The Thunderbolt, Part One

Harris said he'd be at the cookbook party by 7:00 p.m., which
gave me an hour to hang out with him there before I headed uptown
to have dinner with another old friend and his family. The party
was a bit out of the way, and I almost skipped it, but since I was
only in my hometown, New York City, on rare occasions, I figured I
might as well get out and see as many of the people I loved as I
could. What had brought me here from Los Angeles was the chance to
fill in for a month at the New York bureau of the radio show where
I was on staff as a reporter. I bolstered my energy for a busy
evening of flitting around the city in hyper --- social butterfly
mode --- a way of life I rarely indulged in anymore.

The walk from the office on East 47th Street to the party on
66th Street filled me with wonder and made me wistful for this
place I loved so dearly. In early autumn, twilight in New York is
magical; the sky glimmers and there's energy in the streets. You
feel powerful, invincible, as if every gritty bit of the city is
yours. I found myself doing a mental trick I hadn't done since I'd
moved away: reciting the address of my destination while I walked
as if it were the lyrics to a song. Two-three-four / East
Sixty-sixth Street, I sang to myself over and over again this
September evening, the clunky tune mingling with the click-clack of
my bright pink "comfort" high heels. Inevitably, after all that
repetition, I would muck up the street number, and I did this time,
too. But there was such a crowd in front of one particularly
gorgeous old brownstone, I didn't need to check the little slip of
paper in my purse to know I'd arrived.

Crazy busy. Some swanky food magazine editor was debuting a new
cookbook. Harris had long been a foodie, and in the last few years
had broken into writing about all things gourmet. Good for him to
be mingling in such well-fed company. Now it seemed I'd have to
fight a dreaded crowd to find him. How could I be a city person and
hate mob scenes?

As I made my way to the front door, I took a look up the
staircase. It was packed with a crush of people. In the thick of
it, facing in my direction, was the most handsome man. He had a
shock of brown hair and big brown eyes to match. I know it sounds
ridiculous, but in that instant, the mob seemed to disappear. Much
to my surprise and delight, I saw him looking right back. Not just
in my direction, but at me. Our eyes locked, and, even from a
distance, I could swear a sort of chemical reaction erupted between
us.

I'd read about these celebrated coup de foudres, thunderbolts,
where people met and fell in love at first sight. I knew from
experience that an instant attraction could be
intoxicating—and dangerous. As was the impulse to imagine
that a momentary connection was something larger. But this
thunderbolt felt different. This was a beautiful, instant intensity
I'd never, ever experienced.

Practical me prevailed: I had to find Harris. Time was tight. I
peeled my eyes away from the handsome stranger and pushed through
the thicket of people. After a series of wrong turns, I spotted him
holding court in a corner of the room, smiling and gesturing as if
he owned the place. Harris was so good at making people feel
welcome, connected. Everyone clutched goblets of wine—no
disposable plastic cups for this crowd. My friend did a round of
introductions, and as he got to the end of the group, I was happily
surprised to see the man from the staircase.

"Lisa, this is my friend Sebastian I've been telling you about,
who I'm going to Asia with next week. You know, for that story I'm
writing for Gourmet magazine. And Benjamin, this is Lisa, my friend
who works in public radio out in L.A."

He was better looking now that I could see him up close, and
there was a warmth about him, an easy friendliness. I felt a bit
self-conscious and suddenly a little off-kilter in my pink
shoes.

Long ago, I'd been one of those kids who hid under her mother's
armpit to avoid looking at strangers. Then I went into the news
business. Earning my living posing questions to people I didn't
know had cured me of my innate shyness. Confidence was a good
quality, one I was happy to have cultivated—especially now
faced with this handsome man. Right at this instant, though, I
found myself feeling unsure about how to proceed. I wanted to say
something clever and prophetic, but I couldn't find the words. So I
stuck out my hand, and he stuck out his, and we shook. Sebastian
asked if I wanted a drink, and I said yes, and he said he'd get me
one from upstairs, and I said I'd go with him, and there we were,
presto, in our own conversational bubble. We talked a bit about
public radio—always reliable upscale cocktail-party chitchat.
With everyone captive in their cars, and smart programming in short
supply thanks to budget cutbacks and media consolidation, the
public-radio audience tuned in with almost cultlike devotion.
Personally, I was sick of the news, and tried to avoid it as much
as possible. At the same time, I appreciated the attention those
commuters paid our show, and was grateful to have a job at a news
outlet that had such an enormous, attentive audience. Better than
having no audience at all. I'd been out of work a number of times,
and underemployed, so I knew well what that was like. I also was
very aware that in situations like this one, my profession
converted into useful social currency.

Once we had my wine and a refill for him, I started plying
Benjamin with questions about his upcoming trip to Asia. He ticked
off the itinerary: a swing through Hong Kong, a few provinces in
China I had never heard of, two places in India whose names I knew
simply because of their tea—Assam and Darjeeling—and,
for a few days, the tiny neighboring Kingdom of Bhutan.

"Ahh. The happiest place on earth," I said. I hoped my being
dimly familiar with one relatively unknown country in all of
Asia—and knowing the factoid that it was purportedly filled
with blissfully happy people—might impress him. Although I'd
never come anywhere close to the continent. I wasn't even certain
just where on the continent Bhutan was.

"Yes," he said smiling. "Exactly."

"I've always been curious about this happiness thing and Bhutan.
It has to have something to do with the fact that television is
banned there, right?" I'd now exhausted the extent of my knowledge
about the obscure little nation.

"Right, although His Majesty did let TV in a few years back,"
Sebastian said, his smile broadening and his eyes intense. "But
it's still a very happy place. Hey, get a visa and come with us.
Harris and I will be your guides."

What I wanted to say was that I would have driven to the airport
and boarded a rocket to another galaxy with this man, whether or
not my dear old friend Harris came along as chaperone. We kept
talking, but I really don't remember what we said. I was lost in
Sebastian.

Then, a sort of internal alarm rang and jolted him into
remembering he was looking for quarters for the parking meter.
After I dug a bunch out of my purse and handed them over, I asked
the time and discovered that the clock was ticking for me, too. I
needed to head to the other side of town for dinner.

A quick good-bye, and off I ran. The friend I was meeting turned
out to be running very late; I sat at the restaurant with his
family as he called every five minutes with updates from the
traffic jam. Ordinarily this would have annoyed me, but not
tonight. Just knowing Sebastian was out there in the world improved
my disposition immeasurably.

The next day, I sat in our midtown offices trying to motivate
myself to research a story about rich young couples who were
trading the plush suburbs surrounding New York City for a new crop
of multimillion-dollar kid-friendly condo complexes being built
right in the heart of Manhattan. With enough money, you could now
have a family without disrupting your metropolitan lifestyle. Among
other luxuries, like on-staff dog walkers and a wine cellar, these
buildings offered concierges to assist the nannies. An email popped
into my inbox and saved me from my internal rant about conspicuous
consumption and the decline of civilization. The very sight of the
man's name made my heart beat faster.

Dear Lisa:

It was great to meet you last night. I owe you a drink for all
that change you dug up for me. When can you get together?

—Sebastian

Sebastian and Harris were leaving on their journey in just a few
days, and by the time they returned, I'd be back home in Los
Angeles. I could find a way to see him tonight. My calendar was
totally open after work. I liked it that way, and this invitation
reinforced why: The most interesting experiences seemed to happen
spontaneously—just the opposite of how most everything worked
in New York City, where every moment had to be planned by the
quarter hour, lest you felt as if you might be "wasting" a bit of
your precious time.

And yet I found myself hesitating to accept this invitation. I'd
witnessed many a friend as they sabotaged or just plain avoided
opportunities out of some sort of unexpressed fear that success or
happiness might result. They became riddled with anxiety and
self-loathing before they'd even sent in that cover letter or gone
on that date. Now here I was, similarly paralyzed.

The voice of this other me politely declined. It was easy to
justify not seeing him. We lived on opposite sides of the country;
launching into a relationship that was destined to be long-distance
was preposterous, a mistake I'd made in the past that I'd vowed not
to repeat. My, I was getting way, way ahead of myself.

Excerpted from RADIO SHANGRI-LA: What I Learned in Bhutan, the
Happiest Kingdom on Earth © Copyright 2011 by Lisa Napoli.
Reprinted with permission by Crown. All rights reserved.