Falling in Love Again
I was born in Brooklyn, New York. I had no say in the matter. That’s where my parents grew up and that’s where I was conceived. That’s where the family business ended up. At eleven years old, we moved to Long Island like most of the other Jewish, Irish and Italian families that fled Canarsie and Flatbush. That’s where I spent my formative years making life-long friends and getting a decent public school education.
I had no love for New York. Maybe I was too young or too immature, but we never connected like one would have thought. At the time, she was too sketchy, too seedy, too angry, and any passion I had for her beaches, and her skyline, and her delicatessens were eviscerated by poor leadership and striking unions. Those were the Koch/Dinkens days when prostitution, drugs, and panhandling were as much a part of Manhattan as Times Square and Central Park. It took a megalomaniac like Giuliani to clean up the mess they made.
When I finally had a choice, I moved to Maryland and had my first affair. I was young and still immature, but I knew she wasn’t going to be my only love. It was more like puppy love; my first time away from home and on my own. I made amazing friendships from my days with her. It would last about four years before the passion waned and I moved on. I learned a lot about beer, classic rock, hazing, and blacking out from my years with her, but I knew there was more to life than frat parties and boiled crabs.
Junior year, I met the love of my life. I drove twenty-one hours with The Joker for our first dalliance. I was infatuated. It was a hot, steamy, intense affair. I devoured everything she had to offer from her spicy food and funky music to her European architecture and quirky cats. She had a joie de vivre that I had never experienced before. It was just a quick weekend at the height of her debauchery, but I knew I would return to her early and often. We had a passionate love, first once a year, then twice a year, then more and more, until our lives would forever be intertwined. She became my soulmate. We were destined to be together, but first I had to make sure we were right for one another. She had problems too. She wasn’t perfect: high crime, humid summers, poor infrastructure, damn hurricanes. I worried that the love would destroy me, that I was too young to enjoy her in moderation. Too much of her at that age would have been a very bad thing for me. That is why I had to leave her.
After graduating college, my father introduced me to Hotlanta. It was four years before the rest of the world got to see her uniqueness. I built a business, bought a home, and dated her for eight years. The first four or five were some of the best of my life. Her southern charm, contemporary food, and pleasant climate were the things I loved most about her. But after her audition on the world stage, she became too popular, too crowded, too hipster. So many others came after her and it made me jealous. They were all just a bunch of fair weather fans. It felt like time to move on, but I couldn’t leave her on my own. I needed a partner in crime, a genuine love affair with the same zest for life. I had known you for years, but never thought I’d be the one for you. Somehow I charmed the pants off of you and we ran away together.
We traveled the world and had passionate flings with Sydney, Bali, Agra, Florence, and others who we can barely remember. But when it was time to settle down, get married, have kids, there was only one for us. We returned to her, this time for good. We were a threesome. We made roots, joined krewes, served locals with our food, and found schools for our children. We were madly in love, even if my parents didn’t exactly approve. We just had so much in common. Sure you were a little too hot for me, a little too high, but there was just so much to love: the genteelness, wit, and laissez-faire attitude. We simply radiated together.
It took a storm of epic proportions for us to realize we would never want to leave each other. That was the moment that sealed the deal, cemented our lives together. From then on, every time we stepped away, we wanted to come back. We never wanted to leave her, and we rarely did.
But after twenty years together, unforeseen circumstances beyond our control stepped in to try to break us apart. Everything we loved about her was ripped away from us. We no longer had our food to serve, our bars to go to, our music to see, our bons temps rouler. We couldn’t just sit idly by waiting for her to return to normal. It was time for us to separate. It was the hardest decision we ever had to make. We needed to see if our family could live without her. We sold our house, liquidated our belongings, and left her in the middle of the worst of times.
We searched far and wide for a place that would take us. We ended up having a three-week-stand in Shoreditch, but it was too soon. We were supposed to be laying low, but she tempted us with her dining-out schemes and open bars. She was trendy, hip, and cool, maybe a little too cool for summer. We weren’t really right for each other. She was just a tad too open. She was just a rebound. We had to move on. We were looking for someone a little different, a little more off-the-beaten-path. Somewhere we had never been before.
After our three week fling, we met Zagreb. We had instant, passionate lust for her. We were smitten by her narrow cobblestone streets overflowing with beautiful people and markets full of fresh flowers, produce, meats and cheeses. She had that joie de vivre that had been taken away from us in New Orleans. But that wasn’t all she had to offer. She had the ancient Roman amphitheater in Pula, the Diocletian’s palace encapsulating Split, and the old city walls protecting Dubrovnik. We drove her stunning countryside and visited her ample wineries. We spent a lot of time on the water appreciating her topography. We admired her perseverance and her history which gave birth to a proud and independent people. She won over our oldest who wants to go back and spend his life with her. But for us, the affair could never last. She was really only after our money. We simply could not afford to live with her. We had to move on.
If Croatia was that passionate affair, then Portugal was the woman we would want to spend the rest of our lives with. It wasn’t instant attraction. Lisbon grew on us with each passing night as surprises abounded behind every street corner. We could spend an afternoon on the water without breaking the wallet and eat pastéis de nata every morning for only a euro. There’s was fado in the evenings and Roman ruins sensibly intertwined within the hills of its modern cityscape. In Porto, we discovered delicious delicacies and cheap wine with every meal. She took us to heights we never thought we’d explore. We gorged on fresh seafood and more pastéis de nata. Our bellies grew full and kept growing with each day. It made one of us bigger than ever.
We’ve spent the past four days down on the southern shores of Lagos falling further in love with Portugal. She is beautiful, maybe not in Croatia’s league, but still quite attractive. Her beaches glimmer in infinite white sand and her bodacious cliffs surround the Algarve. There’s music in the air, food from everywhere, and people from all over living amongst the locals. Her climate is perfect, her aroma is intoxicating, and street performers liven every square. We could spend the rest of our lives with her if our one true love does not beckon us home. I know my parents would not approve of her, but that doesn’t make her any less desirable.
Maybe we are just dreaming. It’s easy to fall in love when her streets are not overrun with loud, obnoxious tourists. There are no behemoth ships congesting her ports, no red baseball caps tainting her shops. We are seeing her at her very best, albeit without her usual nightlife. Maybe winters would bring an overwhelming stillness that would make us long for bloody Marys, fat Tuesday, and football rather than sangrias, quiet Sundays, and fútbol.
On Sunday, it’s time to move on to a new woman named Seville. Everyone says she’s quite the catch. If we stay in Lagos any longer, we may never leave. But we haven’t given up on our one true love just yet. We still think about her all the time, especially while we worried about her rendezvous with Laura, Sally and Delta. If she promises to stay away from those nasty bitches, we promise to give her everything we’ve got, and we still have more love to give. Until then, we will hope, and pray, and vote for change back home. Maybe the time apart was for the best. We want things to return to normal. We want to go back to a home that the world admires, that we admire. If we can’t, then maybe it is time to find a new love.
Shane Finkelstein is the author of “Finding Gordon Lipschitz.” and his latest novel, “Ira Silver Lining,” available on Amazon or at any local New Orleans bookstores.
