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When
I moved to New York City in August 1999, it seemed everyone
had the perfect man for me. Blind dates had been a rarity in my life; I never dated in high school and had a boyfriend all through college. So at first, I told my friends I wasn't picky; any nice guy would do. Quickly, I learned that the dating scene in Gotham forces a woman to define her territory a little more clearly — literally. Parroting a real-estate slogan I'd heard, whom I would date soon boiled down to three factors. Location, location, location. Venturing East My philosophy is rooted in a hot August weekend day and a mission that started out innocently enough: to get from my apartment on 112th Street and Broadway in Morningside Heights to my best friend's apartment on 87th Street between 1st and 2nd avenues. I gave myself a half-hour for travel time. I hopped on the 1/9 downtown subway to 86th Street and walked to the crosstown bus stop to wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. It felt like more than 100 degrees outside. The bus didn't appear to be coming anytime soon. I saw one with its flashers blinking one block over. But it stayed put. Forty-five minutes later, a different bus pulled up and I was among a dozen people who crammed into its sticky, sweltering interior. But at least we were on our way, or so I thought. The bus stopped Amsterdam Avenue. It stopped at the light. Stop. Light. Stop. Light. And so we proceeded. When I caught some glimpses of Central Park's green in between the other riders surrounding me, I knew my destination was within reach. Wrong. "Fifth Avenue," the bus driver said. Stop. Light. Stop. Light. Stop. Light. At Third Avenue, I could no longer tolerate the smell of sweat on and around me, the feeling of riders' bodies against mine, the starting and stopping of the bus that somehow defied progress. I got out and ran down two blocks and over one. I buzzed my best friend's apartment. "I'm here," I panted. "And I am never coming over again." My version of "The Rules" To be honest, it hasn't quite worked out that way. When she broke up with her boyfriend in December, then got back together with him, then broke up in February again (this time, permanently, she tells me), the best friend in me tried to be there for her, even if it meant an arduous trek over to the East Side. Still, after that initial two-hour trip on an unbearable New York City summer day, I sent the word out to those who seemed to care more about my love life than I. No men from the Upper East Side. Nothing against them. I'm sure some are great boyfriend material. I just can't see myself making that commute for any man on any regular basis. The road to a relationship is rocky enough without getting a crosstown bus involved. Further, as a graduate student in journalism at Columbia University and a free-lance writer, I find myself pressed for the basic necessities of life: showers, exercise, meals. Time spent on a bus on the way to the East Side could much more efficiently be spent at the gym or reading the newspaper. (Unlike a subway, I find reading on the bus near impossible.) A Happy Ending, At Least For Now On Oct. 22, 1999, on a blind date, I met my current boyfriend. His apartment is situated atop an Indian restaurant and smells eternally of curry. His bedroom is the size of my bathroom and has no door. He hangs his clothes on a pole that cuts through the living room. No matter to me. Every time I take the No. 1 or 9 trains down to his West 56th Street pad, I know the alternative could be sweating or freezing at a crosstown bus stop. Besides, he's a pretty nice guy. And every time, I meet a man from the Upper East Side complaining about his love life. I offer him the sage words of newspaper editor Horace Greeley, whom I now appreciate as both a reporter and woman: Go west, young man.
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