“Have you been to that part of the world before?” Younger Luke asks.
“Kind of? Greece is probably the closest? And I’ve been to Morocco. I know they’re not even that close by, but in my head . . . the markets, spices, carpets . . . I kind of feel like they’re similar. Have you been?”
“No, but I’ve been to Morocco, too. I loved it there. Did you?”
“Oh, yes. I thought it was incredible. The colors, the sounds, the architecture . . . one of those places that made my heart swell with excitement just walking down the street.”
He nods. “Yeah, it’s a fascinating place, but we had some really odd experiences there.”
“Odd how?”
“I was with my brother, and we got pulled over on the highway—”
“—We got pulled over, too! ALL the time!”
“Did you get pulled over and held at gunpoint and forced to buy hashish?” Younger Luke asks.
I look at him blankly. “What?”
“We got pulled over and held at gunpoint. We couldn’t figure out what was going on, but they demanded our money. So we gave them some of it, and then they handed us a bag of hashish and sped off.”
“Wait. Really?” I cock my head, and he nods in response. I ask again, “Like, really really?”
“Really really,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Oh. No.” I sit back. “That’s nothing like what happened to me. . . . Why did they force you to buy drugs at gunpoint?”
“No idea. Afterward we wondered if maybe they thought we were someone else.”
“And the reason they’d be pulling over someone else and forcing them to buy drugs at gunpoint is . . .”
“Dunno. The world’s a crazy place, you know. You’d better be careful out there.” He dunks a tortilla chip in the guacamole and pops it in his mouth. “So what happened to you in Morocco?”
“Oh, many things. Not nearly as good as your story. . . .”
“I’m listening.”
“No, we just . . . well, my ex-boyfriend has coloring like mine, so we . . . kind of stand out in Africa, you know? So we drove in a big loop, from Casablanca to Essaouira . . . to Marrakech to Fes and back. We were only there for maybe . . . nine days? Only driving for, like, four of those days. But we got pulled over and ticketed eight times. Eight! I think they just knew they could take advantage because . . . what are you supposed to do when alone in the desert with a police officer who demands to be paid on the spot for a ticket? We stopped carrying cash at one point for this reason, but then the next officer took credit cards. It was crazy.”
“Is your ex-boyfriend a NASCAR driver?” He smiles as he picks up another tortilla chip.
“That’s the crazy part: one time, we got ticketed for going two kilometers over the speed limit. That’s, like, one mile!”
“That’s whack.”
“I know.” I nod repeatedly. “I think we paid more in speeding tickets than we did for the rental car. Or maybe even for our flights.”
“There were a lot of things I found quirky and lovable in Morocco,” he muses, crunching on another guacamole-piled chip.
“Ooh. Fun game. Like what?” I grab a chip from the basket.
“Well, like, for starters, everywhere we stayed, I kept seeing those vibrating workout machines. You know? The ones from the fifties with the belt you wear that . . . shakes off the fat?”
I laugh. “They have it in the Carousel of Progress at Disney World, so yes, I know what you’re talking about.”
“When was the last time you were in Disney World?”
“A month or two ago.” I add quickly, “Don’t judge me.”
“Judging. But fine. With, like, a boyfriend? A boyfriend and your kids?”
“No, with my college friends. . . . Remember,” I point my tortilla chip at him, “no judging.”
“Right. Anyway, so that’s what I remember from Morocco. That, and hammams. . . . Have you ever been to a hammam?”
I nod. “In Marrakech.”
“So mine was . . . unique,” Younger Luke says thoughtfully.
“Unique how?”
“Well, instead of it being in a private room, while lying down on a table or chair, you got scrubbed down on this platform in a room full of naked people.”
“Was it coed? That sounds so . . . un-Moroccan.”
“No, but still, it’s kind of . . . incredibly unsexy to get scrubbed down in your birthday suit in front of a dozen other dudes who are watching.”
“I’ve never been to one like that but . . . agreed. It sounds pretty unsexy. Oh! Except, I actually saw a moooovi—” I cut myself off. “Nothing.”
He chokes on his sip of coconut margarita as he laughs. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly, blushing.
“You saw it in a mooovie?” he sounds out slowly.
“Ugh! I do not want to be telling you this story.”
“Come on.”
I shake my head back and forth.
“Come on. You’re making it more awkward by not saying it. Now my imagination is going to . . . run wild. Get the better of me.”
I groan. “Okay, fine.” I breathe in. “This, too, is a long story. But last year my brother was trying to come up with a venue for his birthday party. I’d just gone to a party on the Lower East Side at a place that I thought was pretty neat. . . . It’s just a bar, but they had good cheap drinks, nice lighting, you know. Important party stuff.”
He nods.
“Anyway, I told Ben the name of the bar and he was like, ‘Don’t they screen porn there?’ and I was like, ‘What are you talking about? Of course they don’t screen porn there.’ And he was like, ‘I’ve been there once. I’m pretty sure they do.’ And I told him he was nuts, and I had just been there, and it was delightful.”
“Sooooo . . .?”
“So we get there for his party, and there’s totally porn screening on the televisions. Porn on three of them, West Side Story on the fourth. It was so weird!”
“So had they not been showing it when you were there before?”
“No. I asked friends who were there with me, after the fact. Apparently they showed porn that night, too! I was just so excited to be reunited with some old friendly faces, I totally didn’t pay attention to what was flashing on the monitors.”
“That’s really funny.”
“Yeah, and my brother’s friend blogs for The Daily Beast or BuzzFeed or one of those sites, and he wrote a post about it the next day. Like ‘last night I went to a really weird birthday party on the Lower East Side where they showed porn and West Side Story.’ So, you know, the party’s now kinda famous, I guess.”
Luke laughs, and it’s not just a polite laugh, it’s genuine.
“So anyway, getting back to the original point of my story, one of the porn flicks showed woman-on-woman action inside a bathhouse. Which was maybe like the ambience you experienced at the hammam in Morocco?”
“No, no,” he says quickly, “nothing like that.”
“I didn’t mean for you, personally.”
He relaxes. “Ahh. Right. Right. Then, uhh, yeah. Maybe?”
“So what else did you notice that was . . . quirky or different in Morocco?”
“Their Doritos are pointy.”
“Aren’t all Doritos pointy?”
“When was the last time you opened a bag of Doritos?” He looks at me quizzically.
“Is this . . . a trick question? Because I have no idea where you’re going with this. . . .”
“No, it’s just they started making Doritos with rounded edges years ago. It was, like, a choking hazard or lawsuit issue or something.”
“What?”
“No, it’s true. Anyway, I miss those pointy Doritos,” he says longingly. “And I was surprised that Morocco can get their own special batch of pointy ones. They probably make them for other places, too. Like Turkey.”
“Okay.” But he doesn’t say anything. “And?”
“And, what
I’m trying to say is: I want to pay for dinner tonight. But in exchange, if you can find the pointy-edged Doritos, bring me back a bag. I’ll reimburse you, of course.”
“Noooo, that’s okay. I think I can afford one bag of Doritos. . . . And thanks for dinner?”
He walks me home, and I thank him again for dinner and for trekking to the Upper East Side midweek.
“It seems only fair. You’ve got a busy week and packing to do. Besides, it was worth it.” And this time, when he kisses me, it doesn’t surprise me or make me nervous. He places his hands on my waist, and I wonder to myself, should I touch his face? Don’t touch his face? Touch his face? I reach my hands up and place them lightly on either side of his face and we stand there on my doorstep, lips locked, still as statues.
Greetings from North America: Older Luke
May 25 at 6:12 p.m.
Subject: Hello, it’s Luke, Greetings from North America
Alison,
I’m really sorry we missed each other’s calls yesterday and today. I hope you had a safe flight.
How many days are you staying in each place? What’s the area you’re in like? What types of buildings are you staying in?
By the way, you should tell your friend Jason that he’s on to something with his idea about a male-centric Sex and the City. I think the act of trying to analyze single male behavior is interesting and might get traction. He could have been a psychiatrist! I hope you’ll introduce us when you’re back.
Speaking of psychiatry, I read this interesting article in The Atlantic about a psychiatrist who followed some now-septuagenarian men, starting at Harvard undergrad and into old age. The premise was to find the secret of happiness. He noted that men who possessed at least five of the following characteristics were happiest: low weight, some exercise, education, stable marriage, nonsmoker, and no problems with alcohol. Ironically, the psychiatrist himself seemed to be plagued with unhappiness and was divorced three times.
Boomer went to the dog park for visit #3 yesterday. He did pretty well until he and a Rottweiler got into a metaphorical pissing contest and both turned violent. Baby steps . . .
I look forward to hearing back from you. I have to tell you I’ve been really impressed with the maturity and intelligence you’ve shown in our conversations. For me, that stuff goes a long way and I hope to continue such conversations.
Hope you are having a great time,
Luke
My brother warned me that whenever his dating prospects go on vacation, they somehow manage to disappear, never to be heard from again. After borrowing my dad’s iPad and finding Older Luke’s thoughtful note in my inbox, I make a point of setting aside time the next day to get to the hotel business center and type out a semiworthy reply. I’d like to keep this (potential) relationship going, vacation be damned.
May 26 at 10:59 p.m.
Hı Luke!
Apologıes ın advance for the many typoş certaın to sprınkle thıs emaıl, aş I’m writinğ fröm a funky keyböard and my tıme at the kıösk ış about to expıre.
Much to see/do/soak up ın Istanbul, so we’ve been movıng at an uncharacterıstıcally speedy pace (not bad though, oddly ınvığoratınğ). Thıngs should calm down tomorrow when we leave the bığ cıty and head ınto the smaller coastal towns and ancıent ruın sıtes. . . . In brıef, the weather’s been much cooler than predıçted (low 60s) whıch means I pretty much packed entırely ıncorrectly and am shıverıng ın all the photographs. But! İ have made several wonderful dışcoverıes about Türkısh hıstory andor culturë| (hmm, can’t fınd the colon symbol)
1.
A 52-karat dıamond really just looks lıke a Rıng Pop, only clear. An 86-karat dıamond really just looks lıke three Rınğ Pöps lıned up şıde by şıde.
2.
Beıng the ımam ın the Topkapı Palace who reads the Qur’an aloud ceaselessly before tourısts for 500 years would be a pretty undesırable job. Not as undeşırable, höwever, as beıng part of a dyıng sultan’s harem, sınce you know your fun wıll end when you’ll be drowned the day after he kıcks the bucket. Also, the sultan had a 4-ft. cırcumference, ıf hıs robes on dısplay are any ındıcatıon . . . so that’s another drawback of the whole harem-job thıng, too.
3.
Beautıful tılınğ, archıtectural detaıl, plasterwork, and möşaıcs abound at every corner, and I’d forğötten how addıctıve Türkısh cöffee ıs.
Off to Cappadocıa tomorrow, more to follow ıf/when I have email accesş agaın. Happy to hear that Boomer’s contınuıng to make socıal progress. Hope all ıs well on your end!
Cheers,
Alison
P.S. Do you thınk you possess fıve of the sıx secrets to happıness? Just curıoüs ;)
May 29 at 6:43 a.m.
Hey Alison,
Great to hear back from you! I hope you’re still having a nice time. In answer to your question, yes, I have five of the six qualities: low weight, exercise, education, nonsmoker, and no problems with alcohol. I’m missing the marriage piece.
Where have you visited since you last wrote? What’s been your favorite, or favorites?
When you get back, I’d like to go with you to the Jasper Johns exhibit at MoMA. It includes photographs and works by Francis Bacon. I imagine you’ve studied Bacon in your art history classes; I always found his works to be grotesque yet compelling. I’m curious to see what kind of dialogue he and his works created with another painter. Just in case you’re unfamiliar with this work, here’s an example: http://www.artknowledgenews.com/files2009a/Bacon_Pope_Innocent_X.jpg
Bacon’s style never changed over the course of his career. I always find that interesting and somewhat depressing, when a talented artist fails to evolve.
Ring Pop: I had to Google it. You’re talking about a ring lollipop, right?
Harems . . . many thoughts. One, do you think the women are depressed or anxious? How are their attitudes related to their inherent dispositions?
Are you taking pictures of all the various architecture? What’s been your favorite so far?
So, I know you can’t answer all these questions with your limited Internet access. I would like it if you give this one a try, though: If you had to say what the six keys to happiness are for women, what would they be?
Take lots of photos, I’d like to see them when you’re back. You return Sunday? Glad you’re having a good time, may it continue.
-Luke
May 31 at 11:07 p.m.
Hi Luke!
So much good stuff to respond to, I’m not sure where to begin (though my time’s once again limited, it should be somewhat smoother--if less amusing for you--since this keyboard is Americanized). . . . In order of your inquiries/thoughts:
Yes to Francis Bacon (and Jasper Johns)! I actually made a mental note several months ago to see that exhibition when it opened at MoMA. I’m not sure whether or not I consider myself a Bacon “fan,” but suffice it to say I find his work interesting. I always kind of thought of him as the modern-day version of Hieronymus Bosch. And he’s oddly referenced a fair bit in neorealist Italian cinema critique from the 1960s/70s, hence my piqued interest. Good suggestion!
You had to Google Ring Pop (yes, lollipop)? Don’t you remember the annoying commercial jingles at the very least? C’mon, I’m not THAT young.
OK, so this is a major cop out, but I’ve been giving a surprising amount of thought to the psychology behind job happiness (based largely on my learning about imams, harems, and whirling dervishes this week) and then relationship happiness, and ultimately life happiness, and I’m saving all my answers for the harem question for a longer conversation to be had in person. Although not in The Atlantic, I literally just read all about the Harvard study of the 268 men last week in an in-flight magazine.
So, I haven’t read the scholarly version *yet*, but based on the more mainstream rendition I saw . . . I think the conclusions are kind of, well, cheap? Marital stability can’t be one of six factors of happiness, on equa
l footing with weight. Having a stable relationship is going to make you happier. It’s pretty much the predominant factor, or maybe second if you’re of the camp where professional happiness is paramount. . . . So while I thought the article was a worthy - if depressing - read, and I was interested in the idea of a 60+ year longitudinal study (and the evolution/growth/decay of the study itself), that concept of the six factors should be reworked, in my extremely amateur opinion. . . . What was your take?
Yes, way too many pictures of buildings and not nearly enough of people (as is always the case when I travel) but I’ll gladly give you a slideshow when I’m stateside again. We just left Cappadocia, which is famed for its unique geological formations (long explanation that requires me to draw on a napkin. I’ll save that, too). We actually stayed in a converted cave hotel -- my favorite example thus far of adaptive reuse. We got to do some quality rock climbing outside and inside the caves, and enjoyed some really wonderful hikes through the valleys of these structures/formations (one was alone with my dad for several hours. You’d be proud of me! All trip I’ve been working on that four-minute probing-conversational approach you recommended; really got in some good ones with him during the multihour hike). Also hot air ballooned through the valley, which was quite different perspectivally (is that a word? It’s not. Oh well, I shall employ it thus).
Okay, so the man waiting for the kiosk is glaring at me, and this has officially become the world’s longest email, so I should go. But before I do, how are YOU? Any big staycation-y activities over the three-day weekend? Quality time with Boomer? I assume you were off from work for some - if not all - of that time?
Hope all’s well with you! Yes, back on Sunday afternoon.
Cheers,
Alison
In a bookstore in the Ataturk Airport in Istanbul, I purchase a copy of When Nietzsche Wept, a historical fiction novel that melds philosophy and psychotherapy. In fairness, I had already exhausted all the reading materials I packed for this vacation, so I needed something to occupy me on the eleven-hour flight home. But I’d be lying if I said this purchase wasn’t at least partially motivated by eagerness to have a new talking point with Older Luke.
Match Made in Manhattan Page 19