Hello again, world. Let’s not be strangers.
Social anxiety and the decline of third places has led to a New York City filled with younger generations hungry for offline interactions. Gen Z and Millennials are trying to figure out where to start in their quest for in-person engagements.
On a warm Sunday evening in April, singles in their twenties and thirties gathered in the cool, sweet-smelling air of Lovejoys, an intimate low-lit bar located in New York City’s Bushwick neighborhood. For two hours, singles shuffled their bodies around the bar to meet other singles. Their conversation with one stranger was interrupted by a bell that Brooklyn-based comedian and host of The Manwhore Podcast Billy Procida rang every three minutes when it was time for them to shift seats and meet someone new.
Procida kept an open mind during the speed-dating event. “It’s Bushwick, we do the plural thing a lot here, right?” he said when remarking on whether the ‘e’ in ‘love’ needed ‘s’ attached to it in the phrase of “love of your life.” At the end of the event, a young man walked up to a table with a bit of banter to share on their time spent searching for other singles: “Did we find love?” he asked the other participants. Everyone at the table laughed.
That 28-year-old single says that speed-dating to him is the “coolest thing ever” in theory, but that the event epitomized his frustration with how younger adults navigate the New York City dating scene. He believes that people in his generation are “alienated these days and they don’t know how to talk to strangers,” adding that “they exist within their own bubbles with the people they’re expected to know.” A photographer in New York City who requested anonymity, he observed that before receiving a cue from the event host, “the boys and girls were all separate, sipping their drinks on opposite sides of the room.” He found it “goofy” that many singles who had paid at least $30 to participate in the event seemed afraid to approach the other singles surrounding them.
After all, they were all summoned to Lovejoys because of the same impetus: to find love.
These speed-dating singles are not alone. Based on a 2019 survey, Pew Research Center reports that 75 percent of singles in the United States find it difficult to find someone to date. The Center also reports that for singles under the age of thirty, 71 percent say dating has been harder since the start of the pandemic, compared to 58 percent of singles over the age of thirty with the same concern. What’s more, a report from the National Library of Medicine suggests that a 25 percent increase in social anxiety globally is a result of the pandemic. When these statistics are paired with the fact that younger generations and especially Gen Z are drinking less and the visible closure of third places — a term coined by sociologist Ray Oldenburg to define the places where people spend time outside of home and work — the parameters around where and how to meet new people to date and how to date in general appear to tighten.
Young people seem to want to put their bodies out there and meet new people in the real world, like the old days. But the social roadblocks caused by the pandemic and the digital world have left many wondering where they can begin the journey of traversing the New York City dating scene.
They could start by destigmatizing the different avenues for finding dates in the city, says Myisha Battle, a dating expert and TIME columnist who has written on the braveness of people dating right now and Gen Z’s reluctance to use dating apps. Battle says one of her clients felt ashamed to visit a single’s event because of his previous perception of people who attend them, she says.
“There’s an idea of who attends a single’s event,” Battle said in an interview. “I think what comes to mind is desperate people who can’t make it work through their community or on dating apps.”
Young singles have similar perceptions of dating app usage. This fear of seeming desperate is also internalized by younger generations, as some young singles are not only afraid that they will be criticized based on where they find dates — they also fear having their character judged and receiving an undesired social outcome.
The popular online dating platform Hinge reported in 2023 that 56 percent of its Gen Z users missed out on a dating opportunity out of fear of rejection, and the report is thematically marketed on the premise of “embracing cringe mode.” Battle sees this as a larger trend among “younger daters who don’t want to cause any harm.”
Michael Krause, a 35-year-old bartender at Minnie’s Bar in Sunset Park, stays aware of his own presence and how it makes women feel. This has led him to avoid approaching women at times out of fear of being off-putting.
“Millennials generally seem concerned about offending someone or making someone uncomfortable,” Krause says, adding that he has noticed that Gen Z seems more afraid of how they are perceived.
Despite their colloquial title as Zoomers, referring to the fast-paced and digitally-oriented society they grew up in, Gen Z appears to be using dating apps less than previous generations. A study prepared by The Generation Lab for Axios on college students and dating revealed that 79 percent of college students are not using dating apps and that more than half of relationships among college students were initiated in-person. The tag “Better in person” surpassed “Big time texter,” “Phone caller,” and “Video chatter” as the top communication styles in 2023 as observed by Tinder. Millennials, too, seem to desire this dating app detox.
Matchmaking websites entered the dating scene around the turn of the century, but Tinder fundamentally changed the fabric of online dating in the 2010s. Even for those who don’t mind occasionally swiping left and right, in-person dating prevails as their preferred mode of dating.
Ardit Nimonaj, 28, and Nazar, who asked to only be identified by his first name, 24, both preferred the face-to-face interaction that the speed-dating event at Lovejoys offered, but they find it hard to come across.
“In the busy rhythm of New York or general life, it’s really hard to do a cold approach,” Nazar said. He signed up for two of the speed-dating events and met around 40 women within a week. “You need to have time for that,” he says.
In some ways, dating apps are also seen as a limitation of how much someone can fully reveal themselves online. Mia Hejlsberg, a 21-year-old photographer, says that dating online has been fine, but “definitely not my ideal situation.” To her, people sometimes tend to obscure their intentions online.
“I think it’s hard to find something a little more continual than people just looking for hookups online,” Hejlsberg says. Her profile states her interest in long-term relationships, but she often encounters other singles who disregard her preferences. She says this leads to hookups and short-term commitments with people who knew they were not serious about a relationship.
“I feel like because there’s so many people, there’s so many options, and people want to explore it all,” Hejlsberg says in cohort with other young singles. She says that people seem to often look forward to the next date, always imagining that they can get along with someone else better later down the line.
Battle’s theory on why younger generations are leaving dating apps pulls on this thread of non-commital engagements.
“Even though dating apps are digital tools, it still means that eventually you have to meet people in person,” Battle, 41, says. “That can stir up a lot of feelings and emotions, which is why we’re seeing people sign up and leave apps pretty quickly.” It is partially the design of dating apps, which is to encourage people to put their most desirable traits forward, that causes the fear of authentic connection, Battle says. She calls the function of dating apps a “swipe-and-match game” similar to the lottery.
“These really were applications that were designed with game theory and behavior modification in mind,” Battle says, and that matches are served to users “intermittently so you feel like it’s a game.” She says that young people are finally asking the question: “Why do I need to be served ads or pay money for the process of finding connections?”
Brooklyn-based communications and media professional Gilliann Karon tweeted in early April that “dating apps killed crushes.” The tweet has garnered 15,000 likes and a stream of comments in agreement. “I don’t want to use apps because I feel like it restricts me to a box,” one user responded. “E-yearning just isn’t the same,” another user said. Karon, who recently deactivated her Tinder, Hinge and Bumble accounts, said that the apps felt “vapid” and “calculated” after a while.
“You’re swiping through this big deck of people,” Karon, 26, says. “Dating apps have been around long enough that there is somewhat of a social script, and it is kind of devoid of spontaneity. I think I would prefer to meet someone at a bar, at a concert, or at a party.”
Krause, the bartender, opines the same.
“I just find it strange and uncomfortable in a certain way, it’s sort of like advertising yourself,” Krause says. Nonetheless, he notices that many dates at the bar appear to be from dating apps — and plenty work. “It seems like the apps still hold more prevalence over just talking to someone and asking them out,” he says.
Some might have a problem with the saying that it takes ten years to become a New Yorker.
“I do think that there are a million different New Yorks that you can live in and interact with,” Derek, a 35-year-old magazine editor says (last name withheld). “And you’re like, really, really lucky if you get to experience ten of them while you’re living here.”
Derek explains that dating apps have been a way for him to experience those different New Yorks, especially in the gay community. “Every relationship that I’ve found has been through what are typically described as hookup apps, and start with hookups,” Derek says. He has also used those apps to find out about sex parties and kink communities, which surged in popularity when COVID-19 restrictions began to ease. Derek referenced the NYC Inferno Party as an affirming social space where not only sex occurs, but friendships and relationships can blossom as well.
“The first time I went, I just remember being like, ‘oh my god, all of my friends are here,’” he says. The fluid interactions he found in the physical space of Inferno allowed his anxiety to loosen and contributed to a “breaking of shame” he experienced in the transition from a monogamous to open relationship. Derek believes that being keen to try new experiences can benefit us individually and our relationships with each other.
“It’s like, we’re all kind of riddled with fear and anxiety in these spaces,” Derek says. “It’s much easier to shoot your shot when you can block them after on the internet.”
Who knows, knocking down the walls of shame could lead to a 48-room brownstone. Ray Chambers, 23, has been circulating a Google Form in their friend group to form a polycule “because it takes 48 people to afford something,” Chambers says. (For those intrigued and who meet the criteria, you’ve unfortunately missed the April 29 deadline to fill out the form).
Chambers says the form is part-satire, part-reality. They created it after seeing a recent article in The New York Times about a 20-person polycule in Boston, in which one person in the polycule describes the polycule as kinky “complex kinship networks” that “reflects radical queer values.” If what parallels a dating drought in New York City is indeed a friendship drought, then Chambers has got it down: simply, they really just love their friends.
“It’s really, totally become this beautiful community of people around me that I share my intimate life with,” Chambers says. “We cry together, we share all of our fears and our work and all of this stuff, just like you would with a partner.” They say they are “living the dream.”
Growing up in a rural part of Oregon, encountering other people who identify as queer was rare, Chambers says. They say that living in New York has helped to affirm their own queer identity.
“And then when you leave, you’re like, ‘this is really rare, what I have, and it doesn’t exist everywhere for everyone,’” Chambers said when thinking about queerness in New York City. They lit up when talking about New York City’s upcoming Pride season, when there is no other option than to speak to the stranger whose arm is touching yours at the parade or in a market while reaching for the last pack of pre-packaged mangoes. “Everyone is so excited to be around each other,” Chambers says, reminiscing about pride last year, where they flirted around and met “so many people that are now my dear friends.”
Chambers shared that their father passed away several years ago, and his passing altered their approach to life.
“I always encourage my friends. If you see someone cute, go talk to them. Ask for their number. Go do it. The worst thing that happens is that they say no or they’re dating someone, and that’s just that,” Chambers says.
Both Chambers and Derek mentioned their love of nightlife as a corridor to meet new people, ranging from the queer bar Good Judy in Park Slope to Nowadays, a bar on the border of Ridgewood and Bushwick that prides itself on a dance floor strictly for dancing and vast outdoor area for socializing. There are qualms to meeting people this way, Chambers says.
“Queer spaces are usually inherently, especially in the city, focused on drinking or going to bars,” they say. “I’m trying not to do that as much.” They want places similar to what Pride offers, which is an opportunity to be in a space where meeting new people is encouraged without drinking.
Nightlife as we understand it roared into fruition in the 1920s — only temporarily stopped by the Prohibition era, Sarah Laskow reports in “New York Literally Invented Nightlife” for The Atlantic. During the population boom of the early 20th century, the act “to go out at night for food or drink or entertainment” coalesced into one and became the nightlife we know today.
If younger generations are looking for a place to go and meet new people to date, nightlife has often been the scene that acts as a point of blissful rupture: sweating on the dance floor over Cosmopolitans, it used to be easier to walk up to someone and spark a conversation. At a 2011 program on nightlife at the Museum of Arts and Design, pop culture journalist and event moderator Michael Musto said that nightlife in New York City had been timeless and that it “just morphs to suit the time at the moment,” according to a transcription of the event in the 2013 book THE FUN: The Social Practice of Nightlife in NYC. “Once the internet came around,” Musto said at the event, “that really took the wind out of it, because people could hook up online.”
At the Lovejoys speed-dating event, Sofia Parody walked around with her friends and smiled at each of the singles — a crowd that included another one of her friends — to make them calm their nerves. An assistant host for the event at Lovejoys under the company Plenty of Parties, she knows how nerve-wracking these events can be. She got her start at the company after having a “lovely time” at one of the events in April of last year, and she went on more dates with someone she met at one of the events.
“I love doing this because it’s a form of helping people connect in person [so they can] feel the energy and the vibes of other people,” Parody, 29, says. “I have a lot of compassion for [this work] because I am in their shoes, I’ve been in their shoes.”
While Parody enjoys engaging in and studying the dating scene, she believes that it can be excessive and too fast-paced.
“There’s so much choice and that within itself is overwhelming,” Parody says. Experts call this “option paralysis.” Her opinion is shared by Karon, the media expert.
“You have an infinite amount of options in the palm of your hand, but that also kind of waters down the experience,” Karon says. “I think that people have stopped owing each other kindness and respect, because they can just move on to the next, because everyone is available and everyone is always available.”
Parody, still overwhelmed with digital options, tries to at least counter the fast-paced nature of dating these days. She says that the pandemic loneliness led her to become attached to a way of being in a relationship that she doesn’t find feasible now.
“I dated someone in the pandemic and it was like, you were on facetime, facetime, facetime, facetime, facetime,” Parody says. “And then when you finally saw each other it was like you were married. I think outside of the pandemic, I’m going slower. There’s no rush. It can take me five months to decide if I want to be with my boyfriend or not.” She believes that this collective desire to slow down and return to in-person intimacy will lead to events such as speed-dating to rise in popularity.
And that popularity appears to already be here, along with other ways of being together in person: Gen Z asked for Scrabble to be more collaborative, and Mattel answered. We are finding the language to name the loss of third places, and people are talking about how we can get them back. While dating for younger generations remains a key topic, people simply want to be together again going to parties, movies, karaoke and museums with strangers and those closest to them.
To Battle, this starts by remembering that media is a tool, not an exclusive medium for interaction.
“The other day I was taking the bus and did not put my airpods in and ended up having a lovely interaction with the person sitting next to me,” Battle, the dating expert, said. After talking for at least half-an-hour about metropolitan dating scenes, they joked about the rarity of even encountering a stranger in a friendly manner. “We are all kind of in our own bubbles moving around,” she says. “It makes showing interest in someone that much harder, because they’re literally standing around with something covering their ears.”
