Tag Archives: love story

Romantic New York Love Video

Hannah Hart Beat

Happy Friday, Hart Beat! I can’t believe I’m typing this but it’s snowing right now in New York. That’s right. We went from having consecutive days of 60 degree glorious days to now being downed in a flurry of snow. Blah. To make it up to you I thought I would share the most heartwarming video that I found browseing ye old internet. Have you seen this video?

The video is amazing, right? I’ve fallen in love in New York and can say that the emotions the video evokes are pretty on point. I love the shots of the subway and Highline especially. The video reminds me of a similar feeling series that I posed on the blog a few years back. You can read the Yelp love story in this post here.

Thanks, Condé Nast for bringing some warm and fuzzies my way this wintery night. Does this video remind you of anything, Hart Beat?

Our Soppy Love Story

I make what Pedro calls “Prison Pasta" [2:14] pasta, olive oil, salt and parmesan cheese (things we always have) [2:14] slash we go down to the pizzeria downstairs

Hi Hart Beat. I’m back! If you follow me on Instagram then maybe you saw I was on a romantic Costa Rican vacation with my mom last week. Well, like it or not now I’m back and have so much to share with you! Let’s start with this adorable book that has been circulating the internets recently.

Soppy by Philippa Rice is one of the most romantic things I’ve seen in a while. The artist has captured the small nuances of what it’s like to be in a long-term relationship like no one I’ve ever seen. From moments like cooking together to the trials and tribulations of claiming your side of the bed, to falling asleep together on the couch after the 100 Seinfeld episode, I kept thinking “did this woman spy on me and Pedro?” Honestly, so many of these comics could be us. And the best part? They are illustrations off of her relationship with her partner.

This means that as much difference as there is in every relationship, some things stay the same. The intimate parts stay the same. And for that, I am grateful.

P.S. For more illustrations from the book check out this post on Upworthy that has a ton.

Our Soppy Love Story

All photos by Philippa Rice.

The King

My King, Mon roi

The King trailer

I’m not sure what it is but there’s something about summer that makes me think about French films. It might be because growing up in the Berkshires the local movie theater always carried the newest French movie. Over the years I’ve written about other movies that I loved (check out the list below for other recommendations!) but tonight I want to share a new trailer for My King (or Mon Roi en français) that premiers tomorrow in NYC. I haven’t seen the movie (yet!) but this trailer got me so good. According to a Brooklyn Magazine article the movie is tragic (of course it’s French) and romantic (again, duh) which is great because those are two of my favorite things.

Right!?!? I want to see it so badly and I don’t even really know what it’s about other than a tragic love story. The movie comes out tomorrow at Lincoln Center in the city.. Can’t wait for it to come closer to mr in Brooklyn.

Other French movies I’ve loved over the years: Blue is the Warmest Color, Tell No One, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, Elles, and one other about a French vineyard and an escaped convict that I can’t for the life of me remember but if you know what I’m talking about please put it in the comments -___-

How do you know when you’re in love?

Hannah Hart Beat

How do you know when you’re in love? The other day on Facebook I saw that The Atlantic posted a video that they made in Washington Square Park in Manhattan asking people that very question. The responses are all so true and I love all the different people that are asked. It’s so New York and it has me loving this city even more that I usually do.

My favorite response was “I know when I’m in love when the world stops.” Amen, sister friend. It’s just the best feeling in the whole world.

P.S. The video reminded me of this one made by The Cut last year if you’re in the mood for move looooove videos.

Photo of a couple in Paris by Dust Jacket.

Love in the time of the internet

Hi Hart Beat. It’s a stormy night here in Brooklyn and I desperately hope that this rain cools down the temperatures before Carolyn and I head to the beach this weekend… Anyway, a couple days ago I came across this fascinating article about a New Yorker who chronicled his heartbreaking love story in a series of Yelp reviews.

The author behind the story, Chase Compton, tells a riveting tale of romance, courtship and heartbreak by leaving different episodes of his story at different places around the city. Each episode is written in the review space for popular restaurants and landmarks in lower Manhattan (like Tompkins Squire Park, Cafe Mogador and the Brooklyn Bridge.) The first part of the story takes place down the street from where I live in Greenpoint and, as a New Yorker, I found reading the story somewhat eerie. The way that Chase describes falling in love in this intimate, loud, public and intoxicating city is unbelievable accurate. I couldn’t stop reading his story and I thought you might enjoy it too Hart Beat. For the full list of reviews you can find Chase’s Yelp account here.

On the topic of keys, I had noticed something about the bridge that I hadn’t noticed before. I had been on the Brooklyn Bridge just about a year ago, with Him, and had failed to notice all of the locks that embellished the wires running all along it. They all had names and engagements and testaments of eternal love carved into them–it was just like that bridge in Paris. It was slightly less grand-scale, but still the same concept. People from all over the world had come here, to this place, and placed locks on it that represented their steadfastness in love. It was as if to say that love really did stand a chance when it was true, and it could in fact be made into something of permanence. Too many people these days saw the notion of love as being “locked” or “trapped” into something, but I knew that there was more to it than that. Love should be something that frees you, and liberates you, and makes you stronger–it’s that permanence and strength that the lock represents. Delving further into metaphor, I wondered what the key was in this equation. What was the key to making love stay? 
– Chase Compton


Top photo via source.
Bottom photo via source.


Love, somewhere out there

“There’s a saying that goes something like, 
how terrible to love what can perish.”
A couple days ago I heard one of the best This America Life podcasts from their archive section. Out of all the old episodes that I’ve heard in the past couple of weeks this is one that I thought I would share with you. The number is the episode is 374 and the name of the episode is “Somewhere Out There.”

My favorite parts of the episode are the two beginning stories. The first is about a group of Harvard physicists calculating the odds of finding a girlfriend, and the second is of a misunderstanding between a young couple in love. I’ve posted the entire episode below and if you’re looking for something to do tonight, or tomorrow while riding to work I couldn’t recommend this more. As always, a love letter for you Hart Beat. 

“That is the story of struggle and pain passed through, and fought through, and overcome. And that’s a story that you don’t tell in public because no one ever asks how did you two stay together? Everyone always asks how did you two meet?”


Love, somewhere out there

“There’s a saying that goes something like, 
how terrible to love what can perish.”
A couple days ago I heard one of the best This America Life podcasts from their archive section. Out of all the old episodes that I’ve heard in the past couple of weeks this is one that I thought I would share with you. The number is the episode is 374 and the name of the episode is “Somewhere Out There.”

My favorite parts of the episode are the two beginning stories. The first is about a group of Harvard physicists calculating the odds of finding a girlfriend, and the second is of a misunderstanding between a young couple in love. I’ve posted the entire episode below and if you’re looking for something to do tonight, or tomorrow while riding to work I couldn’t recommend this more. As always, a love letter for you Hart Beat. 

“That is the story of struggle and pain passed through, and fought through, and overcome. And that’s a story that you don’t tell in public because no one ever asks how did you two stay together? Everyone always asks how did you two meet?”


Anais, I only thought I loved you before

Hi. I don’t have much to say other than you should really read this letter written by Henry Miller to Anaïs Nin. It’s pretty long but, I promise it’s worth every word. It literally breathes love in the purist sense.

August 14, 1932

Anais:

Don’t expect me to be sane anymore. Don’t let’s be sensible. It was a marriage at Louveciennes– you can’t dispute it. I came away with pieces of you sticking to me; I am walking about, swimming, in an ocean of blood, your Andalusian blood, distilled and poisonous. Everything I do and say and think relates back to the marriage. I saw you as the mistress of your home, a Moor with a heavy face, a negress with a white body, eyes all over your skin, woman, woman, woman. I can’t see how I can go on living away from you– these intermissions are death. How did it seem to you when Hugo came back? Was I still there? I can’t picture you moving about with him as you did with me. I was almost terrified by it. You are not just thirty years old– you are a thousand years old.

Here I am back and still smouldering with passion, like wine smoking. Not a passion any longer for flesh, but a complete hunger for you, a devouring hunger. I read the paper about suicides and murders and I understand it all thoroughly. I feel murderous, suicidal. I feel somehow that it is a disgrace to do nothing, to just bide one’s time to take it philosophically, to be sensible. Where has gone the time when men fought, killed, died for a glove, a glance, etc? (A victrola is playing that terrible aria from Madam Butterfly— “Some day he’ll come!”)

I still hear you singing in the kitchen– a sort of inharmonic, monotonous Cuban wail. I know you’re happy in the kitchen and the meal you’re cooking is the best meal we ever ate together. I know you would scald yourself and not complain. I feel the greatest peace and joy sitting in the dining room listening to you rustling about, your dress like the goddess Indra studded with a thousand eyes. 

Anais, I only thought I loved you before; it was nothing like this certainty that’s in me now. Was all this so wonderful only because it was brief and stolen? Were we acting for each other, to each other? Was I less I, or more I, and you less or more you? Is it madness to believe that this could go on? When and where would the drab moments begin? I study you so much to discover the possible flaws, the weak points, the danger zones. I don’t find them– not any. That means I am in love, blind, blind. To be blind forever! (Now they’re singing “Heaven and Ocean” from La GiocondaI.)

I picture you playing the records over and over– Hugo’s records. “Parlez moi d amour.” The double life, double taste, double joy and misery. How you must be furrowed and ploughed by it. I know all that, but I can’t do anything to prevent it. I wish indeed it were me who had come to endure it. I know now your eyes are wide open. Certain things you will never believe anymore, certain gestures you will never repeat, certain sorrows, misgivings, you will never again experience. A kind of white criminal fervor in your tenderness and cruelty. Neither remorse nor vengeance, neither sorrow not guilt. A living it out, with nothing to save you from the abysm but a high hope, a faith, a joy that you tasted, that you can repeat when you will.

All morning I was at my note, ferreting through my life records, wondering where to begin, how to make a start, seeing not just another book before me but a life of books. But I don’t begin. The walls are completely bare– I have taken everything down before going to meet you. It is as though I had made ready to leave for good. The spots on the walls stand out– where our heads rested. While it thunders and lightnings I lie on the bed and go through wild dreams. We’re in Seville and then in Fez and then in Capri and then in Havana. We’re journeying constantly, but there is always a machine and books, and your body is always close to me and the look in your eyes never changes. People are saying we will be miserable, we will regret, but we are happy, we are laughing always, we are singing. We are talking Spanish and French and Arabic and Turkish. We are admitted everywhere and the strew our path with flowers. 

I say this is a wild dream– but it is a dream I want to realize. Life and literature combined, love the dynamo, you with your chameleon’s soul giving me a thousand loves, being anchored always in no matter what storm, home wherever we are. In the mornings, continuing where we left off. Resurrection after resurrection. You asserting yourself, getting the rich varied life you desire; and the more you assert yourself the more you want me, need me. Your voice getting hoarser, deeper, your eyes blacker, your blood thicker, your body fuller. A voluptuous servility and delight of experience.

HVM

There. I’m devastated that it’s over and I have to stop typing Henry Millers beautiful and true words. I’m actually heartbroken it’s over. Maybe someday I’ll write a letter like this. Have a nice night, Hart Beat.

This letter, like the many posted here before it, comes from my favorite website “Letters of Note.”

Dear Juliet,

While I was at work today I got an amazing email from my amazing friend S. She sent me this NPR piece about something really amazing. Listen here

Apparently in Verona, Italy there is a club of women who read letters written to Juliet and personally hand write a response to each letter. I am in awe. The love story of Romeo and Juliet is a personal favorite of mine (unrequited love really in any form is my favorite) and the idea that in Juliet’s hypothetical hometown there are woman who read and answer letters written by lovers from all over the world is truly unbelievable.
“Juliet, you are the only one who can understand how I feel.”
In honor of the Secretaries of Juliet, here’s one of my favorite songs about the star crossed lovers. The Killers just sing this one so well. Juliet, when you gonna realize, it was just that the time was wrong? Madre mia. 
“Romeo and Juliet” sung by The Killers
Verona in real life.