The Craziest Place I’ve Ever Been
When Manhattan Met the Mojave
The craziest place I’ve ever been was not some chic rooftop in Dubai, nor a clandestine speakeasy nestled behind a nondescript door in Paris. Oh no, it was far, far from my usual stomping grounds. Picture this: me—quintessentially Upper East Side, clad in a carefully chosen linen jumpsuit—standing wrist-deep in clay, sculpting what can only be described as a lopsided Grecian urn in the middle of the Mojave Desert.
Did I envision this scenario happening to me? Absolutely not. At least, not while breathing air slick with desert heat and sand grit slipping into places I’d rather not discuss. Yet here I was, having signed up (inexplicably, in hindsight) for a weeklong desert art retreat. Why? Because someone who I was semi-seriously dating at the time thought it would be “transformative.” Spoiler alert: it wasn’t, but not for lack of trying.
What started as an excursion into “artistic authenticity” turned into a surreal fever dream about romance, creativity, and what happens when you agree to something simply to make someone else happy.
“Can You Survive the Heat?” Some Questions Are Not Rhetorical
When I imagined the Mojave, I pictured warm sunset hues, Joshua trees against a pale pink sky, and the kind of minimalism that feels soothing, even cinematic. What I didn’t foresee was the unrelenting presence of heat and, more menacingly, the bugs—each built like miniature tanks of irritation.
Our guide, a free-spirited ceramicist named Lilith, greeted us upon arrival at the retreat with the most threatening phrase I’ve ever heard: “Here we surrender to the Earth.” Surrender I did, though mostly to the oppressive lack of proper shade. My boyfriend, Lucas, on the other hand, was in bliss, photographing absolutely everything like Annie Leibovitz was going to autograph the results. He looked like the kind of person who winds up in cult documentaries, weaving baskets and declaring it a spiritual awakening. I, meanwhile, was counting down the hours until I could escape into some semblance of air-conditioning—or, barring that, civilization.
What I learned first-hand: agreeing to someone else’s eccentric idea of romance requires stamina, a high SPF, and the ability to tolerate unsolicited conversations about “energetic alignment.”
You’re in the Desert. Bring Boundaries.
Let me take a detour to the theme of relationships, because this is where things unraveled. Somewhere between our sculpture tutorials and Lilith’s explanation of moon phases (apparently integral to glazing techniques), I realized Lucas and I were fundamentally mismatched. He found every aspect of the retreat mind-expanding; I found it mind-numbing. He loved personalized “mindful meditations”; I couldn’t meditate because I was too busy swatting gnats off my knees.
This is why I believe every couple should schedule at least one wildly uncomfortable trip early on in their relationship. It’s not only revealing—it’s clarifying. Fancy dinners and strolls through Central Park? Lovely, but they don’t test compatibility the way struggling to share a solar-heated outdoor shower does. Here are a few questions that arose for me as I crouched over my misshapen clay pot, enduring Lucas’s enthusiastic attempts to explain the philosophy of minimalism:
- Do you share a similar definition of “fun”?
- Can you handle each other’s quirks when Wi-Fi and lattes are off the table?
- How do you respond when one of you thrives, and the other (read: me) barely survives?
By the third night, we had a passive-aggressive exchange over camp-cleanup responsibilities that made me question not just Lucas’s earthiness but also my proximity to his future self, which probably involved kombucha homebrewing and refusing to use furniture.
The Art of Letting Go
Here’s the kicker: I did actually learn something meaningful at the retreat. Not from Lucas, unfortunately, but from that ridiculous “urn”—more of a slightly sorrowful blob, to be honest. One of the exercises we were encouraged to do was to smash a piece of our own art as a meditative practice. (Side note: why is everything “meditative” when you’re out west?)
I had spent five days agonizing over that slightly misshapen pot, sweating in places I had no previous knowledge could sweat, and battling the kind of self-doubt that only a mid-retreat existential crisis can bring. And then, in the final hour, I smashed it. Clay shards burst across the dirt, and for a hot second, it felt like I’d cracked open a portal to…clarity.
This is your pottery metaphor, dear reader: sometimes you have to break something to realize it was never worth holding onto. As poetic as that sounds, in practice, breaking things—art or otherwise—is messy. Just as I picked up the clay pieces, I also began picking apart the flaws (and cracks) in my relationship with Lucas.
Lessons in Desert Romance
Not to leave you hanging, but yes, Lucas and I did say our goodbyes not long after the clay-shard epiphany. The retreat ended, and while he packed his camera bag full of dusty photos, I packed the remnants of my patience. Relationships, like pottery, need strong foundations. Ours had, regrettably, been air-dried at best.
Here are a few takeaways I’m bringing from the desert to share with anyone contemplating their next (mis)adventure:
- Don’t set yourself on fire for someone else’s glow. That retreat wasn’t my idea of a good time, and I knew that going in. Say “yes” to adventurous dates, but know your limits.
- Uncomfortable experiences bring clarity. If you’re drifting in your relationship, try an activity that shakes things up. You might discover where you shine—or where you can’t stand the heat.
- Take responsibility for your choices. I could spend hours blaming Lucas for dragging me to the edges of civilization, but I said yes. Growth means realizing when to blame your own complicity.
- No one is worth sacrificing your happiness. If desert sweat and lopsided art aren’t your thing, own up to it. Pretending to enjoy an experience for someone else’s approval is a sure path to resentment.
Farewell, But Not Adieu
While the Mojave might rank as the craziest place I’ve ever been, I don’t regret it. It nudged me out of a relationship that wasn’t serving either of us, and it gifted me clarity I might not have uncovered otherwise. Plus, I still have a scar on my shin from tripping on the studio's uneven floor—so, you know, my earthy escapade is immortalized forever.
Romance, like art, is a process. You shape it with intention, feel its texture, and acknowledge when it’s time to start fresh. That lopsided urn didn’t survive the week, but it left an impression—and sometimes, that’s enough.
