The Formula for Happiness

Red-eye flights are a brilliant idea—until you're on one. They’re terrible for sleep, but they do save time and money. That sounded like a fair trade. So, glowing in my frugality, I booked a midnight flight from Los Angeles to Boston, a 5-and-a-half-hour trip. I’d have an extra full day with Connor.

I was confident I could sleep a little. And even if I couldn’t—so what? I’m in my twenties. Sleep be damned; I can rest when I’m dead! Besides, happiness is reality minus expectations. I wasn’t expecting deep sleep, but I figured I’d sneak in a few hours.

But then it was five in the morning, and I hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep. As the cabin lights turned on signaling our descent, it was clear to me that, according to my formula, I was now unhappy. Alas, it was a shame you couldn’t sleep soundly while flying through the sky at five hundred miles per hour. Traveling in modernity was such a burden.

When the plane landed at Logan Airport, warm rain was falling from a dull and gray sky. Despite the sleepless night and dreary weather, I was excited to see one of my best friends from college, Connor.

We were once inseparable as roommates, fraternity brothers, and travel companions. Oddly, we shared the same last name. But now, we were divided by the continental U.S. After graduating, he moved to Boston to help people gamble on sports and I moved to Los Angeles to turn money into more money in asset management. With hard work and some luck, we both became well-paid yuppies—or at least convincing imitations of them. But money couldn’t make up for lost time together. And while we texted and called often, FaceTime could never compete with face-to-face time.

It was hard maintaining our friendship over distance. At some point, the texts and calls started to feel like work. And while love, romantic or platonic, does require effort, I was afraid that if we didn’t see each other soon, we would drift apart. Maybe it had already started. I was terrified that one day I would remember him as an “old college friend”, a phrase that the Boomers, Xers, and Millennials said that I despised just as much as the “glory days”. “Old college friend” might as well mean someone you don’t know anymore.

Of course, as long as we put the work in to remain close, none of the above would transpire. That is why I came to Boston. Quality time together, a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, a rowdy Red Sox game, and a lobster roll would put my overblown fears to rest.

After grabbing my bag, I hopped on the MBTA, Boston’s public transit, which cut across East Boston and over Boston Harbor, a calming view. I got off in the North End, the neighborhood where Connor lived. It is Boston’s oldest residential community, and looks the part with its brownstones, brick tenements, and cobblestone streets winding like a maze. The Paul Revere statue and Freedom Trail’s golden bricks make its history impossible to ignore. Today, the North End is known as Boston’s Little Italy. There are many patio-style restaurants, old-school delis, and Italian Americans who look and sound like Hollywood mobsters.

I unpacked at Connor’s walkup apartment, and he suggested we go for a long run. While running is an excellent way to see a city, I was exhausted. In most circumstances, I would have declined, but I had recently finished reading the motivational book, Can’t Hurt Me, by David Goggins. Plus, Connor was calling me a chicken. So, maybe it was the lingering motivation or maybe it was the peer pressure but, in the end, I conceded. But first—coffee.

We ordered espressos at Caffè Paradiso, a cash-only, quaint open-air Italian coffeehouse. We sat at a small table with a street view and chatted quietly amid the clinking of mugs and light rain falling onto the awning. Besides the shop owners preparing for the day, there was hardly a soul outside.

After leaving the café, we ran along the Charles River Esplanade, a peaceful strip of greenery between the city and the water. With quiet trails, manicured lawns, and waddling geese, the esplanade was the kind of place that begged for a slow, thoughtful stroll. Instead, we were running.

I don’t know why, but guys communicate best when we don’t make eye contact. We connect shoulder to shoulder at bars, side by side in cars, and step for step on runs. Connor and I had a lot to catch up on and luckily, ten miles gave us plenty of time to not look at each other. First up: his girlfriend Paula.

Connor said she was the complete package: smart, cute, adventurous, and kind. She was Spanish, which, for a traveling man like Connor, was a bonus. On their first date at a local bar in Boston, she spoke in her clumsy English and him in his fumbling Spanish. But somehow, they managed to find the right words. Buzzed and giddy, Connor wasted no time texting the group chat. He gave her a perfect five-star review—yeah, we used to do that.

After that first date, they started to see each other frequently and within a few months, it was every day. Their relationship soon had a label: novio y novia (girlfriend and boyfriend). They even vacationed in Colombia, trekking through the country’s dense jungles and walking its magical colonial cities.

I like to think that traveling together is a great test for a relationship. To travel is to experience the unknown, to live outside our ordinary and routine lives. And so, perhaps when Connor and Paula were trekking through the Colombian jungles, hungry and dirty, they realized that they were happy to be together no matter the conditions. At that moment, maybe they understood that this was not just an infatuation. This was a partner.

But Paula’s visa renewal was denied. Come November, she’d have to leave the country—and the boy she didn’t want to say goodbye to. They had known each other for a little more than a year at this point. Long distance would be extremely hard. But what if there didn’t have to be a distance?

Connor doesn’t make excuses. If he wants something, he gets it. So, if Paula had to leave his motherland, then he’d have to leave it too. He would follow her to Europe because she was worth it. Wherever she found work, he’d be by her side as long as his tourist visa allowed. In college, Connor always mentioned he wanted to live in Europe. Well, it would be sooner than expected.

Obviously, things between them had heated up. And naturally, the most important thing was how I felt about it. I was, rightfully so, a little shocked that the relationship had gotten so serious in such a short time. While taking a vacation with your girlfriend was light and fun, moving across the world for 90 days was serious. Was it romantic? Absolutely.

I was happy that she made him happy—but not too happy because his move made me sad. Nevertheless, I wanted the best for him, whether that meant we were next door neighbors or across the world. But our future life paths were diverging. I snapped out of it. There was no point in projecting the future while I could appreciate the present.

The present was very hot and humid. It was a typical summer day in Boston and even before we started running, I was drenched in sweat. Fortunately, the light showers cooled our bodies as we paced along the esplanade. I felt acutely awake and alive. I was proud to be running this morning, and to be with a friend who was even more refreshing than rain.

About five miles in, we stopped to refuel at a bagel shop in Cambridge, home to Harvard and MIT. Inside the bakery, the décor was homey and consisted of shoulder-high bookshelves, large indoor plants, and birch furniture. There were many young people enjoying their breakfast inside. Although none of them wore MIT or Harvard labeled swag, I wondered who among them would raise humanity to higher heights or turn out to be elitist pricks—not mutually exclusive events if I may add.

With a bagel-filled belly, I felt a second wind despite being soaked to my shoes. We started to run back to Boston along the Cambridge side of the esplanade. This part of the loop did not have much visual appeal, which perhaps led to Connor and I speaking less. Though I like to think that the mark of a great friendship is that silences aren’t awkward. When we finally arrived back to the stone streets of the North End, we had run about twelve miles in all, and it was only ten-thirty in the morning. With so much day ahead of us, the red eye flight might have been a brilliant idea after all.

After a quick shower and rest at Connor’s, we headed to meet Paula in Seaport. If the North End is all brick, brown, and charmingly cramped, Seaport is its sleeker, steel-and-glass cousin—modern, minimalist, and a little too corporate for my taste. But architecture aside, I was very excited to finally meet Paula. Fueled by delicious Italian deli sandwiches, we walked the fifteen minutes to Seaport.

Paula lived in a tall building with a doorman and a central lobby. In the elevator up, I was a little nervous. This was the girl Connor would change his life for. In my mind, this wasn’t just a hello—it felt like the past and future shaking hands. I wasn’t sure which side I stood on.

She greeted me with a hearty “Hola!” and a hug. After giving Connor an affectionate look, she gave him a small kiss. She had large, round blue eyes that were both beautiful and piercing. We sat in the living room and got to know each other the usual way. It quickly became clear to me that she was refreshingly European, which is to say she appreciated the simple things in life: quality conversation, walks, dinners, family time, and great coffee. She spoke with a Spanish accent and laughed heartily. She was well-traveled, which made me happy—Connor loves seeing the world too. They poked fun at each other a lot and always laughed about it.

She made us cappuccinos, and we stepped onto her balcony. The gray sky had cleared to blue, and the sun warmed the city. Seagulls were gliding above the Atlantic Ocean that stretched in front of us. Below was brick-red Boston, and we pointed our favorite Gothic and Georgian buildings. Sometimes our conversations would end, leading to a few moments of silence. Yet, they didn’t feel awkward.

How their relationship would develop was uncertain—but then again, so was life. I was still anxious about how often I would be able to see Connor going forward. I wondered how long they could make this work before marriage. Wait, would they marry? If so, would they live in Spain or America?

But there was no point worrying about the future while I could appreciate the present. Reality would unfold, with or without my expectations. But for now, I was basking in the sunshine with my best friend and his lover—maybe for the last time in a while, maybe not. Either way, it was enough. And I was happy.

(June 2023)