a rambling reflection on luv in the city

I had only known New York City through the media, so it always felt mythological — the dance between sun and shade on brownstone, the concrete buildings eclipsing every point of horizon. Here in this desert of Los Angeles, the sun stains every surface and the mountains zig zag across the horizon.

Now that I’ve roamed and tasted and drank my way throughout the city, I understand why people personify New York City, or any city in general. I understand how a city becomes a third party in a relationship.

For my boyfriend and his first love, that third party was New York City. I’m sure they were both naive and bright-eyed when they met, in a city that was bubbling and fizzing with hope, restlessness — a tantalizing energy that pulled you in with its glossy skyscrapers and insomniatic nightlife, only to spit you out if you couldn’t keep up with the escalating rent prices and $20 cocktails.

For my last relationship, that third party was Santa Barbara — Isla Vista, to be specific. It was a town suffused with eternal youth, an ocean of invincibility and recklessness. If I had to draw an anatomy of our bodies, it was 25% burrito, 25% artificially-flavored water, and 50% of unnamed substances that were never vetted and screened for safety. Isla Vista swallowed us completely, until we both forgot who we were.

Without discounting my love for my last partner, sometimes I wonder if I would’ve fallen in love with the same depth in another place. How much love and attraction and intimacy can be attributed to the birthplace of a budding romance? Isla Vista is a wild battleground of unbridled debauchery, and our relationship thrived on binge drinking and blinding light shows. Could that same love have been cultivated in the suburbs of Irvine, a city that strategically thwarts accessible public transportation to prevent a class of visitors from intercepting and passing through?

I’ve moved back home with my parents, our childhood home nestled between the mountains and the sea. And I’ve fallen in love again with a boy who also moved back home. We’re both blessed to live in Los Angeles, a city home to nearly four million. You could say Los Angeles might be our third party, and it’s a diverse one that offers an appetizer sampler of the world: everything from Little Armenia to Little Ethiopia. But I think we could’ve fallen in love anywhere in the world, under any circumstances. Is that crazy and foolish and arrogant to think?