The first time someone asks you where you’re from, you might answer that question in the mechanical way we’ve all been conditioned to: nation, state, or neighborhood. But when it comes to dating, relationships, and the thousand ways we connect (or fail to), where you’re from isn’t just about coordinates. It’s about the places—and the people—that taught you how to flirt, fight, and, eventually, forgive. For me, that place is Brooklyn. And, let me tell you: Brooklyn doesn’t raise romantics; it breeds realists.

That’s not to say we don’t have a soft side. Brooklyn’s sunsets hit differently. There’s something poetic about the Manhattan skyline, the golden streaks of light catching on brownstone stoops, and the smell of bagels in the air that could convince you love is real. But for every grand romantic idea Brooklyn churns out, there’s also the reality check: a subway delay, a guy ghosting you after two incredible dates (and claiming it’s because he’s “finding himself”), or a pigeon with the audacity to target your shoulder just as you wipe a tear away. In Brooklyn, you embrace the chaos—or you get out of the borough.

So, how does the place that raised me shape the way I see relationships today? Pull up a chair. Or, in true Brooklyn fashion, find a rooftop with questionable scaffolding, and let me tell you about it.

Love Lessons From Borough Hall: Building a Tougher Heart

When you grow up in a place where everybody’s in a rush, you learn to cut through the noise. Brooklyn didn’t hand me a silver spoon—it handed me a smooth tongue and a sharp wit. My first crush, for example, wasn’t rewarded with a movie date or a whispered confession under a sycamore tree. Nope. It was in seventh grade, outside a bagel shop, and the girl I liked quipped, “You’re lucky you’re funny. That’s why people even talk to you.”

Yeah. Ouch.

But her blunt honesty would haunt—and later serve—me. It reminded me that even at its harshest, Brooklyn breeds communicators. We say what we mean, sometimes too much, but we mean it. Dating in your 30s is no different. You learn that a pretty face or a cutesy text won’t sustain two-hour commutes or Sunday brunch with someone who asks if oat milk is “too new-agey.” Compatibility has to go deeper than chemistry—it has to survive candor.

So, tip one: Be real with yourself and the other person. Being raised in Brooklyn taught me that sugarcoating is overrated. Speak up. Ask the big questions. If someone’s afraid of being direct, they might not be the match for you.

Park Slope First Dates: Chill, but Not Too Chill

There’s an unspoken pressure to be effortlessly cool when you’re from Brooklyn. But being too chill—that aloof, distant energy that modern dating apps seem to celebrate—can backfire. When I moved back home after a few years in Berlin, I scheduled a first date with an architect at a Park Slope wine bar. He walked in wearing what I swear was the perfect ratio of normcore-to-effortlessly-understated. I was nervous.

So, in true Julian fashion, I overcompensated. I talked about Murakami novels he hadn’t read. I threw in a story about being stranded in Hong Kong during a blizzard, which was true, but lacked the casual delivery that suggests “this happens to me all the time.” We spent the night balancing forced anecdotes and awkward silences. When the check arrived, he smiled politely and said, “Let’s split it—seems fair.”

Translation: That wasn’t fair; it was a disaster.

Here’s what I’ve learned since: Brooklyn might love a polished exterior, but in romance, no one falls for perfect. Vulnerability beats pretentiousness every time. If I’d skipped the intellectual acrobatics and just asked about his dreams or been honest about how nervous I was to meet him, it might not have ended in spreadsheet-level date checks and balances.

Tip two: Stop trying to impress people. Let them impress you. A good connection will thrive on your quirks, not your resume.

The Subway Code: Timing Is Everything

Ah, the NYC subway system—chaotic, unreliable, and still somehow perfect. If you’ve ever dated in Brooklyn, you know that relationships here operate on a similar train schedule. They show up late, they’re crowded by outside expectations, and they don’t always go where you intended. Timing matters.

One summer, I met someone who used to frequent the Yum Yum Thai on Montague Street—a quiet neighborhood spot that felt like a secret until we ruined it with our long debates about whether or not we’d ever settle down. (Spoiler: We wouldn’t.) The chemistry was magnetic. Dates turned into impromptu karaoke nights. Weeknights felt like weekends. But I was fresh from grad school, scrambling to rebuild my life back home, while he was halfway through an emotional free-fall after a messy breakup.

Right people, wildly wrong time. We gave it a shot, but when I finally called it, I used the most Brooklyn of metaphors. “We’re like a G train,” I said. “We could be great, but we’re barely running on schedule.”

Tip three: Don’t force a connection that doesn’t fit your life right now. Timing isn’t just a logistical hurdle; it’s the core of compatibility.

On Brooklyn Bridges and Forgiveness

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the Brooklyn Bridge, the fix-it-all metaphor of rom-coms and Instagrams everywhere. You’ve seen it, right? Smiling couples leaning on its railings, possibly captioning the photo with something like, “We’re stronger together.”

What the photos don’t show is that bridges require maintenance. Those cables don’t just hold on their own. Similarly, relationships—even the good ones—fall apart if you don’t work on them.

But I didn’t learn about forgiveness on the bridge; I learned it next to it, walking the piers after a particularly tense argument with an ex who grew up in Queens. I wanted to cling to my frustration, proud and stubborn. He wanted to shrug it off, claiming, “It’s not that deep.” Ultimately, I learned that forgiveness, like the Brooklyn Bridge, is as much a sacrifice as it is a foundation.

Tip four: Don’t expect perfection—even from yourself. Mistakes are inevitable; forgiveness is optional. Choose wisely.

A Borough That Turns Strangers Into Stories

There’s a saying around here: “Brooklyn is small.” It’s painfully accurate. You’ll pass your ex on Court Street three years after breaking up, or bump into someone you ghosted at an old bookstore you thought was “yours.” It’s humbling. It’s also comforting, in a way. Brooklyn doesn’t let you forget your mistakes—it teaches you to learn from them.

While walking through Prospect Park one day, a little older now, I looked around at the couples picnicking on the grass, rollerblading past me, and playing frisbee with their dogs. I wondered how many of them had endured awkward first dates, subway delays, or hard conversations to get to their picnic moment. Most, I’d bet. Brooklyn isn’t about glossy finishes; it’s about sticking out the imperfect middle.

So, wherever you’re from—be it Brooklyn, Berlin, or somewhere far less caffeinated—find the place that made you. The one that frustrated and shaped you, toughened and taught you. The one that turned you into a person worth loving, not despite your flaws but because of them.

I, for one, will forever thank Brooklyn. Even if I still can’t get a decent bagel outside of it.