Flavor of the Week: Cruel Summer

Ah, summer romance. It’s that magical idea that’s conceived in May, matures around July 4 and peters out by the time white pants have been declared seasonally unacceptable. Some people swear they enjoy fleeting romances, but warm-weather relationships can be veritable landmines for the rest of us. Maybe you want a commitment and your partner wants to keep it light. Maybe it’s the other way around. Or, if you’re like me, the problem is simply finding someone worthy.

I already knew of a few ways not to pick up a dude—during my summer as an intern in New York, neither my offer of Lady Gaga concert tickets nor the invitations to cuddle up and watch Julie and Julia had worked out, and by hanging out almost exclusively with my guy friends, I was inadvertently cock-blocking myself. The fantasy of a casual encounter on the subway hadn’t really panned out, either. Over pizza, the moderately cute guy who had chatted me up between 72nd Street and Times Square stations on the 1 described ad nauseam the last woman he’d taken out, a heartless vegan.

So, out of curiosity—and, OK, yes, the tiny part of me that wanted to be swept off my feet—the search was on. All I could do was hope that the seasonal aromas of urine and garbage would be complemented by hypnotizing wafts of pheromones.

My first stop was the top of the Empire State Building, the very place Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan found love in Sleepless in Seattle, and where Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr would have found love in An Affair to Remember had it not been for that damn car accident. After paying a $20 entry fee, waiting in various lines for an hour and being hassled by terse security guards, it was obvious that the men still standing weren’t lacking patience or dedication. Perhaps because of those virtues, most of them weren’t lacking gal pals either. I flirted mildly with the twentysomething elevator operator, but since it was his job to shuttle my fellow sightseers and me 80-plus stories down, that too was fleeting.

Famished and forlorn, the next station on the love tour had to provide some sustenance. I reasoned that a shared sweet tooth, sure to become a shared case of diabetes in later life, could be the beginning of a beautiful relationship. I wandered into Billy’s Bakery thinking maybe that’s where I would find a hopelessly romantic carbo-loader who drowned his void with mountains of fluffy buttercream. But alas, one glance inside the bakeshop revealed there would be no spark that night—except for my immediate infatuation with the mini cheesecakes nestled in the display case. The only male patron was with his girlfriend, and anyway, he was eating meringue. (I shouldn’t have expected to pick up a manly man at a bakery, I know, but meringue? Really?) True to form, I devoured a cupcake, but my heart just wasn’t in it.

I had an inkling I might get lucky on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum—a feeling that was reinforced when I spotted Eliot Spitzer a few blocks from the museum. If ever there was an omen that there was a rendezvous in store, that had to be it.

And it was. After getting settled, I noticed a guy a few feet away. He was looking in my direction and he soon ended up right beside me. We made awkward small talk and discovered our mutual love of the Arrested Development TV show. Then he pulled out his iPhone and added me on Facebook. It would have been a movie-perfect first encounter, except later FB stalking revealed that he was “in a relationship,” a status I didn’t consider trying to change.

I had no luck whatsoever at Fulton Ferry Landing. There were several perspiring, apparently single guys perched on benches, but none of us could look away from the wedding photo train wreck happening in front of us. “Danielle, call someone at the hotel! I need blotting papers!” the sweaty bride yelled at a bridesmaid, who scurried away frantically. The photographer snapped shots, mostly of Bridezilla incessantly straightening her husband’s tie, and I watched as a nearby guy’s expression went from amused to distraught until he finally stood up, threw away his half-eaten hot dog and fled. I thought the city skyline and the sound of water lapping against the dock would be an ideal backdrop for a romantic encounter, but after watching this disaster, any guy who’d come to cruise girls would have wisely aborted his mission. I took that as a sign to abandon my cause, too.

A week later, I was at CitiField cheering on the Mets, who suffered a close loss to St. Louis. I was making my way down the steep steps from the nosebleeds, head bowed, when I ran smack into my weakness—a circa 1983 Billy Joel lookalike. His popcorn and wallet went flying and, as we bent over to retrieve it, he smiled at me. I hadn’t considered making moves on a depressed sports fan, but his bedroom eyes convinced me that a vulnerable mets fan could be just what I wanted. Over a beer, and late, late into the night, I learned that maybe in New York, misery really does make the best company.