I was having a drink in New York with a friend—I open with, because it makes me sound far classier than I actually am—and catching up with his whereabouts for the past 9 months. It was very spur of the moment. Very fortuitous. Very New York.
And after that drink and promises to keep in better contact with one another, along the walk to the subway, he called me by my old nickname, “Iowa.” I had met one of his friends years ago, after I had just transferred down from the University of Iowa. One thing, of course, led to another. For some reason, Midwestern states stick to people. But it was just the hearing of it, the Atlantis-esque part of myself that quickly rose to the surface from dormancy. I couldn’t believe that he remembered this part of myself that I had forgotten.