I’m waiting in line for communal coffee. Today I’ve scored a French press, so I pour the water, offer the coffee to the three people behind me, and slowly head out.

I don’t feel like waiting in line at the French bakery next door. There are about a hundred people waiting for the next batch of pastries to finish baking. It’s great, but today it’s not worth the wait to me.

I’m walking out of the café when I see an old friend I spent a very lovely night with two days ago. She scolds me for not being “home” yesterday, but then we hug warmly. She invites me to a falafel party they’re organizing…

…and that’s the last time we ever see each other.

Wednesday Night

It’s Wednesday evening, around ten, and I’m leaving my camp for the traditional spot where I usually began - and sometimes ended - my nights at Burning Man: a camp called PlayAlchemist.

It’s a music camp in the shape of a giant pyramid, with projections mapped onto it every night. Not just an amazing music show, but visual art too. Even though it’s one of the most commercial camps in the desert, their programming and visuals are so good it’s simply worth going.

I’m enjoying a really nice set - I don’t even know who’s playing, and in the moment I don’t care. I’m into the music, I’ve got a lukewarm drink in hand, and I feel pleasantly “warmed up.”

Suddenly someone taps me - more on the side than on the shoulder. A petite girl is standing next to me and asks if I know who’s playing. I say I don’t, that I’m enjoying it, but I have no idea and it doesn’t really matter. She nods and lingers next to me for a bit.

Curiosity gets me, I step outside, and at the pyramid entrance I find a board listing the DJs. It’s DJ Sabo - not exactly an unknown. I’m about to head back when I run into her again by the bikes.

I decide to gift her the info - gifting is a big part of Burning Man. But who’s playing isn’t so important to her anymore. She asks if I know where Opulent is. I do, and I point the way: if she rides straight across to the other side of the city, she’ll get there.

After a few seconds I ask if I can join. She smiles and says she’d be happy if I did. We set out into a strong headwind across open space to the other side of the city. It takes maybe thirty to forty minutes and it’s a good workout.

On the way we swap stories. She’s a corporate marketer from Israel who got last-minute time off.

The Journey for Art

Just before midnight we arrive at Opulent Chill, a smaller version of the Opulent Temple camp - a famous spot - which this year is lightly boycotting rule changes for music camps. They’ve built only a reduced version with no big decor, just under a simple tent. The music quality, though, is still there.

The area around Opulent is a music hotspot. Several big, well-known sound camps are nearby. It’s after midnight, so there are a lot of people, little room to park bikes, and a general crush. After a bit we realize we’re not feeling the music either. We lock the bikes and wander off to look at art.

The first thing we hit is a giant inflatable elephant. Burning Man art often feels from another dimension: sometimes bizarre, sometimes gorgeous and perfectly executed. Best approach is to take it in, let it work on you, and move on.

Next up is Head Maze - a huge head with stairs leading inside. You can climb it; we don’t have the courage.

We look around for where to go next and see the lights of The Folly in the distance. We can’t resist - it’s a strong pull. :) The Folly is a small wooden fishing village packed with details. You can enter, climb up and down, and spend endless time there. There are performances too, but most people come for the installation itself.

There we meet her friends. She introduces me and everyone immediately switches to English even though I’m the only one not speaking their language. Burning Man is very much about respect.

We explore the entire installation thoroughly; time passes strangely and we don’t track it. When we try to head out, a whiteout hits - a sandstorm that turns everything into white fog. At night it doesn’t need to be that strong to fully disorient you. We see only a few lights; it’s hard to pick a direction.

One of the things you’re not supposed to do then is walk. Naturally, we do the opposite. One of Burning Man’s satirical mottos is “Safety Third.” We stumble around blind and eventually reach the Trash Fence at the point where the fence sides meet - one of the farthest spots from the city.

Honey

First we laugh, because we’d intended to walk toward the city and now we’re clearly at the city’s edge. For the record, if you cross that fence, the police will pick you up - not a fun experience.

But there we find a pop-up tea house. The day before it wasn’t there; the next night it won’t be either. It exists only here, only now. The twist: the baristas blend a unique tea for each person based on their dreams, experiences, or stories.

My new friend and I tell them how we met and how we’ve spent the last hours together, and we get one huge shared cup - about a liter. It’s a herbal tea with honey. The honey symbolizes a wish that we become “honey” to each other. We look at each other and smile.

We don’t know the time, but desert nights drop toward freezing, and her coat is on her bike, so I give her mine like a gentleman and freeze till morning. At least we have warm tea and a few drinks. It’s no secret that, besides water, everyone carries their favorite alcohol out here. I’ve had enough that I don’t feel the cold.

We spend a long time there. We talk using those decks of very personal question cards. Strangers stop by, listen a while, chat, and move on. A few people rotate through (I only remember a weird Spaniard with tiny rubber hands stuck on his fingers - unsettling), and at some point we decide to head back.

Visibility is good now. Desert storms lift, last minutes or hours, and then everything clears again. On the way back we see completely different installations than we saw coming out. When we reach the inflatable elephant, we know we’re on the right track.

Bubbles and Coffee

The city is calming down; people are drifting off to sleep.

Dawn.

We find our bikes easily - they’re the only two left, lonely, chained to a post. We’re not sleepy yet, so we take a little walk and head to Bubbles and Bass, which opens at 6 a.m. Gentle, tender house music - perfect for sunrise - and “champagne” is served. In reality it’s the classic cheap bubbly they keep refilling the moment you finish. A very pleasant afterparty.

She wants to dance so she doesn’t fall asleep. I’m just sitting by now, tired, but enjoying the bubbles and the sunrise. Everything is wonderfully fine. Someone tops me up now and then.

We aim for the French Café opening at 8 a.m. We get in line, which is the sure sign they’ll open soon. The café works like this: you either get a grinder or a French press. Some people grind and pour the grounds into presses, others pour the water and pass them along. That way everyone who needs good coffee that morning is served quickly. They make the best coffee here.

Next door, the French bakery line is already forming. The first batch of croissants is due at 8:30. We divide and conquer: I handle coffee, she handles pastry. We wait our turn and finally have our coveted breakfast.

We hug and say goodbye. I invite her to our hockey tournament - yes, I’m in a camp that brings hockey to the desert. We take it seriously. A huge chunk of the city shows up, and it’s a very traditional Thursday afternoon activity.

Since it’s my first year in the camp, I’m the designated water carrier. That means taking a big water tank on a bike trailer to the camp where water is dispensed, getting it filled, and bringing it back. It’s about two kilometers; the round trip takes twenty minutes. As I later learn, those exact twenty minutes are when she comes by our camp to see me.

And I’m not there.

To Deepen the Disappointment, Rinse & Repeat

It’s Saturday morning and I’m once again in line at the French Café. The French Café is a theme camp in the French Quarter of Black Rock City - the city where Burning Man takes place. I was here yesterday too, because yes, the coffee really is the best. There are about a hundred people queued at the bakery, and I’m happy to skip it.

I step out of the café, I see her, and I’m happy. Running into someone (especially someone you want to see again) in an 80,000-person city is a real stroke of luck.

After a blessed sleep, at the right time, I hop on my bike and head for the coordinates she invited me to that morning… which I don’t remember. I’ve been in the desert a few days, my brain is off, and I don’t know where she lives. I have a feeling it’s on F Street - which is like 10 kilometers long. Everything is alive, there are masses of people, it’s hot, and I have no chance. It’s a needle-in-a-haystack search.

I tell myself: never mind, fortune favors the prepared.

It’s Sunday morning, I’m rested, I’ve got a notebook and pencil, and I head to the French Quarter - to the French Café - for great coffee, full of hope.

Except the French Café no longer exists. The camp has packed up, and I will never see my wonderful new friend again…