Valentine's 2010: #4

Of late I've discovered an indulgence for old films, especially war films. Soldiers, long-distance love-letters as a raison d'etre, amour a la folie in utter squalor - the sentimentalism is nearly nauseating and yet the melodrama is irresistible. There's no better example of this than "Casablanca." Until the very end of the film, you're convinced that Rick is going to escape with Ilsa to rekindle a former fire. But Rick gallantly says, "Where I'm going you can't follow; what I've got to do you can't be any part of," and sends Ilsa off in a plane. "Casablanca" is different from other Hollywood movies. That's what makes it special.

Over winter break, a best friend from high school called me early in the morning (I was out west and she back east) to recount a previous night's dream. She was on a plane to California and my jejune crush of fourth grade was sitting next to her. What a strike of serendipity, she said. Sure, I said. The brief conversation was surreal not only because it was 6 a.m. and this friend hadn't called me in weeks, but because the aforementioned boy-interest had not been mentioned in years. Literally. Needless to say, I couldn't exactly understand the point of her call. It almost irked me. I told her I had to go, was off to "The Alamo," a rarity of a cinema that solely shows reruns from drive-in days.

To remind myself that I indeed still lived in the 21st century, I sat down in front of my laptop ready to spend the usual hour of mind-numbing Internet surfing, only to find an unexpected message. Two sentences. That's all. One to say hello and one to ask if I was in the area for a rendezvous. The sender? My crush of fourth grade. In "Casablanca," Rick says, "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine." And that's exactly how I felt.

As I wait in a favorite local cafe, listening to background Pink Martini tunes and smelling espresso aromas, I cannot decide whether I feel more like I am awaiting a stranger or a long-time friend who knows me inside out. Many minutes pass and no sign. I stand up, coat on, hopes dashed. As I am bracing myself for the biting cold outside, he arrives. A playful tryst picks up from where it left off, only a decade dormant. I still have an incredible admiration for him. The only problem: He lives 3,891 miles away, in Copenhagen. That's nearly the same distance from me as Casablanca, which is too coincidental for comfort. Humphrey Bogart puts it best when he says, "For now, it's still a story without an ending." And that's exactly how I feel.