Date #43--The Cajun

It is 6:30 pm on Friday night, and I am excited to be on my way to meet the Cajun. I am meeting him at the New Museum of Contemporary Art which is located right where Prince St. deadends at Bowery. It's just when I'm at a stop light waiting for the light to change when I turn to my left, and I see a dude looking in my direction, and I realize it's a familiar face. I know this guy. I say, "Hey," and smile, and he does the same. It turns out this guy goes to the New School, and he lives in my apartment building. I'll call him the Neighbor. He is getting his master's degree in Creative Writing. I remember meeting him at a small gathering in his apartment back in October. We were both totally new to the City at that point. He had just relocated a couple of months earlier from the West Coast. The way we really became immersed in a conversation was that when he had arrived that evening he had just come back from a match.com date. I immmediately plunged in telling him about my plan to go on 50 first dates in NYC. At that point, I believe I must have only been up to #2 or so. He had joked around about possibly being one of the 50 dates. We even pulled up my profile together on his computer, and later on he had winked at me for a laugh. I never winked back just quite simply because I didn't know how I would get around writing about a date I had been on with him if in fact we did go on a date because we have several mutual friends in common, and quite frankly I felt it was better not to go there. Instead we compromised at friending each other on Facebook. I randomly ran into him one other time on campus in November, but other than that I hadn't laid eyes on him since.

Thus, I'm really surprised to find us walking along Prince Street together totally unpremeditatedly. He is with a couple of friends who are visiting from back home. I ask him how match.com is treating him, and he tells me that he dropped it months ago. He remembers the little project I had just begun when originally meeting him, and I gladly inform him that I'm actually on my way to date #43 as we speak. He seems amused to find that I'm still at it and as a matter of fact almost done. We make some small chit chat, and we reach his stop which happens to be Cafe Habana. This is a total blast from the past, too, because the Writer from way back at the beginning of this blog who I never ever did meet following the bicycle accident had recommended this place to me really early on. I still laugh when I recall his description of their corn as being "Oh eem gee, this is effing amazing." Needless to say I broke down and ended up going there with my roommate Dawn back in January. It's Cuban cuisine, and at the time I was coming to terms that it wouldn't work out with the Cuban but still hopeful, and while waiting for the check that night I texted the Cuban that I found a great Cuban place I wanted to take him to some day. It never happened, but standing in front of it this evening with this other newly reemerged lost character from my random year in NYC makes me see how things are becoming oddly circular or full circle as it were. The Neighbor tells me that we should go out sometime "if I can fit him into my busy dating schedule." I joke that I have 7 dates left so there's still time for him to get in on my blog. With that we part ways. I once heard you had to live in NYC for about 4 years before you really start running into people from the past randomly on the street. Looks like I'm way ahead of that statistic on this night.

As a result, I am now about 10 minutes late for my date. Darn it. I was so close to being on time for this one. In any event, I reach the crosswalk, and I wait for it to change so I can cross Bowery. I spot the Cajun in the distance. He's waiting in front. He's a skinny white guy. His introductory email had been very brief. He wrote simply, "You're super cute. Wanna get something to eat sometime?" Normally, this would reek of a guy trolling for hook-ups, but I'm near the end, and I haven't really gone for one of these so far so why not. In addition, I actually thought the Cajun was super cute on his profile. He had a nice face so I said what the heck. When I cross over, I wave, and I say, "You won't believe it. I just ran into someone I know from school. We were just talking, and that's why I'm a bit late. I'm sorry. That was so random though." He tells me it's no problem. I immediately notice that I think the Cajun is a little too skinny for my tastes. I'm not into huge men, but I like a guy with a little something to grab onto. He is cute though.

We go inside the museum, and we start looking at the art. The current exhibition that is on display has to do with themes of evolution, sexuality, and death. Ya know, the usual when it comes to all this contemporary stuff. The Cajun and I start looking around, and he asks me where I'm from. I tell him Texas, and I ask him where he is from. He says he's from New Awlins, and just then that is when I decide to give him the name that I do. He totally has a bit of an accent, and I love it. I ask him how long he's been in NYC, and he tells me he's been here about 5 years. He had to evacuate his home when Hurricane Katrina hit. He had an older brother who was living here at the time so he chose New York, and he's been here ever since. If it hadn't been for the hurricane, he probably would have never left Louisiana. He currently works as a salesman for a bank, and he lives in the East Village. Okay, the immediate thing that really jumps out to me about the Cajun from our introductory exchange is that he's jovial. He laughs a lot, and he's quite goofy really. He also has that southern charm going on. He's very cordial and nice and just really easy to talk to. For a second I get a glimpse of what I think many New Yorkers see in me, and I do have to say that when seeing it in the Cajun it's appealing. He doesn't seem jaded or scarred, and this is coming from a guy who abandoned his house, car, and life to pretty much start over after losing everything in a natural disaster. To me, this says Survivor.

As far as the exhibition, I have to say I'm digging it. It's a lot of fun looking at it with the Cajun as well. He lives in the East Village so I'm sure you can get an idea. He's a bit of a beatnik, bohemian type. He likes this abstract stuff. The theme is overly dark, and we are having a good laugh about it all. I come to find out that the Cajun is the youngest of four boys. This is a coincidence because I have 3 older brothers as well. He tells me that his oldest brother is 20 years older than him. I say, "No way. My oldest brother is 16 years older than me. You've got me beat." He confirms that he was in fact an "oops" baby as in fact I was. He tells me that his parents are complete party animals, and his dad even told him that he was conceived one drunken night down by the bayou. My parents were never that graphic when detailing my conception, but my dad as well liked to enjoy himself quite a lot, and I am fairly certain I was not conceived under sober circumstances at least on my dad's part. I laughingly tell the Cajun, "So we're both lucky to be alive." He agrees. He also tells me that one of his brother's is married to a Polish woman, one is married to a Guatemalan woman, and one has a Japanese girlfriend. I look at the racial diversity, and I say, "Omg, you gotta go with Africa. It's the only continent left." He absolutely cracks up at this comment, but I go onto explain that my brother #1 is married to a white lady, my brother #2 is now divorced but was married to an Asian lady, and my brother #3 is married to a Latina. For years my friends have joked that I should marry a black guy just to completely even things up. Man, me and the Cajun are like the same person.

After we make it through the museum we decide to go get something to eat. The Cajun has been raving about this place that is very close to his apartment in the East Village called the Yuca Bar. He says it's his go to spot. It definitely sounds latin so I am all about it. On the walk over I ask him what his favorite part about NYC is. He says, "Let me see if I can word this in the most condensed way possible." He contemplates for a moment, and then he very powerfully says, "Access." That is indeed very concise, but the funny thing is that I know exactly what he is encapsulating in that one word. I say, "I totally know what you mean. There is just access to anything you could possibly want or need at all hours of the day or night." He's absolutely right, and I have to admit that when I take in the whole exchange with the full on Cajun accent and everything, I start to see that the Cajun is in a condensed word...quirky. We pass by a tattoo parlor, and I ask him if he has any. He tells me he has two. One is the symbol for New Orleans, and one is an apple in honor of NYC as the big apple. I ask him where they are, and he says he has one on each shoulder. He says, "Here, I'll show you," and he lifts up his shirt as he's walking. I take notice, and there the tattoos are encompassing each shoulder blade. The apple in particular is very bright and shiny red. I say, "Wow, that apple is super glossy. When'd you get it done...an hour ago?" He busts out laughing at this, and then I realize the hilarity in him having come straight from the parlor to this date, but seriously it looks brand new, and he breaks down and tells me he got it a week ago. I knew I wasn't that far off base.

We reach the Yuca Bar, and it's already bumpin' for a Friday night. The hostess tells us that it'll be about a 30 minute wait. The Cajun says we can take a walk, and he'll show me a little bit of the neighborhood. Apparently he absolutely loves living in the East Village. He goes out constantly, but he also admits that he's one of those New Yorkers who barely ventures out of his neighborhood because let's face it. The East Village has so much--total embodiment of access. We start walking down St. Mark's Place, and he says, "Wait, I know what I'll show you. Have you ever been to a speakeasy before?" I say, "No, do they have them in New York?" He says, "Yeah, there's this one hidden club on this street. I'll show you." He takes me into a hot dog restaurant, and he pretends to get a menu to look at, and then he steers us off to the side where there's an old fashioned telephone booth. He says, "There's a number that you have to call to make a reservation. When you call they give you a password, and then later on you come here and you go in the phone booth, and when you dial the number they ask you for the password, and then they let you in." I get really excited, and I ask if he's been. He says he's been a couple of times, but you have to call at like 10 o'clock in the morning because they fill up fast. We go back out to the front, and I ask him what it's like inside. He says, "It's really dark, and there are people doing drugs and stuff." I say, "I wanna go. Why didn't you make a reservation?" I'm only halfway kidding. He says, "Here. I'll give you the phone number, but don't tell anyone, and you have to call early in the morning." I say, "Man, I totally wanna go. Should I try to call?" He says, "You can try, but it's already 8 pm on a Friday night. They're just gonna laugh at you." I give it a shot. I call twice, and it's busy both times. It's funny. I remember the Brit mentioning this club to me before. Well, at least I now have the secret number for future reference.

By the time these shenanigans are done, it's time for us to walk back to see if we can be seated. Once we arrive back at the Yuca Bar, it doesn't take long for us to get a table. This place is totally happening. There's loud latin music playing. It's very flavorful. It turns out the specialty is tapas. Since the Cajun comes here all the time, I totally trust his recommendations. He says they make excellent mojitos so we each get one. We also decide on the coconut shrimp, quesadillas, and tuna rolls. I love restaurants where you share everything. It's so communal, and it's a great bonding experience on a first date. It's during the dinner portion that I think I start to realize how hyper the Cajun is. It's not necessarily in a bad way. I actually think he's really funny, but again I don't know that I'm overwhelmingly drawn to him on a physical level. He tells me about how his parents really wanted him to be a girl especially since it was their fourth try and their last chance. They had painted his room pink, and they had a name all picked out. They even bought a pink blanket, and he said there are pictures now where there's a baby wrapped in a pink blanket, and it's him. I find this story so funny for the similarities it once again features. My brother #3 had essentially the same experience. My brother's #1 and #2 were 12 and 10 when he was born so obviously my parents really wanted a girl. They had a girl's name picked out for him (Gwendolyn), a baby doll named Rosie, and a pink blanket. Obviously he came out as a boy, but the funny part of the whole thing is that when my mom got pregnant with me, they totally remembered that whole fiasco and didn't prepare for me at all. Seriously they didn't buy any clothes or pick out a name or anything. When I came along, they were just like, "What are we gonna call her?" which is probably why I was named after my dad--Carole being the female derivative of Carl. I won't lie. Being the youngest and only girl, obviously I was well treated, but at the same time by the time I was born my parents were so over being parents. There are seriously like albums full of baby pictures of my brothers, and for me there are maybe like 3 pictures. It's that old cliche of when the first kid has all their firsts it's so monumental like, "Look, he's taking his first step." By the time you get to the fourth kid it's like, "Oh crap, she's walking. Put the breakable objects away." Call me crazy, but I think some kind of quirkiness springs from this odd upbringing, and I have found a kindred spirit in the Cajun. Also, fyi, the food is amazing. I highly recommend the Yuca Bar for the excellent flavor and scrumptious texture.

After dinner, the Cajun tells me he knows the perfect cupcake place. I ask if it's Magnolia's, and he says, "No, but one of the ladies who used to bake at Magnolia's branched off and started her own cupcake place. It's called Butter Lane." I am so excited. Just the mere mention of cupcakes gets me going. It is totally all the rage right now, and I am on a single handed mission to try all the places in NYC. Maybe after my 50 first dates, I can start a cupcake blog. Butter Lane is literally right up the street, and it's super cute when we walk in. They feature specialty cupcakes with themes. The Cajun tells me the Elvis is the best. It's a banana cupcake with peanut butter icing in honor of the King. I'm totally sold. He gets one as well. We walk up the street as we eat them, and the banana/peanut butter combo is yumtastic. I can't help but think of the Brit who neither likes bananas nor peanut butter. This cupcake would make him blow chunks, but if you're a fan of those flavors, you will be pleased.

The Cajun says, "I'd really like to keep hanging out. The only thing is that I'm in the middle of booking a trip with some friends to Florida, and I need to go online and just check out the rental property and just book it tonight. Would you mind if I did that really quickly, and you can just hang out in my apartment for a minute?" Without really thinking, I just say okay. Afterall, he just lives right around the corner, and it's convenient. Okay, readers, before you chastise me, I do go through all the scenarios. I know I've had a rule up until now about not going to the guy's place on the first date. I do run through the possibilities of being assaulted or something much worse, and for a minute my stomach starts to drop, and I start to think I shouldn't be going to this guy's place, but before I know it we are climbing the stairs to his walk up in the East Village. It is exactly as I imagined it would be. It has a fire escape. The staircase has a wooden banister. Once we reach his apartment on the fifth floor, he opens the door, and when I see his refrigerator, my tension immediately drops. There are pictures all over of him holding his nieces and nephews. I have to say his apartment is immaculately clean, and that's a little bit American psychoish, but honestly I wouldn't have come this far into his apartment if there was anything suspect about him. He gets on his computer, and he calls his friend to confirm the booking. As he's doing this, I'm able to really look at his apartment, and I absolutely love it. Honestly I haven't been in an East Village apartment before, and my curiosity has gotten the better of me in wanting to see it, but it is absolutely my dream apartment. It is a one bedroom, and the best part is that he only pays $1,500 a month which if you know anything about prices according to location in NYC, this is a steal. This is where I want to be someday.

When he gets off the phone, he apologizes and says that we can now go do something fun. I tell him I really love his apartment. I ask him if there are any vacancies. He says, "No, it's full." I ask him to be sure and tell me if someone moves out. He says he will. As we're descending down the five flights of stairs I say, "I really like that it has a built in gym as well," meaning the obvious climb to the top everyday. The Cajun once again absolutely cracks up at one of my lame jokes, and he says, "I really like that you're from Texas." I say, "Oh yeah, it's so obvious, too, isn't it? I don't even try to hide it. Seriously I have no desire to seem like I'm from New York because then you just start to seem like everyone else." He asks me if I feel like just wandering or if I want to hit up a bar or something. I say, "Let's just wander." We end up heading over to Union Square.

It is totally alive on a Friday night. The place is filled with teeny boppers, and many of them are surprisingly dressed in 1980s inspired attire. It's official. I feel really old. I'm like 15 years older than the average person here, and they are wearing clothes in a vintage fashion that were popular when I was in elementary school. Getting older is so trippy. We see a crowd gathered around some really tribal music, and it turns out there are some people playing drums and creating a really Caribbean type sound. The Cajun and I get really immersed in the sounds, and before you know it we're just grooving like the droves of other people. After a few minutes the Cajun says, "It kind of puts you in a trance doesn't it. I almost forgot where I was for a minute, and then it was like 'oh, there's ShoeMania, must be in Union Square." I laugh, but I totally know what he means. I was in my own world for a minute, too, and that was totally without any peyote.

We end up back on the main drag of St. Mark's place, and I tell the Cajun that this is totally like little Tokyo or at least the closest thing NYC has since the Japanese population is so relatively small. I point out the places I have been such as the Ale House, Kenka with the cotton candy machine in front, Yakitori Taisho, and the Japanese restaurant Anime Guy took me to. The Cajun says, "Damn, girl, you've been to more places than me." I'm sure I haven't, but I am starting to notice that not just on this street, but in the City in general, I've done alright for myself as far as getting around this past 8 months. I give full credit to dating and this project for helping me to achieve that and being so proactive, but there have been a lot of good and genuine memories made along the way. We finally end up at a place called T-Kettle which the Cajun warns me has the best bubble tea around. I end up ordering the chocolate milk tea with the added bubbles, and the Cajun orders the honey dew with the same.

I tell the Cajun I'm really excited to try the bubble tea. I say, "I love all things Asian. I'm an Asian whore." He laughs heartily, and I say, "And you are, too. You're obsessed with Asian things." He doesn't deny it. When the drinks come, I suck the milk tea along with the bubbles up through the chubby straw, and I am in beverage heaven. It is so subtly sweet, and you can't beat the texture of the tapioca jelly balls. I give the Cajun a high five for his pick. He says, "You have really short fingernails." I say, "I know. I'm a total biter. What bad habit do you have?" He thinks for a moment. I say, "Oh, let me guess. You're perfect." He says, "No, no. I'm just trying to think. Well, I pick my nose sometimes." Okay, this is getting way too TMI for a first date, but I'll admit it. I think it's funny, and I like the comfortability and the laughability and the lack of pretense. I requested a goofball, and I got one, and I can't help myself. I ask, "Have you ever considered doing improv comedy?" I know this is totally what the Brit is into right now. In fact, he's about to start level 2 of the improv classes at the Upright Citizen's Brigade. I've never seen him perform, but I'm sure he's quite good at it, but in any event this is the only way I know anything about improv in NYC. The Cajun says, "No, I've never really thought about it." I tell him that I actually think he'd be really good at it. Afterall, he is extroverted and silly, and there's just something about him that screams SNL cast member. I tell him what I've learned about the process from the Brit, and I tell him I think he should sign up for a class. He seems pleased that I think this about him, but he seems like he'd be such a natural.

And here's the thing of it. I don't see myself dating this guy, but I would genuinely like to be friends with him. We have the whole southern connection thing going on, and he's really funny, and he didn't murder me Ted Bundy style in his East Village apartment so I think he's a keeper as far as friends go. Afterall, NYC is large and random, and I think the one thing that does keep a person grounded amongst the organized chaos of it all is meeting good people who you can share some laughs and common ground with and who you can easily add to your growing list of folks who you can randomly call up any night of the week and be like, "Hey, let's go get something to eat." Afterall, my classes are so close to where he lives. He'd be a great guy to be random with from time to time when I'm in the neighborhood. After the bubble tea, we wrap things up, and he walks me to the subway. I tell him I had a lot of fun, and I tell him he should go home and google the intro to improv comedy class. I tell him there's probably one starting soon, and he should hook it up. He says he will which probably means he won't, and we also say we'll be in touch which may or may not be the case as well. In any event, at the very minimum since I'm always in his neighborhood, I'm sure I'll randomly run into him on the street one of these days in like four years time or according to my super fast time schedule maybe only 8 months.

New Museum of Contemporary Art: http://www.newmuseum.org/
Yuca Bar: http://www.yucabarnyc.com/
Butter Lane: http://www.butterlane.com/
T-Kettle: http://www.yelp.com/biz/tkettle-new-york