With credit to @letuswaltzforthedead for the original inspiration for this (posted as this question: The Perfect Date -- Future?) and credit to @Jamie05rhs for suggesting I post the whole thing as a myTake.
To refresh those who haven't had their coffee yet or introduce those who are new to this, the original question asked for your description of a perfect date in the future. The only parameters were that money is no object and you have to stay on the same continent. Dates with just yourself were "allowed" although, interestingly, no one took advantage of that option. With that, here's mine:
We’d start on a beach in Gloucester, Massachusetts with freshly brewed coffee and croissants while watching the sun rise.
Quiet conversation while sitting together on the sand. The air cold but our bodies warm.
Then, a boat ride on a Hinckley Talaria with a navy blue hull from the beach southward into Boston Harbor. Holding hands. Kissing. Salt spray in the air. Deafeningly quiet despite the roar of the wind and the waves and the gulls.
We would disembark the Hinkley, the sun having just begun to warm the worn planks of the dock. Years of wear soft under our bare feet. Drive to Rowe’s Wharf in a restored, candy apple red Ford Thunderbird. Check into the Admiral’s Suite at the Boston Harbor Hotel. Something light: fruit, pastries, more coffee – always coffee. Exchange our shorts for jeans, but keeping the handmade Irish cable knit sweaters. Quiet companionship on the room’s balcony.
Off again in the Thunderbird to the airport for a private Boeing Business Jet from Boston to Westchester County Airport in New York. Into a shadow grey metallic Chevrolet Camaro convertible for the drive down to Sleepy Hollow and a rented mansion overlooking the Hudson River.
Change into running clothes for a run through the Rockefeller State Park Preserve. Her in bright pink Nikes. Me in neon orange Asics. Her leggings almost derailing the run…but I regain my self control. Laughing. Throwing Leaves. She kicks my butt in the final sprint.
Back to the mansion. A shower. Languid lovemaking in front of a fire.
Another shower, then into evening clothes. For her, an off-the-shoulder evening gown in wine-colored velvet with matching heels. Diamond choker. Pendant opals on her ears. For me, a Savile Row custom made dinner jacket and trousers in black wool. Bow tie of the same velvet as her gown. Handmade Italian leather shoes. Garnet cuff links.
After dressing, out to the waiting chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce and the drive down to New York City. A dinner at Ai Fiori on Fifth Avenue. Perhaps the risotto to start, along with some lobster bisque. Rabbit ravioli to follow. Steak for me; lobster for her. Laughter. Conversation. Silliness. Total relaxation. Rum and coke for me. Ice cold vodka for her. Descend the marble stairs, back to the Rolls, and out to LaGuardia Airport where the jet has repositioned.
A flight to Seattle as fast as the jet can get us there. The dinner was early, but we’re racing the sun. Change on the plane into hoodies and jeans. Curl up together on the plane’s couch and talk. Her bare feet play with mine. Nap. A white Russian to drink. Some Netflix.
Land in Seattle and grab the waiting Mazda Miata. Drive way too fast northward from Tacoma, past the Boeing plant, and into downtown. Past the homeless. Past the restaurants with their diners. Past closed and quiet stores. Turning left onto Alaskan Way. Parking the car and racing like kids late for school into the ferry terminal and onto the waiting ferry.
We’re the last ones on as Tacoma slips her lines and mutters out into the night, headed for Bainbridge Island. The sun is still up. Barely. The sky’s aflame; the last embers of sunset strewn across the sky. We nestle on bow of the upper deck. Hold hands. Drinking terrible coffee from the ferry’s galley while savoring a Michelin Star crème brulé that we brought with us from New York.
Together.
Most Helpful Opinions