How many times had I given my phone number to guys I met in the Ramble without ever hearing from them? But Florian called me. The same night, shortly before I was about to leave for Copenhagen.
He had plans of his own for his first American Thanksgiving, marching in the Macy*s parade as an elf. I would have killed to get a picture. Instead, I brought him back an ankh from the Glyptothek. "He might get the wrong idea," warned Chris and Dan. "Or the right one!" I retorted. We began spending a lot of time at 47 Pianos, for obvious reasons. I was smitten, a one-man audience.
Florian, an actor studying at HB Studio in the West Village, shared a one-bedroom apartment in Pavonia Newport in a high-rise building with incredible views of Manhattan.
While thumbing through his photo albums, I discovered his complicated living arrangements. His East German roommate was actually his landlord and a former lover who supported him.
It didn't matter (until it did). When I put my arm around Florian at the Lincoln Plaza Cinemas during Sideways he shrugged it off. Afterward, when I asked him why, he used a German phrase to describe my feelings: schnell verliebt meaning "quickly in love." He was absolutely right. Chiffon even made a playlist with that title.
The feeling couldn't have come at a better time. I had just turned 51, not an easy age for a single gay man. During a walk in Central Park, I actually cried tears of joy, thinking about my answered prayers.
Like Leon, my previous relationship, Florian was European and 14 years younger. He'd been trained as a chef in Herborn, his hometown, and served in the German army before deciding to become an actor. It almost looks as if he's channelling Alex from A Clockwork Orange in this photo taken before he moved to the United States. He was Andreas then.
He loved nothing better than to dress up and mug. He frequently arrived at 47 Pianos with costumes or a bag of tricks.
I saw him perform only once, in a production of Zoo Story at HB Studio. A one-acter about two men of different stations in life who meet on a park bench, it resonated. Albee with a German accent. I was impressed but couldn't understand why Florian never auditioned.
Trust me, Florian was the only person wearing a white vest at Folsom Street East outside the Eagle. I called him "schatzi," the same name my father used to describe attractive women he encountered in Germany.
"Schatzi" had a pal named "Snakey." He also watched Boobah, a British TV show for toddlers.
Florian even took Snakey to Gay Pride. I was mortified but secretly thrilled when a New York City cop told him he couldn't ride the C train without a shirt. He wasn't at all shy about showing off his Marky Mark physique, or sharing that the Boston rapper had been his inspiration.
But what I liked best about Florian was his desire to see everything. We explored the outer boroughs of New York on long bike rides using routes that he mapped out in his head before departure.
This one took us across the George Washington Bridge to New Jersey and south to Pavonia Newport. Florian favored Abercrombie and Fitch apparel.
Staten Island? Here we come--frrom New Jersey!
He had a scooter, too.
Roland, his roommate, occasionally loaned Florian his van. We visited Old Westbury Gardens one cloudy weekend afternoon.
"You look like Max, the German chauffeur in Sunset Boulevard," I teased. He never got my pop cultural references, although we did enjoy the same music.
The shell mosaics decorating the pool house provided the perfect background for a photo shoot. I've never had a more willing model.
Our longest ride took us through the Bronx to City Island
. . . with a stop at Orchard Beach. We rode the subway home after dinner, exhausted.
Florian had a thing for brightly colored sun glasses. You can see his apartment building across the Hudson just to the left of his temple.
Florian joined me in the Pines as a regular guest that summer, one of my happiest. Call me besotted.
Our far-afield explorations continued on foot.
Nobody batted an eye at his gay attire in Sailor's Haven.
We took the water taxi to the Fire Island Lighthouse
. . . and climbed to the top.
It took nearly four hours to walk back to the 485 Tarpon, a distance of more than seven miles. We marched proudly through all of Fire Island's straight communities.
Florian really did seem like a fantasy come true. I'd always wanted a playmate in the Pines.
We got a lot of off-label use of the outdoor shower below the house.
Our season in the Pines that started much earlier and lasted longer than ever before, well into October when Florian and I had an entire weekend alone. I will never forget it.
We stomped on the beach to stimulate bioluminescence, a natural phenomenon he had never experienced, and burned dried hydrangeas in the fireplace. Both were apt metaphors for our relationship: brief and incredibly intense.
Florian LOVED New York so I found it very surprising when he told me that he would be following Roland to Chicago. "You can move in with me IF you start auditioning or get a job," I said.
He declined the ultimatum but we managed another trip to our beloved Fire Island before he left. Just a week before Christmas, we trekked west from the TWA Flight 800 International Memorial at Smith Point through the Otis Pike wilderness area to HoHum Beach, where we had walked east from the Pines with Chris in July.
Making that connection on the map gave us unique bragging rights, at least among people we knew: Florian and I had traversed 20 miles of Fire Island National Seashore on foot, something not possible today. In 2012, Superstorm Sandy breached the barrier island, joining the Atlantic Ocean to Great South Bay along the route we took in December, seven years earlier. The breach, however, wasn't a bad thing; it flushed out the bay, reducing nitrogen levels and improving conditions for marine life.
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