Making friends

For someone who is “cutting out coffee”, I’d made quite a centerpiece as a occupant of the outdoor seating at Espresso Royale for the past three days in a row. Justified by reunions of old friends, the declaration of abstinence I’d made upon my arrival in Ann Arbor had quickly been tossed out the window as ludicrous. But today, I wasn’t awaiting the arrival of an old friend. I was awaiting the arrival of a date, of sorts. 

After battling one of my all too frequent bouts of physical malady on Monday night, I’d ultimately decided to say “phooey” to my remaining discomfort (significantly dulled down from a former level 5 on the Richter scale of stomach quakes) and make it out to a semi-recently discovered pastime (for me) of Monday Night Nectoing. 

For those un-ann-arbored yet, the Necto is a place that you would never expect to find me. The last time I looked like I would “belong” in the necto was in high school. Ironically, that was when all my friends were going and I was adamantly opposed. But, one can always count on best friends to enlighten and enrich one another with new experiences. Last year for her birthday, I promised Anna a day of her choosing. We ventured, we went to Grand Rapids, we bonded and she convinced me to go to the Necto with her. Monday nights are “factory” nights and so I dug through my little remaining highschool wardrobe for anything black and made a mishmash attempt at the “goth” look. I pleasantly surprised myself. The industrial dubstep and otherwise wonky-genre music was a joy to dance to; if anything, it beaconed my body more into dance. I was hooked. But from there on out, I would ditch the black. It was a place to express.

So, while I sometimes have had to compromise with my body in the past and attend things while quelling inner discomfort, I was not going to go that night if I couldn’t groove. 

Level 5 averted however, I went, I danced, I enjoyed. And as with club territory, I got hit on. Normally, this is brushed off with a disinterested air but near the end of the night - perhaps feeling more open from the drinks and the dancing - I found myself intrigued with an encounter. 

Anna and I had taken a seat on one of the benches outside and a flamboyantly gay man who I’d admired earlier began talking with us - er, more so the indirect talking near you about something else in the way one does when they want to include you. In this case, he and his friend were trying to find him a guy and he was berating about no one admitting themselves to be gay. I was so amused with his charismatic - albeit self-involved - act, that I didn’t even notice at first that his friend was admiring me. And then, she began to talk to me and I quickly realized that they were a gay pair, both trying to help the other find partners. Sofia was unabashedly dropping admiring compliments and I was flattered but quick to point out that I was not gay. She frowned but then said, “bi?” to which I didn’t exactly dismiss downright. She played with my hair while we talked as conversationally as one can in a loud club and then we exchanged numbers. She wanted to get together with me before I left if I had time. And I found that I wasn’t completely uncomfortable with the idea. 

And so on Thursday afternoon, I was on my way to a coffee date with Sofia. I checked in with my energy as I walked and was intrigued to find that, although I wasn’t fluttery or nervous or really invested one way or the other (we hadn't ever confirmed the time or place, as our conversation stopped the night before while hashing possibilities) but it was oddly…comfortable. I’d made out with girls in high school, sure. But I’d never gone on a date with the serious consideration of seeing if someone would be compatible as a relationship. I’d been thinking about my blunders with men and wondered if maybe it was time to be open to other options. It felt right. 

Well, our details never got worked out for whatever reason. But as I sat there, waiting to see if something would pan out, the man at the next table over - a man I’d vaguely recognized as being a frequenter for the last three days that I had been there - asked if I could watch his stuff. In no hurry, I graciously obliged and when he returned, he thanked me with a lingering that indicated more conversation. A few minutes later, he queried with the most run-of-the-mill line of questioning in the book: “I’ve seen you around here lately. Did you just move here?” I was quick to establish my grounds as a born-and-bred, but careful not to retort with snark and quickly pleased that I hadn’t. 

Shaz was a slim, clay-skinned man who could have perhaps been in his mid-to-late thirties but spoke in an understandable middle-eastern accent with the vibrancy and eyes of someone in their twenties, at the “peak of life”, as they say. What began as a friendly exchange from two tables away turned into a three-hour conversation, sharing one of the small round seating arrangements as though we were old friends. He was a math and physics tutor at the University and had recently finished the outline to a large writing project - a textbook of sorts - on the two subjects. He had recently emerged from this introverse cave of writing and conceptual mining and was just readjusting to life in laymen’s world, intrigued by ways in which I used or paired words and phrasings, explaining how his mind had functioned on a terminology and analytically-based language diet for so long. He was fascinated with my seemingly “freebird” life flow while I was impressed with his diligence in writing, teaching and otherwise tasking himself with intellectual heft while still functioning so lightly in spirit socially. He felt stuck in Ann Arbor and I laughed, as I’d heard the sentiment so many times before. But I did feel for him. Especially since he loved travel. A self-proclaimed and evidently proven story teller, he regaled some of his train and travel encounters with me that he one day hoped to turn into pieces of published fiction. Our conversation carved hills, dipping smoothly into the slightest introductions to our deeper struggles and faults before rising up where our lower selves met, sharing a common characteristic which we graciously smiled at one another for understanding. We eagerly exchanged book titles on paper scraps like college study buddies. We told more stories, about death and unexpected connections. The last story that he imparted to me before we parted was a sort of parable of Freedom which featured Parrots. “It is a common children’s story. But not in America. And it is not India. That is not where I am from. I will tell you next time.” We hugged, planning to walk in the Arb before I leave. 

Making new friends is exciting. But there is nothing that puts a skip in your step more than when that connection is authentic and meaningful, where both parties are occupying the same energetic space. I can’t help but think that in moments like these, the world was planning something. 

In writing this, it made me think of how interesting it would be to have written accounts of the first interactions I’d had with all the people in my life. What would that look like? Would the first encounters show an indication of the connection we’ve come to have? Would they show surprising contrast?