In Praise of Thoughtfulness

Along 58th street this evening I witnessed a very bland Valentine’s procession. I crossed paths with middle aged women in business suits and trench coats, carrying in their hands small packages wrapped in paper of reds and pinks; two different women in their twenties walking to the Columbus Circle Station clutched stuffed animals who themselves held onto plush, red hearts; and the men carried flowers. None, however, carried smiles.

At 58th street and 5th avenue, a smartly dressed man with white hair waved down a taxi—his carefully cut and well-tailored suit was somewhat softened by the tight bunch of red roses, which he, however, clutched in his left hand like a newspaper. Just on the other side of 5th avenue, gazing into the window of Bergdorf Goodman, stood a preppy young man with several long-stemmed red and pink roses dangling from his hand. With his other he cradled his ipod, much more lovingly. Neither man appeared to lack either money or resources of any kind; if they were unable or unwilling to do it themselves, could these men not have, at the least, hired someone to find more expressive flowers?

As I approached 58th street and 7th avenue, I could see a long line of young men, all dressed in jeans and dark jackets, waiting to buy one of the bouquets of red roses and baby’s breath that the corner deli had plunked into a series of black buckets along the street. I’m sure their intentions were fine enough, but truly I could think only that the bouquets were perfectly hideous, and that the men looked either bored or disinterested as they eyed the flowers and shifted their weight impatiently from one foot to the other.

From 5th avenue to 7th, the whole lot of these men disappointed me. First of all, what about garden roses? Or cherry blossoms, hyacinth or peony? Then there are tulips and hydrangea, protea, renonculous and anemones….even if a man did not know the names of the flowers, or that they existed, could not any of these men take enough interest in his girlfriend or wife to either a) ask the florist what they had available that was most beautiful and unique at the moment or b) if their budget did not allow for anything more than a corner deli, could they not look at all of the other beautiful roses and flowers for sale to find something special? If only I could see some sign on their faces or in their purchases that indicated that just one of these men cared and actually thought about his supposed loved one, I would have felt so much better and more encouraged about the romantic state of Manhattan as I strolled home.

After all, of the many men and women I saw carrying their Valentine’s offerings to their significant other, not one face betrayed any look of joy, any trace of excitement, any sign of happiness—none of the bouquets of mediocre flowers were held with any sweetness, and certainly none that I saw had any personality. Each fistful of flowers looked like a bouquet of obligation, and of half-hearted love. A dozen long-stemmed red roses grown in some industrial greenhouse in South America says to me: “I had neither the time, the desire nor the creativity to choose a bouquet of flowers that reflects anything about how I feel about you. I’m not giving you these flowers because I love you, but because I have to. What more do you want?”

Perhaps I am overly difficult, I thought, and too romantic, but what I want to see is someone who actually CARES. Then again, perhaps no one cares as much as I wish they would. By the time I reached Columbus Circle, I was relieved to be nearing home. Although there would be no flowers at all for me there, at least there would be no mindless red roses.

But then I saw it: a tall, thin man crossed the street toward me, holding in his slender hand a single, white calla lily. The flower was flawless: sensual, elegant, restrained. The calla lily was all grace and beauty, and he held it with the gentleness of a new-born baby; he carried the lily out in front of his body as he walked, very tenderly looking down at it with a softness in his eyes, and a slight smile on his lips. This man walked with the jaunty step of one who is eager to get to his destination. As he gazed sweetly at his one, perfect flower and rushed to his taxi, I could not help but think that he must look at his wife or girlfriend in the same way that he looks at the flower he chose for her. Here finally is a New Yorker who loves, I thought; here is one who cares.

As he opened the door to his taxi, he noticed me studying his flower and asked excitedly, in a sing-song accent that sounded vaguely French, “Is it beautiful?”
“Oh, yes—it’s very beautiful.”
“Good! I hope my wife will like it,” he laughed.
The man slipped in behind the steering wheel and carefully placed the lily across the front seat, fixing the stem so that the flower would not move as he drove. The day had been mild, and his window was open.
“I’m sorry to pry, but where are you from?” I inquired.
“Sénégal!” he replied, then drove off with a smile and a wave out the window, his calla lily snugly beside him.