Dating has always had its challenges at Columbia, whether that be trying to find anyone in Morningside that is below the age of 70, or else obsessively swooning in Hungarian in an attempt to find a lover.

As hard and disastrous as the dating scene can be, one would never cross the line of dating an NYU student.

Yet, I did decide to cross that line last year after being strongly persuaded to join the community of Tinder daters. I began to see this NYU guy every few weeks, but there always seemed to be a voice in the back of my head asking me, “what are you doing with an NYU guy?” My friends even started to question this too: “why can’t you just find someone here?” I was never too sure about the innate conflict between the two schools, but I soon found out… the hard way.

The realizations of these conflicts began to emerge a few months in, as the treks downtown to meet him started to gradually take their toll on my physical and mental well-being. Physically, the 1 Train from 116th to 23rd was a drag. Granted, it was a little exciting at first: feeling almost rebellious for leaving school on a Tuesday night with the commuters making their way home from work. But no, I wasn’t going home. I enjoyed the idea and fantasy of the escape downtown. What’s more, I liked the slow pace of the train, the schedule of making a stop every five blocks: it allowed me time to think and reflect. I felt a certain exhilaration on these 25-minute journeys. Cut to five months later, where I would inwardly groan and ask “why” every time the train made a stop every five blocks: I would ask myself, “was it really worth it?”

I enjoyed the next 20-minute walk after this subway ride from the West to the East side, like I was crossing borders, walking down the grand avenues to Flatiron with rain soaking me through and through, freezing in the 20-degree weather. It really was, dare I say, magical. 

This didn’t last long. 

I began despising every aspect of the journey: the stupid walk from West to East, having to wait at the crossroads for ridiculous amounts of time as people walked into me, looking at their phones, bumping into one another, cars honking at nothing at all—even laughter became infuriating. My sunny, naïve disposition soon soured. But this was not the worst. It was yet to come.

I vividly remember the walk back the next morning, making my way out at 8 am with the absolute dread and horror of going back to 116th St on a mid-week morning—it brought shivers down my spine. I sluggishly made my way onto the 1 Train at 23rd, decked in dark sunglasses and a cap to conceal the total embarrassment. My recurring thought was, “what am I doing?” I was sat next to office workers, finance bros, children on their way to school with parents, and here I was going back to school after an NYU hookup. It was literally a Wednesday morning, and I was taking a subway ride from 23rd to 116th. I thought of my friends already up, having eaten breakfast, working hard at Butler, refreshed from a good night’s sleep. Not I. I groaned at the thought of all the studying I was going to have to do.

Was it guilt that I felt? Guilty for giving up on Columbia and settling for NYU? Had I really given up? Was I just trying to live the dream of frolicking around New York City? Then came the inevitable questions: “Should I transfer for him?”; “Should I move downtown?”

The train eventually does pull in at 116th, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I had made it.

However, this is by no means set out to be a sad critique of the dating scene or an attack on NYU guys. As melodramatic as I may have come across, I have come to accept this unusual situation. For me, this story is one of love and perseverance. Although the journey may be and still will be long, the mid-week morning embarrassment may be real, love transcends borders. It doesn’t care for NYU and Columbia dating conflicts, it doesn’t care for geography, and it doesn’t care for rules.

Remember, love always wins. 

Oh, and Happy Valentine’s!

where I’ll be rain or shine via Wikimedia Commons