Facebooking

There were seven of us that night at Birreria, the beer garden at the rooftop of Mario Batali's sprawling Eataly market. And there was a moment that, when it happened, stirred within me a sense of contentment so deep I wanted to freeze time and writhe in it like a pig in mud on a searing August afternoon. I wonder if the feeling was felt mutually across the party; I suspect not, for we each have our own distinct demons we wrestle with, and thus, find these rare flashes of solace wholly idiosyncratic.

The moment was triggered not by any one thing or person or word. It snuck up on me like a gust that hits you as you round the corner of a street around tall buildings. There were seven of us and we sat at a rectangular table: three facing three on one axis, and one at the head. The plates on the table, an assortment of cold cuts, mushrooms, and cheeses, were largely consumed. Glasses of wine, Langhe Rossos and Friuli Biancos, in various progress of consumption, surrounded the china. We sat at the edge of the beer garden grounds, next to large generous windows showcasing a view of the Credit Suisse building, fully lit under the velvet darkness of an early spring evening.

The chatter at that moment was split evenly between my six dining companions--three distinct conversations between three pairs of adjacent friends. At that moment, I was able to fade out briefly and simply observe such a scene, and what I saw made me think of Gary Shteyngart's essay Only Disconnect. There we were, the seven of us, on an otherwise nondescript Saturday night, "thoroughly facebooking one another," enjoying each others' companionship in its purest form, through words and smiles and gestures and pitches, with no cell phones in sight and no photographic evidence that surfaced on any social network. We facebooked one another the timeless way, through self-expression emanating from touch and feel and sight and sound, each input weaving their way up our spine and into our head and filling our soul. And all we have to show for it is what is in our respective memories, those imperfect analog vehicles made up of tiny grey cells.

Dear reader, if there is a way to convey the feeling of such a moment without resorting to cliches, e.g. I think I discovered a small piece of the meaning of life right then and there, I do not know how. A city like New York, with eight million humans, can feel terribly lonely at times. Eight million humans, but nary anyone to connect with. Water water everywhere but not a drop to drink. But that moment, that night, at least for me, was a searing contrast from the usual days of being trapped in my skull. That extraordinary moment disproved nihilism, at least for me, once and for all.

In hindsight, perhaps the others did feel what I felt, at least to a degree, because none of us wanted to leave. "We're going to close the place," we predicted with pride, and proceeded to order another bottle of wine, an easy-going Asti Spumante, and lingered until our waiter finally stalked over and gave us the wrap-it-up sign. Outside, we discussed our next move, for we did not want the evening to end. We huddled, literally, for it was drizzling mist, and it was past midnight, and spring, although sprung, had not turned the corner towards summer yet.