Life in Ink and Footsteps

After the craziness of the previous few weeks, I concentrated more on the things that really mattered: friendships. And there was one friend I had been neglecting. Mr. FoodAdventure A. was always in the background; we never completely lost touch and kept talking over the phone. But during the winter, we didn’t spend any time together. So when he suddenly called me and asked me out, I was happy to say yes. It felt right to spend more time with him. It was easy and natural. We talked, ate good food, and drove around as usual, as if no time had passed. One of the things we talked about was how much we both love road trips and that we should plan one. Nothing too big, though—I was poor and didn’t have much vacation time—just something close to New York, maybe for a weekend. In my head, it was just a joke, a passing thought, nothing more. Imagine my surprise when he called a few days later to tell me we were going to Philadelphia for the night.

I have to admit, there’s something highly attractive about men who take the initiative—who make the first move, plan something, etc. I was impressed and excited. It would be my first time leaving New York State, and I was eager to see this historical city.

We left on Saturday afternoon, once he finished work and hit the road. It was a lot of fun. We laughed most of the time, and he shared a whole bunch of interesting facts about America. He would be a great teacher. I always thought so—he explains things well and keeps everything interesting. But suddenly, the topic shifted to his family, and he mentioned that I should meet them. His parents on Long Island, his cousins in Jersey—he said they would love me and that he had a feeling I’d fit right in. I laughed it off. There was no reason to meet them. In a mere five months, I’d be going back to Europe.

We reached our destination and checked into the hotel. It was a beautiful French-style boutique hotel close to the city center. He picked a wonderful spot for us to rest. My favorite part was this huge, old-school wooden library that covered one side of the wall. By now, it was getting late and we were both hungry, so he found us a little French restaurant to have dinner at. We were sticking with the theme that night. I had a delicious beef tartare—it’s the only thing I remember, because my healthy appetite was slightly ruined by the topic of our conversation.

He began to talk about my upcoming departure. It was a bit dramatic— I still had several months to go, but it was starting to loom over my head. And his, as it turned out. Maybe even more than mine. He told me he would miss me, and that it didn’t have to end like that. That we could date officially, and I could stay in America—with him. Important note here: he didn’t want to date when we first met because I had upfront told him that I didn’t plan on staying in America. So this whole non-exclusive idea didn’t come from me. But I was okay with it and understood where he was coming from. As you know by now, I took advantage of this non-exclusive dating setup and had my share of dates. So him suddenly coming out like this and offering a real relationship was a surprise and didn’t make sense. I had even less time now than I had in the fall, so why change things? He realized I wasn’t getting his point, so he pushed a bit more.

When he said we could date and I could stay, he meant that I could marry him.

“Wait, what?!” That’s when the panic hit. Don’t get me wrong—I really, really liked this man. He had become a great friend, and we had our fair share of fun. But I didn’t love him. Nor did I think he loved me. Yes, we had a great foundation, and I truly believe we could have reached mutual love and respect. And who knows—maybe we could have been quite happy together at some point. But I didn’t want to get married. Hell, I absolutely didn’t want to stay in America. Sorry if I’m offending anyone, but no, thank you. I liked living in New York, I liked traveling, I liked the family and my friends. But that wasn’t reality—it was an illusion. I lived with the family, most of my food was provided, I had special insurance as an au pair, and I had a stable salary I could spend however I wanted. I had zero existential problems. It wasn’t real life. I didn’t have to worry about immigration paperwork, healthcare, income, rent, or the education I was considering pursuing. None of it. And to tie myself to someone while living in this illusion would have been plain stupid.

So I played it cool—ish. We laughed about it and moved on. But you could feel the change in the air. A certain line had been crossed, and you can’t just go back from things like that. Even if it wasn’t an official proposal on one knee with a ring. Honestly, where was my ring? You can’t just mention marriage during a romantic dinner and not have something shiny to show for it! Now, I’m overreacting. Trust me when I say, I was damn glad there was no ring. I don’t think my young self would have been able to say no, not in front of the bartender who was watching the whole thing and the other guests. I would have had to say yes. And then I wouldn’t have been able to back out. I’m too proud and I value my promises. So I would have ended up marrying him, becoming bitter later on, and ruining both our lives. No, no. It’s better there wasn’t a charade.

We both tried our best not to let this ruin our trip and pretended nothing had been said. And I am glad to say we succeeded. The evening was slightly awkward but by morning we got over it and I guess he decided to enjoy the time he had left with me as best as he could. Probably. Or maybe the marriage thing wasn’t as serious to him as it first seemed. How would I know? I tried damn hard not to bring this up again. And our little adventure continued. In the morning, we went for breakfast. I tried eggs Benedict for the first time since he recommended it to me, and it became my favorite way to eat eggs. Not that I could make it myself—my cooking skills were way too basic for that kind of magic. After filling our bellies, we did the usual tourist stuff, and I loved it. It was such a cool city to visit. He was a wonderful guide, not only knowing where to go and what to do but also providing interesting historical facts. That was one of the things that always connected us. I majored in history at university, and he was a big fan and reader of it. There was always something to talk about—except for the history of the 20th century. Our opinions on that topic vastly differed, so we learned not to talk about it. Just like politics.

Our last must-do was a Philly cheesesteak. We went to the famous crossroad where Geno’s and Pat’s reside. And I have to say, America, you blew my mind once again. There were probably more people there than at the Liberty Bell. The whole thing felt like a reality show—the rivalry between the two cheesesteak spots was intense. I don’t know if it’s like this every day or just on weekends, but it was highly entertaining. There were promoters with megaphones, girls in skimpy outfits, music, and cheering. It was wild. And then there was the process of ordering. I had “Wit”—American cheese. I was panicking when I was explained to how precise I had to be with my order, or I’d have to go to the end of the line. My companion had a huge laugh at my expense. For the entire wait, I truly believed him and was nearly hyperventilating. I’m happy to say I nailed the order, though the guy at the window laughed at me too. But who cares—I got my cheesesteak. And it was yummy. We shared one from both places, of course. I wasn’t about to try just one.

As yummy as it was, I have to admit, I don’t get the whole fuss. It wasn’t that mind-blowing, to be honest. Great to try, but I wouldn’t travel all the way to Philly just to have it again.

All and all it was a nice weekend getaway.

And in a spirit of one of our favorite artists:
Frank Sinatra – Come fly with me