There are no strangers here

I move into Karina’s apartment: a spacious studio Chelsea that feels like a home the instant I walk in. It feels incredible to be grounded in one place for over a week. And for the next ten days, I spend my nights in this apartment, e-mailing, planning out the next month, writing proposals, and savoring a few cups of steaming solitude, served with tangy lemon and clover honey. It is good to be able to explore the idea of living alone, although, of course, I am everyday seeing old friends and making new ones, and there are spirits at my side most of the time. Still, late at night I sit wholly engrossed in Coehlo’s books, with tea and Maná playing on the stereo, and I feel solid.

Tuesday evening, I meet with Khiang. This is a remarkable story that I will someday tell someone’s grandchildren (maybe my own, but who can know these things?). Almost exactly one year ago, I was sitting in the Hungarian Pastry Shop pounding the keys on my laptop into semblances of poems and my thesis paper, immersed in my final semester of college. Through the blare of the computer screen and the buzz from an almond coffee, I make out bright images of far away places being passed back and forth between the two men seated at the table to my left. We are all seated very close together—such is the setting of the Hungarian, into which New Yorkers are stuffed into small chairs at even smaller tables, digesting pastries, philosophies, and homework—and yet still I feel as though I am in a separate bubble from them, distanced by the miles of Unknown factors that create the illusory idea of “strangers.” Finally, the two men get up to leave, and pause at the counter to settle their bill. I get up to refill my mug, and decide to burst my bubble by approaching the man with the photographs. I compliment him on his artistry, and, to my surprise, he smiles and gives me his card.

Thus begins a year of emailing back and forth, during which we each learn tidbits about each other’s lives, and vow to meet again over tea the next time we are both in the city. That day arrives on this day on which I write to share the story of the reunion. We meet in the Hungarian and delve into conversations about art, education, international politics, travel, Tibetan brothels, university courses, American activism, women’s movements, Holland and Cambodia, and more. After two hours, I am not ready to leave, but I depart anyway for dinner. Khiang gives me a packet of Dutch waffles as we part, and we decide to meet again for tea soon. This is the tale which evermore will inspire me to act on my impulses to meet interesting people.

Later that night, Students Against Silence has a reunion dinner at a little Italian spot near the university. We all clamor around a very long rectangular table in the back room and spread our humor, political angst, school dramas, and personal dilemmas over baguettes oiled with garlic and vinegar. The combination of all these kindred souls and the rich food, with a few sips of red wine in between, creates a delectable, euphoric sensation in my whole body. We are, each of us, and collectively, one of the most outstanding collections of human beings I have ever experienced in a single moment.