By Jeanne Martinet

Just to set the record straight: In spite of what the characters may say in my novel Etiquette for the End of the World, I myself do not believe the Apocalypse is happening this week. But end of the world obsessions do intrigue me. There is obviously a reason people like to toy with the idea of “the End.” Whether this human tendency is related to our fear of death, our fear of change or just an inherent addiction to fear itself, it certainly seems to be eternally seductive. Perhaps it’s not so much a fear of change as it is a wish for change, for a shake-up. I mean, why would everyone be so focused on the end of the world if we didn’t secretly wish something would happen? Maybe we want a do-over. An erasing of the blackboard. After all, times of change are when we grow and learn, even when it is painful.

I believe New Yorkers are more practiced at dealing with endings than most folks.

Things change so quickly here. Our favorite restaurants and stores are always disappearing (for me, the hardest was Docks on the Upper West Side, where for years I took my houseguests for lobster and martinis). We are always saying goodbye to something in our city, in our neighborhoods. CBGB. Tavern on the Green. H&H bagels. Lenox Lounge. I recently heard the Stage Deli has closed, and there are rumors that the Ziegfeld Theater may close soon. How often do we walk down the street and think, “Wait, wasn’t there a wonderful mom-and-pop sandwich shop right here? Where did it go?” It seems to happen in the blink of an eye. As New Yorkers, we are always saying goodbye, grieving the loss of memory-filled parts of our environment.

A couple weeks ago I read in the Times that Steinway Hall on 57th Street might be shutting its doors, because of the building being sold. And so (happily, as it turned out) last week I decided to take the time to go there. I was struck at once by the beauty of the building itself—a Beaux Arts landmark, featuring a 19th-century Viennese crystal chandelier and a high ceiling decorated with allegorical scenes of lions, elephants, goddesses and nymphs. The atmosphere is hushed and solemn, the gleaming pianos made more thrilling because of the expectation of sound they can produce. I was meditating on all this magnificence when suddenly a man seemed to “apparate” from behind a door.

He was wearing a crazy clown tie, one that stuck out stiffly into the air in front of his chest and was twisted like a corkscrew. This person, it turned out, is the amazing “Lynx,” the visual artist-in-residence at the Steinway factory, who paints abstract paintings on pianos—textured finishes that utilize a technique he calls “Atmospheric Refractionism.” Lynx gave me a personal tour of some of the back rooms, and explained how he paints to music, imbuing the piano with the notes as he works. It was a magical encounter. It put me in a good mood for two days.

If this particular “ending,” the closing of the Steinway showroom, had not been looming, I probably never would have gone there that day; I would have missed this wonderful adventure. The moral of the story is that endings often present opportunities—if not for new beginnings, at least for new experiences. This is a concept that is in fact much closer to what the Maya actually believe about 12/21/12—that this year’s winter solstice marks a time for renewal, the beginning of a brand-new 5,125-year age.

On the other hand, there’s still time to purchase a $48,000 steel and fiberglass survival pod from Chinese farmer/inventor Liu Qiyuan. Do you think he’ll take MasterCard?

Jeanne Martinet, aka Miss Mingle, is the author of seven books on social interaction; her latest is the novel Etiquette for the End of the World. She can be reached at JeanneMartinet.com

How Seasonal Affective Disorder could put a damper on the holiday spirit

Like the planets orbit the sun, our lives spin around the seasons. These subdivisions of the year do more than signal us when it’s time to whip out our Mackage coats and begin fireside chats with friends over which artist sings the best “Baby It’s Cold” rendition. They inform us that time is passing and events are moving forward, as is the natural order of things. As New Yorkers, we have an internal hourglass that marks the passing of time until the sand has run out, signaling our earmuffs and legwarmers that winter has arrived! Not one to be late to the party, winter arrives on cue and sashays down Sullivan Street in all her glory while dusting off her snowy skin and casting an opalescent sheen over downtown’s cobblestone streets and awnings.

The red cups brimming with spices and peppermint have returned to ye faithful Starbucks, Broadway has become the mecca for ambling tourists hiding behind maps in search of NYC tchotchkes, and Christmas-tree vendors pepper the once-subdued streets from Nolita to Soho. It’s hard to imagine a downtown without a winter, just as it would be impossible to imagine the harbor without the Statue of Liberty. But for some, winter doesn’t evoke the same jubilation, and getting through the season can feel like navigating a dark labyrinth of gloom and despair.

Those severely impacted by winter’s shorter days and long frigid nights might be at risk for Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). Recognized by the Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders 4th Edition (DSM-IV), SAD is described as a subtype of a major depressive episode. During winter’s reign, our brains produce increased levels of the sleep-inducing hormone melatonin. For those affected by SAD, one theory is that a biochemical imbalance of melatonin could lead to a shift in one’s internal hourglass, causing unhealthy behaviors that require medical intervention.

Typical symptoms of SAD include depressed mood, lethargy, lack of interest in activities, social withdrawal and a craving for sweets and carbohydrates. Those affected also spend inordinate amounts of time sleeping and have difficulty leaving their beds. As a result of weight gain and decreased interest in sex and physical contact, SAD sufferers also experience feelings of misery, shame, hopelessness and loss of self-esteem. These symptoms usually occur like clockwork beginning in November or December, peaking during January and February, and dissipating by March or April, depending on how quickly sunlight returns from hibernation. Though anyone can suffer from SAD, an overwhelming majority are young adults and women.

The key to diagnosing SAD is a recurrence of these deleterious symptoms during two successive winters followed by a routine remission in the spring. And while those who suffer from SAD may experience these symptoms at an extreme, there might be a greater number of people at risk for a milder assortment of SAD symptoms categorized as the “winter blues.” For the less-extreme blues, individuals might experience the decreased energy, increased appetite and feelings of sleepiness without feelings of depression and anxiety.

A season that should be welcomed with Bryant Park ice-skating arms thus becomes a dismal march through gray days, but there is some relief. Clinicians and those who have previously been affected by SAD now know when to expect the onset, how long it will last and how to treat it head-on. Special lamps are just one method that has proven helpful. And for downtowners in need of a quick Vitamin D pick-me-up, I suggest long runs along the glistening Hudson River or an idyllic Washington Square Park walk. Though anyone in cold northern cities can feel winter’s burn, downtown New Yorkers are lucky in that we’re surrounded by environmental therapy. Here’s to a healthy and happy winter for all.

It was almost two weeks ago that Speaker Christine Quinn held her first free self-defense class in Central Park. This event was in response to an increased number of sexual assaults on women in the city, most notably an incident involving the rape of a 73-year-old woman in Central Park.

While free self-defense classes are great, and the fact that the local government is taking steps to intervene is commendable, what does all of this really serve to accomplish? Not much. One or two classes are hardly going to educate all of New York. Furthermore, it doesn’t even touch on the real problem: the attackers themselves. Sexual assaults play a larger part in more people’s daily lives than most people realize.

Blogs like “Who Needs Feminism” and “Project Unbreakable” have new women, and men, submitting their personal stories of assault and survival on a daily basis. These sites create a safe place for victims and survivors to speak out about what has happened to them. Whether it’s something as simple as an inappropriate catcall or something as violent as a rape, sexual assaults are taking place far too frequently.

Making a community for survivors, either online or in self-defense classes, is a strong platform for change, but it is only the foundation for it. The internet provides a voice for survivors and victims of sexual-assault crimes in a way that has never been done before. Speaking out in a safe and unthreatened way is often the first step to healing, but it also serves to raise awareness about these sorts of crimes. This awareness then hopefully helps educate potential victims and attackers on how wrong this behavior is to accept and inflict. Being vocal and raising awareness is a good step in educating a new generation on respectful and appropriate behavior.

However, speaking out against attacks is part of the aftermath of an assault and not a part of uprooting the original problem—the attacks themselves.

On the other end of the spectrum, self-defense classes can be a great precautionary measure to an assault. But again this is something being done to help protect a would-be victim from an assault; and so works under the assumption of there being an assault. Neither self-defense nor speaking out on an attack manages to directly address or change the actual problem, which is: the initial assault and assaulter. Both tactics focus on preparing women, and potential victims, for a problem instead of working on stopping the problem.

The heart of the problem is that attackers think they can attack women and get away with it. To truly address this issue would require recalibrating our thinking as a community. The focus should not be on protecting victims, but on preventing there even being victims. For there to be any real, significant and lasting change, the community’s focus needs to move from the victim to the attacker. Educating survivors and potential victims on how to protect themselves is a great start, but that’s all it is—a start. Actual change will come with educating and, in turn, preventing would-be attackers, but this is, undeniably, a much bigger and more difficult issue to tackle.

I must admit, you really do need help. Not only are you stuck in the “my booty call is getting too attached” dilemma (which, by the way, you just proved happens to girls too), you have to deal with a major complication as well!

His sibling is your roommate? I think you just set a new standard for making matters more complicated.

I’ll be honest: My instinct is telling me to tell you that you are pretty much in a bad situation. But that wouldn’t be very nice. So, being the (cough) gentleman that I am, I’ll do my best you give you some pointers.

What you want to establish first is whether he’s worth it. Because to me, the obvious solution would be to dump him. But if he’s really that great, or if you think that maybe you could fall for him eventually, you should probably consider the alternatives first.

Speaking about alternatives, it’s not like you have that many to choose from. But worry not! After a very painful brain-rattling session, I came up with two possible plans to make that guy understand that you need your space.

My first brilliant idea: Talk to him (any ungrateful reaction vaguely resembling a “thanks, Captain Obvious” will be met with severe punishment). Wait, there’s more.
So you talk to him, and try to explain in the nicest possible way that he is slowly draining the life energy out of you. Thankfully, you’re not the first person this has happened to, which gives you an abundance of clichés to chose from. Here’s an arbitrary selection:

“I need my space.”

“I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”

“I feel like I have no privacy with you dropping by unannounced all the time.”

“I think I may have pinkeye.”

“What has a tail, a head, is brown and has no legs?” (Granted, this one will probably just buy you some time.)

Seriously though, once you’ve jumped in, the conversation should flow by itself. The hard part is bringing it up. I guess you could just pout all day until he asks you what’s up. That’s what I would do.

Okay so, brilliant idea number two: Let’s say you really want to avoid the whole “let’s talk” thingy. You could always go for subtlety. Just grow increasingly distant. Don’t reply to texts that often, tell him you’re busy, especially when he drops by to “see his brother.” In theory, he should get that he’s being too involved. In theory. Then again, men are pretty clueless creatures.

In the end, whether you go for the direct or indirect approach, your success will largely be determined by a factor you can’t really control: his reaction. Of course, chances are that he is a mature, reasonable individual who would rather see a little less of you than lose you completely, and he’ll start being less clingy.

Or he’ll just go into a nervous breakdown, cry like a baby and beg you to stay with him, because, you see, he loves you. If that’s the case, we are pretty much back to square one.

Send your dating and relationship questions to mmaier@manhattanmedia.com or via twitter @N_YPress.

Opening
Key Food
55 Fulton St. (between Gold and Cliff streets), 646-581-9260.
We have just one opening for you in this edition, but this store has already become one of the most popular businesses on Fulton Street. Any neighborhood with a growing population of residents, not to mention workers and visitors, needs a well-stocked grocery store that caters to a variety of needs. Key Food’s huge new 55 Fulton Market is a neighborhood amenity on a street whose residents are more than ready to welcome it.

A formerly vacant storefront is now one of the busiest stretches of sidewalk on Lower Manhattan’s East Side. The revamped space threw wide its doors to a lot of eager shoppers and celebrated its grand opening with specials and free treats.

The 24-hour market—located in the Southbridge Towers and replacing the old Key Food a block away—is more of a gourmet food shop with restaurant touches and outdoor seating that also carries your basic supermarket staples. I stopped by on a “pre-grand opening” day recently and perused the aisles with a horde of other shoppers. I was surprised by how many people came out, considering that this is a grocery store and no one is giving away free iPads, but I’ve learned to never underestimate the power of something large, new and well-stocked with food and free samples.

Local workers will find the hot bar and salad bar plus grab-and-go options great for fast lunches. Several sushi chefs were working behind the counter restocking a supply of rolls that looked to be fresh and more affordable than I’ve seen in other quarters. Also available are ready-made sandwiches, soups and desserts. In other parts of the market, shoppers can find meat and cheese counters, bakery items and the usual dry goods and supplies.

Closings
Urban Lobster Shack
15 Stone St.

Wendy’s
117 Beekman St.

As usual, if you see any new retailers or spot changes to a longtime establishment, please email me at tre@downtownny.com, and I’ll check them out.

By Shino Tanikawa, president of Community Education Council District 2

It’s hard to believe the summer break is almost over. For parents and activists alike, the summer months provide a much-needed rest from the frenetic pace of the school year, even though we cannot completely check out. Some policies and important events sneak their way in under the parents’ radar over the summer. The decision by the NYC Department of Education to discontinue the Wellness in the Schools program is one such policy change. The program has provided healthful, wholesome school lunches made from fresh ingredients to many public schools in the city, including those in neighborhoods where fresh food is scarce. If your school has participated in this program, stay tuned for any actions!

Another “under the radar” event is the public hearing for the Great Oaks charter middle school application on Aug. 30. While I appreciate the effort made by the charter applicant to avoid scheduling the hearing on the same evening as the Community Education Council District 2 meeting, the last week of August and Thursday before the Labor Day weekend is probably not the best time to hold any public meetings.

As for the other charter schools in District 2—Success Academy Charters—in September the DOE is expected to release Educational Impact Statements for co-location. While it seems the elementary and middle schools in District 2 are spared from co-location, we still need to voice our concern for having elementary students with high school students in the same building, and for potential overcrowding that could result from co-location.

District 2 schools continue to be overcrowded even with new schools that have started in the last four years. This coming year, we will be rezoning the east side of Midtown for a new school on First Avenue at 35th Street. Plans are under way for a new school in Chelsea and another in the Financial District, and negotiations to acquire 75 Morton St. are ongoing. I hope parents will attend meetings hosted by the Community Education Council District 2. We cannot make school rezoning decisions or advocate for more schools without parents’ input.

This school year, we will also want to keep an eye on the special education reform and the Common Core State Standards. The special education reform requires schools to better integrate students with special needs in general education settings. While the intent of the reform is sound, the implementation has many advocates worried. Among the concerns is the possibility that a student’s Individual Education Plan will be amended to match the services available at the school, not according to the needs of the student. Many advocates are also concerned that students with special needs will be placed in an inappropriate environment without adequate attention given to them.

The Common Core Standards have quietly (at least from the parents’ perspective) made their way into every school in the city. Raising the bar and establishing national standards are definitely policy changes in the right direction. However, many advocates are keeping a watchful eye on how the Common Core Standards are implemented. They are particularly concerned about the potential increase in standardized assessments as well as decreased instructional time for subjects not yet under the Common Core Standards initiative (i.e., arts). Clearly, even good changes require diligent monitoring.

It seems overwhelming at times, but parents are and should be an integral part of the education system and our voices must be heard. I hope you will find time to become familiar with an issue that resonates with you and speak out. Ready or not, we are heading into what looks like another exciting yet challenging year and we need all the parents to be involved.

I used to turn down pot so I could someday run for Congress

By Alan S. Chartock

When I was a young man, I refused to smoke marijuana when offered the opportunity. I thought that it might interfere with my future career—at the time, I thought I might like to run for Congress and that if you were caught, you were disqualified.

Of course, we now know that weed is a rite of passage. Presidents and presidential candidates freely admit to drug use. We also know that white middle-class kids and their parents are exempt—it’s tough to get caught smoking dope when you are on the 15th floor of a Park Avenue apartment. On the other hand, if you are a black or Latino kid on the streetcorner, it is very easy to get stopped and frisked and sent off to jail.

Right now there is a great debate on whether to make marijuana possession legal or almost legal. I have a doctor friend, one of the top addiction specialists in the country, who tells me that marijuana is what we might call a “gateway drug.” She says that if you start with weed, you often graduate to something stronger. I have great respect for this doctor, who has to deal with people who have been sucked into drug use, and I find it difficult to dismiss her concerns. Yet the inequalities I mentioned above are also of great concern.

Let there be no mistake about it: Alcohol is every bit as dangerous as marijuana. In fact, judging from the number of automobile accidents every year caused by alcohol abuse, strong drink is much more dangerous than marijuana.

Now that the Rockefeller drug laws have been modified, things have gotten more sensible. Fewer kids are being put into the system, but there is still a glut of arrests among our most disadvantaged citizens. Some distinguished lawmakers have suggested it is time to legalize marijuana and other much more deadly and heavy drugs. Some have suggested that if we legalize cannabis, the same arguments that lead to its legalization will be used for other drugs.

Such a debate is really above my pay grade; I certainly can see all the arguments for and against it. As long as there is poverty and a lack of hope, there will be drug use in this country.

The idea of making marijuana possession a violation, like a speeding ticket, is a step in the right direction. Jail or prison time is just not an answer. The only people who make out in that scenario are those who run our gigantic prison industry. We know that there are just too many people behind bars. I certainly think that if we are going to spend the money, we should spend it on giving people an economic chance and some hope—I am sure that would go further than consigning them to a life of hell sending them to jail. Even a history of a violation may well hurt someone’s chances in life.
We know that cannabis has helped people who are terminal cancer patients. Our congressional and legislative hearings are replete with such testimony from some very high-ranking people in this country, including judges and doctors.

It is hard to believe that there isn’t a simple majority, even among the Republicans in the state Senate, who haven’t used marijuana. That makes it rank hypocrisy to criminalize its use. Otherwise, I suggest that all those sitting in the upper House should turn themselves in. I mean, wouldn’t that be the right thing to do?

Sometimes in life, choices have to be made. We know that when we tried to criminalize the use of alcohol, the result was catastrophic; a black market resulted and criminals got rich. The same thing is true with the distribution of marijuana. The time has come to do the right thing and use available money to help people who have developed serious drug problems. Makes a lot more sense than what we are doing.

Alan S. Chartock is president and CEO of WAMC/Northeast Public Radio and an executive publisher at The Legislative Gazette.

If the mayor’s move makes us think about serving sizes, it’s a winner

Let’s start with this: We know our mayor is great with limits—for other people.

He famously took stands against smoking in restaurants, bars and public parks. His administration has tried to limit everything from the size of newsstands to the number of cars entering Midtown. Then last week, the mayor, surrounded by piles of sugar cubes, said he wants to limit restaurant soda cups to the 16-ounce size.

The only limit he has not really liked is the one allowing a mayor two terms. So he found a way to get that overturned, with very few high-profile New Yorkers daring to stand in his way.

So I get why Mayor Michael Bloomberg drives some people crazy, especially if they happen to like supersizing their beverages. There’s something unseemly about a billionaire who cannot stop telling other people what to do. And there’s not much that’s warm and fuzzy about the guy to help his medicine go down.

I also understand—oh, boy, do I—that it’s hard to hear that we’re too fat, especially during tough times. When First Lady Michelle Obama started her healthy eating campaign, I resented the hell out of it. I was newly unemployed and that woman was running around the country talking about vegetables. But my pals in New York City schools told me she was exactly right to tackle the obesity epidemic; it plays out in ugly ways in the lives of children (and adults) in this city and nation.

Bloomberg is right to take action. His critics say the limit on soda size is random. It is. Wherever we start tackling this issue, it’s going to seem subjective and maybe even silly. But we have to start someplace, somehow.

Yes, there are scientific reasons to question the mayor’s specific proposal. Some people think diet soda is even worse than the sugary variety. Others want to target specific foods instead of beverages. There’s a camp that prefers an education-only approach, with nothing punitive.

Perhaps Bloomberg has picked the wrong piece of this monster topic to begin with, but he’s trying to come up with a political answer to a health crisis. Starting with sugary soda, where there has already been some slippage in usage and a growing agreement, makes political sense.

Even if the mayor’s decree falls flat or gets overturned by the next mayor, the whole enterprise will have been worthwhile if it initiates a discussion about portion sizes. Because let me tell you: I’m really not all that old, and in my lifetime there has been a drastic change in what gets put in front of you when you say “small,” whether you’re ordering a beverage or a food item.

The simplest criticism of the mayor’s plan has its logic backward. Opponents say rebellious guzzlers will just order more than one soda. But that’s the whole point. Right now, we’re playing restaurant roulette. People need to be reminded what exactly one single beverage size should be. Is that subjective? Sure, but some of us are tired of the subjective decision to serve us, way too often, way too much food and drink.

Who’s to decide the proper serving size? I pick me. And Bloomberg. Yeah, the mayor and me. ’Cause he looks OK and I just lost 10 pounds in four weeks.

Basically, the one thing I did consistently and consciously was stop drinking sugary soda. It worked. I had Diet Cokes on special occasions: Mother’s Day, Memorial Day and the night I saw Linda Lavin in The Lyons. I cut out the sugar-laced variety—and, sadly, French fries.

I wasn’t trying to be trendy, I swear. I was just taking slightly better care of myself.
Starting with soda just made sense.

Christopher Moore is a writer in Manhattan. He is available by email at ccmnj@aol.com and is on Twitter @cmoorenyc.

Father’s Day march to reform NYPD policy

By Scott M. Stringer

During recent years, the NYPD’s policy of stop-and-frisk has become one of the defining civil rights issues of our time. Across the five boroughs, New Yorkers are calling for reform of a strategy that overwhelmingly targets people of color and divides our city.

We need to speak with one voice on this issue, so I invite you to join me and a host of community leaders in a Father’s Day march on June 17 where we will be calling attention to a policy that stops thousands of our fellow citizens every day—some 700,000 last year, the vast majority for no reason at all.

We are not marching against the men and women in blue. I agree with Mayor Michael Bloomberg and Commissioner Ray Kelly that New York’s dramatic reduction in crime is one of the city’s proudest achievements.

But the most recent statistics about stop-and-frisk paint a troubling picture of how this policy is being implemented and why it needs to be reformed.

• In 2011, the number of stops was roughly seven times higher than the number in 2002.
• In 94 percent of stops, no arrests were made.
• In 86 percent of cases, the person stopped was either black or Latino.
• In 99.9 percent of stops, no gun was found.

Don’t get me wrong: There are times when police are justified in stopping and frisking subjects they deem to be a real threat.

But we need to base these stops on something more empirical than “furtive movement,” which today is the most commonly checked box by police officers when asked to explain a stop.

The 4th Amendment right against unreasonable searches has been clearly defined by the courts for years: The only legal justification for a stop is when an officer has reasonable suspicion, based on specific facts—not on a hunch, and certainly not on the color of someone’s skin—that the individual being stopped has either just committed a crime or is about to. Anything else is a clear violation of the U.S. Constitution.

We need to build bridges of trust and respect into every neighborhood by exploring innovative policing strategies that have succeeded in cities like Chicago, Boston and Cincinnati. It’s a message I delivered nine months ago at an address in Riverside Church in Harlem, and since then I have spent many Sundays listening to congregants in other churches talk of the fear—and despair—they feel about a stop-and-frisk policy that so clearly targets people of color.

Last fall I called on the Department of Justice to launch a probe of our current stop-and-frisk program to see if civil rights are being violated. I was proud to have worked with all 12 Manhattan community boards when they unanimously passed a resolution calling for reform of stop-and-frisk. But now, to bring about the changes we so urgently need, all of us—from uptown and downtown, East Side and West Side—must join together and make our voices heard.

That’s why I hope you’ll join us for our march on Father’s Day, June 17 at 3 p.m. on 110th Street between Fifth and Lenox avenues. New York City can be tougher on crime by being smarter on crime. Once we do that, we’ll make this a better, safer city for all of us.

Scott Stringer is Manhattan Borough President and a 2013 mayoral candidate.

I flew to Los Angeles with a big backpack filled with trail mix, granola bars, chocolate, cheese and a tent. My father met me there and drove me down to Campo at the Tijuana-California border. He left me at the fence, dust puffing from his tires like drab clouds.

There was a border monument marking the southern terminus of the 2,650-mile Pacific Crest Trail—a trail that fades in the mist and lush of northern Washington then ends in Canada. I would walk the length of the country.

I walked north from the Mexican border fence; the trail was well marked with rusty signs and scattered with lazy rattlesnakes baking in the sun’s warmth. I was eating a green apple, I remember, when I nearly stepped on the first one. I shrieked and ran south a hundred yards. I bit my apple, breathed, ate that apple—my last piece of fresh food; everything else was processed or salted or junk. I was fine. I walked back north, stepped over the snake, kept walking, stepped over another and another.

Within a few hours, I had met a dozen hikers, all attempting the same trans-country journey on foot. They seemed kind—young men, retired couples, a 30-year-old woman with big curly hair and good teeth; the curly lady smiled at me. I was curt. On my second day on the trail, I met a 20-year-old man—a former professional mountain bike racer from Switzerland. We hiked together for 700 miles and five weeks and then let the miles between us grow. He hiked faster than I did. I didn’t love him.

I made friends—a twentysomething girl with a ukulele and an angelic voice and face and a photographer with a master’s in psychology he had never used and didn’t want to. And packs of fit, hungry hikers, happy to hear my stories. Happy to know me.

In Bend, Ore., 1,970 miles north of that border monument dull with Campo dust and 1,500 miles from spiny pastel plants and rattlesnake teeth and venom and sadness, I met Justin. We were in town—the verdant, river-cut trail town of Bend—and we knew a handful of the same hikers. A big group of us went to dinner at the Deshutes Brewery. Justin sat next to me, close. He smiled a lot. I smiled—tried not to but couldn’t help it. Under the table, his knee brushed mine.

I lifted my hot hand, moved it slowly through the space between us like a teenaged boy would when trying to float unnoticed to second base; I pressed my trembling palm against Justin’s sweating beer, squeezed the glass. Lifted and carried it through the air to my mouth. Took a sip. I was 19.

Justin knew.

He was amused, contorted his face like he disapproved—but I knew he didn’t.

I was pulsing, invigorated. So fit from the miles and miles, unarmed and no longer unhappy.

I felt an illogical desire for Justin—my body, high on attraction and quivering, betrayed my mind.

We walked, together, 600 miles into Canada.

I remember our first day hiking together. Rain had poured down in sheets, smacking the soil, tearing up the trail. Earth washed away; roots loosened, left soaked and exposed. Lubricated with water, everything shone in the gray light.

Justin and I shouted over the downpour, shared childhood stories and our ambitions as we walked. We were saturated with rain to the bone, both of us, but I was giddy and on the verge of laughter.

My walk with Justin ended in the mist-dense Cascade Mountains on a garden stage at the end of a lily-lined aisle. Storm clouds, gray, navy and low, illuminated the flowers, the fine clothing, the glassware in soft, important light. The mist was backlit by sunlight, bathing the Cascade foothills in silver.

Justin and I read our vows and grinned and cried on a stone stage over the Cascade Mountain garden, lightning flashing like a camera. Camera flashes would have been invisible under that sky. My parents were there in the garden, happy and warm and not too nervous.