Before you read further, please understand that as someone who has consistently failed to appreciate complexities of human existence such as religion, love, and happiness, I have developed a coping mechanism in the form of sensibilities. These make me inclined to attach higher significance to simple everyday events and apparently, keep me alive.
March 17, 2010 was a Wednesday, St. Patrick's Day, and the best day of my life, all in one, and it lasted between 7:20 p.m. and 8:45 p.m. I had just called my friend to confirm a dinner appointment, and he wasn't coming. I looked out the window of my bedroom, judged the darkness, and took out my blue jacket from the closet. I remember walking down the stairs of my dorm very slowly and playing in my head the scene of me pushing the front door before I got there. Then I finally got to the door, pushed it open, and felt as though the world had stopped. The night air was not only warm but charged with some invisible energy that crept up my skin. Warm days in Boston are rare occurrences (though more frequent nowadays) but I could recall only one other day that had stimulated this sensibility of mine. It was after a rainstorm during the first semester, when I, bracing for temperature equally cold as the days before and grumbling about puddles , walked out the front door and stopped in mid-air, startled. The familiar signs of wetness and cold - puddles deposited under trees, muddied leaves carpeting the ground - were accompanied by an electrifying warm air that blanketed my body. The air carried its own pungency as though it were revealing its breathing, living self for the first time. The reason I remember this day so well, aside from the strange warmth, is that it was the weekend of Harvard's 30-year Reunion, and walking out, I ran into a white man standing outside the front doorsteps peering at the top of my dorm building. A bachelor with signs of white in his hair and a former Harvard student who had lived in my dorm, he shared some of his most treasured college experiences thirty years ago. He was particularly fond of memories of midnight water hose fights with members of the rival dorm. Then he confided to me the secret that haunted him behind his noble face: he had come from a poor family, spent much of his life chasing money, made a lot of it, and was still not happy. When I told him I wanted to work for a NGO, he smiled and said cheerfully, "You are a do-gooder, eh?" He told me to do whatever makes me happy, and I said I would. But I remember thinking to myself nothing in the world could make me happy.
With this vibrant memory recovered and stowed away in my subconscious backpocket and the mysterious night air sloshing the living energy of all things against my cheeks, I made my way out the campus gate. For a Wednesday night, streets were crowded but it was a gentle, muted din that permeated the sidewalks. There must have been a lot of tourists because every time I crossed the street, I always caught a foreign accent approaching me from the other side. People were in good spirits and seemed modestly dressed up for some occasion, not clad in any showy party attire but confident, wholesome, and warm. They were gathered around every streetlight, it seemed, maybe having that occasional profound and slightly confessional conversation that gets elicited when you are in a group of friends. The guy selling magazines at the newsstand was even chatting it up with a customer away from his merchandise. I remember feeling slightly overwhelmed by the mirth everywhere but the dizziness may have come from not eating all day.
I was heading straight for Chipotle, and the sign shone out like a beacon even among an array of other street signs. Harvard Square has at least three other burrito restaurants - Qdoba, Boloco's, and Felipe's- but Chipotle easily tops them all. You get bigger burritos for the buck and more and fresher ingredients, not to mention the animals in Chipotle Farm are free-range. The vibe, though, is what really does it for me. Whoever makes the Chipotle Mixtape is a fan of quiet indie and soul, and I am a convert.
With a chicken fajita burrito in hand, I made my way to my favorite seat in the restaurant, a stool in a two-seat arrangement near the waiting line that when properly positioned, faces the large window left of the main entrance. The seat is far away enough from the window that I can see the people walking outside but they don't see me. When they turn toward my direction, their eyes are naturally drawn to the three parallel stools right up against the inside of the window. The stools are well lighted, even by Hemingway's standards I think, by small bulbous studio lights directly overhead, kind of like products on display inside a shop. I say the pedestrians normally see the stools because they are hardly ever occupied. It's awkward to be stared at. But that night, two of the three stools were taken by a young couple. The guy, maybe in his early 20's, had a hoodie on and was enjoying what appeared from the reflection on the glass to be either a carnitas or barbacoa burrito. The girl, also in her early 20's, was making good progress on an unidentified burrito. I am not sure why I was so drawn to this couple, but I think I was intrigued that they had chosen to sit parallel to each other facing right up against the glass. Couples normally sit where I sit, a table for two where they can look at each other and make conversation. One explanation is that they had tried it before, spotted tortilla stuck in their lover's teeth halfway through a conversation, and not repeated the experiment again. It sounds silly but that's actually why I would not take a girl to eat Chipotle with me. The burritos are stuffed, cheap, and delicious but downright unromantic. But what about being displayed in front of the glass? As I wondered this, almost out loud, I spotted the guy's free hand not holding the burrito moving toward the girl's lower torso. I telegraphed its trajectory and forecasted its stop at her thigh, at the same time awed by this amazing display of balance and audacity. Keep in mind that this guy was holding a ginormous burrito in one hand and making the delicate maneuver with the other. So anyway, I prepared to witness what I would call a bold double-dipping in pleasure, but then I saw his hand instead land at her kneecap. The whole movement, if you can call it that, was a gentle sweep that carried his hand to her kneecap, and it rested there lightly and innocuously. The gesture was so natural and soft that the girl didn't notice. Moments later, I saw them exchange a few words in between bites, their heads facing each other at an angle. I can't explain it but seeing that gesture made me want to fall in love. I wanted to be that guy, stoic as can be, holding a burrito in one hand and laying the other on a girl's kneecap. Nothing sensual, nothing suggestive. A comforting touch, a simple appreciation of the patella, and yet a reminder of the special connection you share. They were sitting up against the glass so the whole world could see they were in love. In love, the boy and girl were negotiating with the world on their own terms. They made a Chipotle meal romantic. They made a sideway conversation romantic. They made me romantic. And I did.
After I finished my burrito, my state of mind was considerably different from before. Usually when my creature comforts are satisfied, I allow myself the leisure to drift from myself and live vicariously through the pedestrians, imagining the kind of day they had and the kind of lives they led. But that night, it wasn't possible. A new excitement ran through me, and I hate to say it but I felt as though a belljar had been lifted from my head. I was alive and in love with a girl, a feeling I had never believed or understood. I was wondering what to do with myself and had not made up my mind to go back to my room just yet so I decided to walk down the street until I figured it out. Suddenly I heard behind me a familiar voice calling my name. It was my teaching fellow for inorganic chemistry, a sprightly young lad with a friendly disposition (he's actually 24). Based on his attire and a hint of hair gel new to his appearance, I knew what was up. We exchanged some small talk and he went into a restaurant saying he was "meeting someone." I was damn proud of him. When your spirits are high, it's easy to feel generous.
After running into my teaching fellow, my mind was made up. I was walking down to the Charles River. I wove through the streets, never staying on the same road for too long and taking random detours I never took. I passed by the homeless shelter where I volunteer and re-read the Biblical verse from Psalm 46 engraved on the stone panel near the entrance, "God is in the midst of the city." The other Biblical verse that was on my mind was "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself." I was giving myself a lot of loving that night, and I think it was only then that I could reciprocate the love to others, and to the girl on my mind. For a while, I had desperately hoped I could love, even pretended I could, but had lacked something. I found that something that night, the way vulnerable Cathy in East of Eden elicits love from Adam. I can't explain or justify what that something was. I can't explain or justify anything from that night. But at the time, I could be hardly bothered. I enjoyed the warm orange glows of streetlamps as I made my way to the river. Finally I reached the road that stretches around the Charles River, stepped over the ledge that lines the curb, and stood in the darkened grassy grounds before the river. There is a rumor that Charles River was once so polluted that it was unfit for swimming but at night, it's as beautiful a river as any other. The lights from Harvard Business School dorms and high-rise buildings on the other side of the river are reflected like crystal stalactites across the waters, and when you are lucky, you can make out the small figures of late-night runners and bikers far away. I sat down on a bench close to the outskirts of the river, feeling exhausted but ridiculously happy. There was a couple biking together on the circular path around the river who stopped where I could see them. The girl took out a cellphone and took a picture of the two of them, faces meeting each other to get in the frame. I was willing to try out that Chipotle experiment with a date, but not this frivolous activity. Still, I was feeling generous and smiled.
As I walked back through the streets, still bathed in the glory of the night and the thrill of love, I wondered if I would wake up the next morning and have this feeling again. I did. Up ahead, I saw the flashing sirens of a fire truck and took another street. Nothing was going to ruin my mood that night.
