New York — By seven in the morning, 150 people had already formed a queue outside the flagship Apple Store on Fifth Avenue. Some had brought folding chairs; others were wrapped in blankets and carrying thermoses. This was a familiar scene for the launch of a new iPhone model. But if you looked closely, you would see that half of these people weren’t there for a smartphone.
Thirty-two-year-old architect Daniel Chen had come from Brooklyn at five in the morning. He doesn’t really need a new iPhone — he has last year’s model. However, he has hardly left his house for the past six months except to go to work, and he has been completely disappointed by dating apps.
“I hate that feeling when you spend the evening chatting and then meet and realise that the person is nothing like they were in the chat,” says Daniel, handing me a paper cup of coffee from his flask. “Here, at least you can see right away if someone is willing to stand in the cold for three hours for no reason.”
Daniel is not alone in his approach. Queues for technology, night-time bookstore sales and even hours spent in traffic jams on the way to the Hamptons have unexpectedly become new venues for dating: Places where people no longer need to hide behind a screen.
This is the common enemy effect
Sociologists have already observed this phenomenon, known as the “common enemy effect”: overcoming difficulties together brings people closer faster than shared leisure activities. Standing in line is a perfect example. You have a common goal (the coveted device), a common enemy (the cold, fatigue and competitors) and plenty of time to fill.
Twenty-five-year-old Celia Fairley, a Columbia University graduate student, came with a friend “for company”, but has already spent half an hour chatting animatedly with a guy from the next queue.
“On dating apps, it all starts with awkwardness,” she laughs. “But here, you just turn around and ask, “Do you think they’ll start before eleven?” And off you go.” Plus, if someone is willing to freeze for a piece of hardware, it shows they have character.”
Celia admits that she actively uses video chats, but in a completely different way to before. A couple of years ago, she was on Tinder; now, her tool of choice is Camgo.
“It’s a cam chat with random people based on interests. You set tags: “neurobiology,” “running,” “coffee,” and so on. You are then connected with people who have the same ones. It’s like a queue, only online,” she explains. “No profiles, no scrolling. You just talk. If you’re not interested, you press a button and Camgo will connect you with a new person in three seconds. That’s how I found a running buddy in the park.”
It’s a filter for serious people
But there is a downside to this approach: too much freedom. On Camgo, you can disable the Safe Search filter and the content becomes unpredictable. For those who are tired of anarchy, there is a stricter alternative: coomeet.chat/camgo.
Michael Rodriguez, a 39-year-old financial analyst, came to the queue alone, but by 8 a.m. he had already met three people and exchanged contact details with a girl wearing rimless glasses.
“I just don’t have time to chat about nothing,” says Michael. “CooMeet works differently; it has a verification system. You pay by the minute, but you know that on the other side of the screen is a real woman who is also fed up with weirdos. It’s for those who value efficiency.”
Michael compares it to the difference between a charity fair and a boutique. At the former, there is plenty to choose from, but you have to sort through it all. In the second, however, it’s immediately clear that you’ll find what you’re looking for.
Who would have thought it?
Meanwhile, the line comes to life. Some people take out their cards, some order pizza and some just chat while sitting on the ground. The atmosphere is more like a picnic than a commercial event.
Daniel, who is still standing with his thermos, notices a girl with a notebook. She is quickly sketching the queue.
“Are you an artist?” he asks, coming closer.
“An architect,” she replies. “Just practising my hand. And you?”
“An architect too,” Daniel smiles.
Five minutes later, they are discussing the Vancouver Library and arguing about whether the Sears Tower should have been demolished. Other iPhone hunters buzz around them, but for the two of them, the queue ceases to exist.
A digital bridge to live communication
The paradox of our time is that technology does not kill live communication. It simply rebuilds the routes to it. Some people find love while queuing for a gadget. Others find it in a random chat room they entered out of boredom.
Eight in the morning. The store doors finally open. The queue sighs with relief and slowly begins to file inside. Daniel turns around and waves to the architect with the notebook — they had agreed to have coffee after collecting their orders.
“You know,” he says, saying goodbye, “I thought I was just going to buy a phone. But it seems I bought a phone number. Literally.”
He laughs at his own joke and disappears into the glass cube on Fifth Avenue, leaving behind not only a brand new device, but also the hope that technology can still provide us with real warmth. Even if it means standing outside in the cold from six in the morning.
