Chapter 03: Initial Research

“Please stand clear of the doors. Por Favor Manténgase Alejado de las Puertas.”

 The monorail accelerates beneath us, a white fiberglass cocoon of air conditioning. Even in the (relatively) cool January, it’s still Florida, and we’re at Disney World.

Of course we’re at Disney World.

The intent and purpose of this initial trip, of course, is to go to Harry Potter world. It’s Em’s Christmas present. I’ve spent a few months preparing for it, but just a few weeks ago, she burst the surprise wide open when I made the mistake of giving her a hint that hit a little too close to the mark. I don’t like to pat myself on the back too much, but I think I did well on the setup. I prepared a poem for her, just like the Sorting Hat sings in the Harry Potter books when the new students arrive. (Heck, I had it down to the meter of the poem.) It was hidden in a little old boot in my house that she had to search for - naturally, the boot represented a Portkey, the magic teleportation device from the books, commonly disguised as useless or innocuous objects. Her wonder at the accuracy of Hogsmeade and the wizarding world of Harry Potter has only been eclipsed by how much she wants to go to Disney World while we’re here.

 So naturally, we’re at Disney World.

The monorail gives a little bump and I stagger. Emily beams up at me from the seat. We’re taking a little tour of her favorite kind. It’s pretty simple. All you have to do is pull into a Disney resort like you own the place, then explore it and/or pig out at the restaurants to your arterial content.

 We’re just leaving the Polynesian, and all I can say is: "Wow". As much as these little explorations have gone against my plan, I can’t say I resent them; the Polynesian’s island theming is subtle and spectacular at the same time. A massive waterfall towers in the main lobby, overgrown with jungle plants as you tour upon a cool, black slate floor. The paths outside wind through the jungle while tiki torches burn above you, a romantic touch in the evening air.

 That said, our next stop is the Grand Floridian, and as I step into the lobby, instantly a sense of realization washes over me.

Perhaps it’s the Victorian-esque opulence of the place, where a massive lobby acts as a sounding board for a live jazz band playing big-band arrangements of Disney music. Perhaps it’s the conflux of serenity and bustle to the place, how the grandeur holds these two opposing forces in a pleasing balance.

No, that’s not it.

It’s my right hand, how the blood is being squeezed out of it as Emily draws in a massive breath, her slender little form a coilspring of tension and awe.

 “Dance with me,” she whispers, as we stride out onto the carpet. Nearby, an elderly couple is doing just that. Stiffly, I attempt to convince my anxiety that this is the correct thing to do.

 It is. Those big, steel blue eyes glint with happiness, a reflection of tiny tears in their corners. This is, as I have found, our happy place, here in the opulent heart of the resort. The live jazz rings around us, with Emily’s arms around my shoulders. Like high schoolers dancing to the Goo Goo Dolls’ “Iris,” both couples, old and young, gently rock back and forth in the cool golden air of the Grand Floridian.

 That sense of realization? No different than when I nearly blurted out the magic words in Charlotte. I know for certain now that I will propose here, at Disney World, and heaven permitting in this magnificent hotel. My ability to plan a complex scheme has been confirmed, but my ability to execute it, and critically, to keep it quiet is not.

 Nine and a half months to go.