized there would be no future, ever. And I would have walked away. Or at least I wouldn’t have let myself get swept off my feet like that. But that’s all easy to see now, years later, with all the drama finished—and oh boy, there will be a lot of drama with this one in the upcoming months. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s get back to the first date, because that is, ironically, the most memorable date I’ve had. Ever.

So, we reached Brooklyn, parked the car, and went to the restaurant. He made the rookie mistake of not making a reservation, and the place was full. The lovely waitress promised to keep us a spot in about 30-40 minutes. So for a walk we went. I was quite hungry at this point; he’d repeatedly talked about this place, and I wanted to save space for some delicious sushi. Why is that important? Oh, you’ll see.

So, we walked down to the Brooklyn Pier. And I was mesmerized. The view was just breathtaking. You could see the whole of lower Manhattan from there, the beautiful Brooklyn Bridge on our right, so close it felt like a dream. Nature all around us, all the lights shining like little diamonds in the darkness of the cold November evening. It was magical, it was romantic, and I wanted to stay there forever. He stood beside me, and we talked softly, just taking in the beauty. Then he started looking for something in his pocket. I was curious and watched him. After a moment, he took out a bag of weed. He rolled himself one blunt—is that how you say it?—and lit it.

Now, to inform you kids, I’d tried weed before in the Czech Republic. I wasn’t a complete beginner. But all of my past experiences consisted of a group of 4-6 people standing in a tight circle, sharing one joint. So what, you breathed it in once or twice before it was finished? I’m sorry, I’m missing some lingo here. Not really my usual conversational topic. But this time, it was just the two of us. I was hungry and nervous, and I didn’t realize this stuff comes in different strengths. He asked if I’d smoked before. Duh, who did he think he was talking to? He asked if I wanted to join him. Sure, why not? I’m cool, right? So we smoked, talked a bit more, and then we went back. He stopped at some corner store for food and water. I patiently waited. He returned. We went to his car, ate the food—strawberries and nachos—and drank the water. Then he took me back home. We kissed goodbye, and I went to sleep. It was a lovely date.

Does that make no sense? I know. Do you know why it makes no sense? Because I was high as a kite. This is what I remembered in the morning when I woke up. But then my brain kicked in, and I realized that I was probably missing something. For example, what happened to the dinner? So I sent him a message, asking if he could explain. And so he did. And then I really and truly remembered.

Let’s rewind, shall we?

So we smoked for a bit until he refused to let me smoke more because I got very spacey. He was slightly worried about me and high as well, so he decided to walk toward the restaurant and feed me. On our way, we had to stop at a red light and wait for the green to turn so we could cross the road. I spaced out completely here, spending several minutes staring at the light while waiting for the green, ignoring the fact that it had been changing the whole time. In the end, he had to grab my hand and drag me, while I told him we should not cross on the red light. I started complaining about being hungry, so he changed plans, stopped at the corner store, and literally pressed me against the wall so I could lean on it since at this point I couldn’t stand on my own anymore. He then dragged me into his car, fed both of us, made me drink gallons of water, and then we both slept for almost two hours.

When I woke up, I had to pee. But what can you do, somewhere in Brooklyn in the middle of the night? Well, sober me would try to find a restaurant, bar, or store. Or hold it until I got home. High me didn’t give a fuck, got out of the car, pulled down her jeans, and peed on a tree right next to the car. While giggling the whole time. Then I happily returned to the car and napped some more. At one point, he felt sober enough and drove me home. We kissed, and then I went to sleep. The thing is, I could actually remember it all in astonishing detail when he started telling me. I remember standing at the light, but in my head, we crossed immediately. I remember him sleeping in the car, and yes, sadly, I also remember peeing on the tree.

With this realization came not only shame, but mortification—I got high like this with a stranger and happily passed out for hours. I could have been raped, kidnapped or murdered. This could have been a cautionary tale for children not to do drugs, not a hilarious one. Oh, and one more thing. The fact that he wanted to meet me again after something like this should have been a red flag for me. Because who in their right mind would want to go on another date after this? Also, do you see the irony of the most “memorable” date? Yeah, me too.

PS: I obviously do not have any pictures from this, so enjoy me and Elmo. Felt fitting.

Oh and a song? Seemed like an easy pick.
Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High – Arctic Monkeys