Chapter 09: Bacio e La Principessa

The human tide that swamped World Showcase earlier is beginning to subside. 

"You wanna finish it?" I ask, swirling the last dregs of the black and cider around the pint glass.

"Nah, it's okay," she says. With her head resting on my shoulder, I can feel that she's smiling, and I know that expression - she's got her eyes closed like a cat in a puddle of sunlight. Her voice is as happy and as soft as that sun on a warm carpet. "You can kill it."

"Suit yourself," I tell her, and knock back the rest of the black and cider. "Ready to go?"

"Maybe in a few minutes," she says. "It's nice right here for now."

We're doing all right on time, so we spend a little while relaxing in the pub. Frankly, it's nice not to have to hurry around. We exit about fifteen minutes later, and the crowd has thinned considerably. Lines are backed up around rides and shows, leaving the two of us more than enough space to cruise World Showcase.

"Okay," I say, "I forgot just how pretty the Italy pavillion was."

Before us is, in miniature, la piazza di San Marco - San Marco's Square, transplanted and distilled down for its placement in Florida. There are no rides, nor are there any shows - it's just a very beautiful, very romantic Venetian piazza with restaurants and shops and smiling Italians conversing rapid-fire with one another from behind the counters. 

Emily squeezes my hand as she smiles up at me. "Are we gonna get un bacio?" 

I know that's just the lead-in question. The follow up is, of course, going to be, will you be ordering it in Italian? 

"Of course!" I respond, taking care of questions both said and implied. 

The Italy pavilion store is dark and cool. It's not the dry, oppressive cold of overcranked air conditioning, but rather the cool of old stonework, like you'd find in an old Italian building that had been repurposed many times over the years. (I'm not sure how Disney managed this illusion, but it's a good one.)

"Hello welcome to ee-taly," says the girl behind the counter, all one word, no punctuation. 

"Buonasera!" I say, unable to keep the grin off my face. 

"Buonasera!" she says. "Parli italiano?" she asks - do you speak Italian? 

"Solo un po'." Just a little, I reply. Emily is absolutely soaking this up. "Ho studiato un po' in Perugia." I studied a little in Perugia. 

"Ah, Perugia," the girl replies. "Ti piace il ciocolatto Perugina?"  She asks if I like Perugina chocolates - the company that makes Baci. 

"Si, mi piace molto il ciocolatto Perugina. Un Bacio, per favore!" Yes, I say, I like it a lot - and I would like two of them. My Italian, while rusty, is holding up well enough. The girl - Carla, says her nametag, from Firenze - laughs and rings up a Baci chocolate kiss. Emily takes it with a "Grazie!" while Carla smiles and replies "Prego!"

"That was so cool!" Em says, bouncing beside me. "I like it when you speak Italian." 

"But I'm rusty," I say, and add with a grin, "I bet Carla was just humoring me."

"James Alfred Cotton the Third, you speak great Italian and you are the most wonderful boyfriend in the world. Now c'mere and let's share this Baci."

Standing in the middle of the San Marco square, Em and I unwrap our Bacio. It's a much different sort of confection from the chocolate kisses we have here in the States. It's larger and softer, with a hazelnut sitting just under the chocolate skin on top. Best of all, inside the silver wrapping is a little wax-paper fortune or saying.

"Ask a toad what beauty is," it says, "and he will answer you that it is his wife."

Em and I laugh. "So we're toads then?"

"There are worse things to be," she grins, and bites into the candy. I take the other half and pop it into my mouth. The chocolate is softer and meltier but it encases a sort of whipped hazelnut-Nutella-chocolate nougat. It's gorgeously delicious.

"Oh man," Em says around a mouthful of chocolate. "That was fantastic." 

"Mmph," I reply, still chewing on mine. "Not a bad stop on our adventure," I say, and pull out the next envelope.

#4

This whole thing certainly does parallel a particular favorite book of yours, doesn't it?

There will, however, be no night train to Paris. Why would you need one when you can simply walk?

I want you to go see the 12:30 showing of Serveur Amusant in France. Until then, you are free to explore France and the surrounding countryside. You must stay in Europe, however, or perhaps go view the wonders of the ocean in the aquarium. You know your humble travelling companion very well - humor me kindly! 

Unlike in the book, there are no cemeteries, but there are little outdoor cafes, and there is wine! I think you will find something to take home to your family. 

Following Serveur Amusant, you are free to explore Europe and Future World at your leisure, but you must be in place at 2:30 in Le Cellier for lunch.

See you there!

- The One Who Moves

"Off to France, then!" I say, and give Em a kiss on the nose. "Ready?"

"Sure!" she says. "Next stop France!"

Chapter 08: Something New

The hot, sticky mid-spring air never feels quite so oppressive as when you're waiting for World Showcase to open, while standing among a Mickey-ear-wearing throng at 10:59AM. Choked with guests, the walkway through Epcot is a dammed river as more people pile up behind us.

 "I swear all I want is something refreshing," I moan. "Like a freaking kaki-gori." (Side note: if you are in Epcot, you must stop by the Japan pavilion and try the flavored shaved ice known as "kaki-gori." It is the most delicious fruity brain freeze to which you will subject your cortex.)

 Emily shakes our clasped hands.

"We're here to get the cider and black," she says. "Something new, remember?"

While in this sort of weather, one wouldn't be surprised to hear a phrase such as "I could use a beer" - and the large, sweaty gentleman whose left armpit is perilously close to my nose has just uttered such a phrase - it's not exactly common to hear someone pining for a beverage from our most special of Special Relationships.

I smile at her. "Yeah. Something new."

In truth, something new quite accurately describes this entire experience for me. I've spent the better part of the past year planning this grand game and I know I still have much more to go. It's not every day one proposes marriage, and it's not everyone who's lucky enough to propose to their best friend. Right now, though, I'm barely beginning the ride. There are eleven envelopes left and each one, I hope, will encapsulate the experience I'm going through, distilling it down to a memorable moment between myself and Emily.

The clock finally ticks over to 11AM and, like clockwork, the cast members swing the wrought-iron gates to World Showcase open before us and the crowd begins to move. The game is afoot.

Or underfoot, I think, dodging a posse of five-year-olds waving massive lollipops at one another.

The crowd breaks up, little by little, as we move into World Showcase. For every few people breaking away from the herd, those on the outside move apart. We're like the particles of a gas, spreading to fill its container. (Of course, Sweaty Armpit Man to my right takes the gas metaphor perhaps a bit literally.)

Disney's version of London awaits us after Canada. We're traveling counterclockwise (anticlockwise, I suppose, if we're going to be Commonwealth about things) around World Showcase and soon enough we're greeted by red phone booths, Old Wold stonework and carefully manicured gardens. Mary Poppins has been hewn from a hedge, complete with umbrella, the picture of restrained perfection.


 "Okay," Emily says, nodding towards the red phone booths, "we have got to get our pictures taken in those things someday."

Our stop is the Rose and Crown pub, a more than welcome respite from the madhouse outside. It is every inch the charming old English pub - or at least what we in the colonies picture as one. The atmosphere is cool, the lighting is best described as 'sufficient,' and the serving area made from richly lacquered wood, slightly chipped and dented from many a pint glass. Luckily for us, relatively few people are inside, so we manage to snag one of the coveted tables for ourselves.

The gentleman behind the bar greets us as Em sits down. "Hello there; welcome to the Rose and Crown!"

"Hi there," says Em, waving over at him. I give her a kiss on the tip of her nose - she blushes - and walk to the bar for the black and cider. The old man has a wry grin on his face as he balances a Guinness glass on a dime, suspending it practically in midair on only a sliver of its base. His name is Carl, from Leicester, England, and he's drawing a pint of Guinness.

"'Ello there! What can I get for you?"

"Something new," I say, a smile playing across my face. "I'll try the Black & Cider."

 Carl's eyebrows raise a little. "Not a lot of people who order that one," he says, drawing a pint of Strongbow cider. I'm not sure if it's authentic British pub fare or something that Disney made up, but hell, it's worth a shot anyways.

He draws a measure of blackcurrant cordial with an alchemist's precision, lowering it over the cider. In the brass-upon-wood atmosphere of the Rose and Crown, he's practically straight out of a Victorian penny dreadful, a chemist mixing up a brew. The blackcurrant drops explode into soft billows of garnet as they hit the cider, and before long the whole thing has taken on a deep red hue.

"Here you go!" Carl crows. "Enjoy!"

"Thanks!" I make sure to include a generous tip as I pay.
Back at the table, Em is waiting patiently - and by that, I mean playing on her phone.

I lower myself into the booth next to her. "All right, you. Here's your something new - cheers!"

She takes the pint glass in both hands and lifting it to her lips. Her expression is tough to read. She may as well be analyzing a thesis document - it's the same face she wears when she tastes wine or beer.
"Oh man," she says, smiling. "That is awesome. Give it a try."

The cider and black's tones play across the tongue, two opposing energies in balance. The cider is tart and crisp, while the blackcurrant adds a sweet, smoky mellowness to counteract it. Taken by itself, the cider would perhaps be a bit too acerbic, while the blackcurrant would be cloying. In tandem, they are delicious.

"That is good."
She takes the glass back and has another pull, laying her head down on my shoulder. We sit there in the pub, safe from the crush of the crowd outside, relaxing together with nothing to bother us.

After a while, I give her a nudge. "Ready for the next envelope?"

"Sure!" she says, and pulls the next one out.

#3 
 Let's play that old game again. 
"Today I Live In Italy."

What does Italy represent? Like England, it revels in its beautiful past. Italy is a place of elegant architecture and sun-dappled streets. It is not a particularly ergonomic place to be. Yet people flock there. 

I think it's because, more than anything, Italy is romantic. And not just in the bad-movie kind of way, my dear, nascent Time Lady. Italy is romantic, for better and for worse. Everything gets romanticized. Everything. From music to football to food. Everything must represent the attitudes of those involved and represent their personalities. It is the lens through which you can see the character of the Italian people - one perhaps clearer than any other culture. 

Italy is a place that is happening in the moment. It certainly does demand more italics than any of the rest, that's for certain. 

 So what do I want you to do? I want you to find a candy shop. 

In Italian, a kiss is un bacio. (Pronounce it "bah - cho." Trust me.) This next task will be the lens through which you and your traveling companion see and are seen. It is a clearing of the air. It is sweet and it is timeless. 

To tie this together, I want you to find a candy Bacio - a chocolate kiss - and share it while strolling through beautiful Italy. Because what is a clearer and more romantic lens than that? 

See you there. 

 - The One Who Moves 

"Next stop, Italia," I say, squeezing her shoulder.

"Of course, mio principe," she grins.

Chapter 07: The Launch

The intervening weeks have blown by since Taco Mac. Our worn, but trusty, Outback (cheekily dubbed "Moya" after a spaceship from an old sci fi show) sits ticking herself cool in the parking lot of Disney's Yacht and Beach Club resorts. In a way, that old wagon has come to symbolize some aspects of our relationship. I expressly bought it, used, with the intent of driving it forever, and indeed I've already racked up an impressive twenty thousand miles of highway blasting in less than a year.

Nevertheless, we like the Outback. The old girl hauls more than enough freight for our vacations and served as our crew's urban assault vehicle of choice in New Orleans over New Year's. The seats are almost exactly at Emily Butt Height (EBH); when I bought the car, perhaps my subconscious steered me towards a vehicle that would be appropriate for Emily and I starting our lives together?
What the car does not have, however, are a few critical pieces of my plan. I've forgotten them. Notably, the disposable cameras have vanished. I've also forgotten to bring a halfway decent set of trousers with a cargo capacity of their own. As a result, the intended Birthday Surprise clanks with jolly, sadistic abandon within a suspicious rectangular outline in my pocket.

Yes, it's a jewelry box in my pocket - but let's face it, who wouldn't be happy to see Emily?
She's radiant in her white-upon-red-upon-pink flowery sun dress, an escaped pixie from Titania's court flung through Atlantic Station, magnetizing bits here and there to look positively gorgeous. Her dark hair, cut into a pseudo-flapper-girl bob, frames her face, drawing attention to those steel blue eyes of hers. A wisp of gold upon her necklace and her rimless glasses complete the ethereal look.
"Ready?" she asks. I'm rooting through the bags with one hand while attempting to hold Moya's tailgate low enough to camouflage my intent. It's not working.

I resign myself to cramming my jeans pockets with as much of my paraphernalia - wallet, phone, keys, etc. as I can fit. Her present clanks in my pocket again. I turn, having nothing to offer but a big smile. A used-car-salesman smile.

"Right! Ready!" All pearly whites. It's about two hundred feet down the road when I realize it's just not going to work. The blasted jewelry box in my pocket is simply not cooperating, clanking louder and louder and forcing me to contort my gait into something out of a cheesy horror flick to quiet it.
Finally, halfway across the bridge to the Beach Club resort, I halt us. Better to blow the gig now than to suffer through lunch due to poor cargo-management choice in trousers.

"Hey Em," I say. "Surprise."

Out comes the box.

Inside are a pair of cherry blossom earrings that perfectly complement her sun dress. They came from the Washington DC yearly festival, something I was fortunate enough to attend with my sister Cristina. We'd strolled up and down the waterways of DC while I was there, and when opportunity presented itself - in the form of an absolutely perfect set of earrings for Em - who was I to turn it down?
She grins up at me, feigning, well, surprise. I'm not a terribly subtle person, and I suppose it really should have occurred to me that she would have noticed me being a bit ridiculous trying to camouflage her present in such a shoddy manner. Now, to be fair, she only knew she was getting something, not specifically what that something was.

That said, she knows I'm terrible at subtlety. Paradoxically, I can use that. After all, if she's expecting nothing greater than me doing a bad attempt at hiding her present from her, there's a good chance that she won't see the real thing coming.

Regardless, she lights up. "Oh my gosh Jamie those are amazing!" she chirps. Spaces between words have been added for the convenience of the reader and without regard for historical accuracy.
Immediately, on they go, and the box disappears into the caverns of her purse. A new indentation upon my thigh thanks me.

Em throws her arms around me, locking the two of us together, standing there on the bridge between the parking lot and all the crab legs we can eat. "I am SO happy," she says. "Thank you so, so much for this. You are the best."

"No worries, love - let's go to Cape May and clean house." The Beach Club is a study in relaxing pastel colors and old Maryland architecture. It's quiet for a hotel lobby, but not the stifling quiet of a museum; more like the quiet of relaxation, soft wooden walls and white-painted beams absorbing the harsher notes of the conversation.

We stroll into Cape May Cafe and immediately - "oh god I'm so freaking hungry" - the jury's out on which of us said that first, but if it helps, just imagine both of us saying that simultaneously. My stomach grumbles audibly at the smell of steam and crab legs in the air, the mildly sweet notes of the meat mingling with the sharper aromas of seasoning and salt.

In the middle of the cheery New England clambake shop are the enormous stainless steel boilers into which three men are unloading entire platters' worth of crab legs. Quantities measured in the dozens of pounds apiece, coral-upon-white and steaming as they come out. Corn steams on the line's nearby platters and a fat potboiler holds savory beef and vegetable soup.
Em looks up at me and makes a face like the first cat must have made upon walking into that first cave at the dawn of time. It is the face of impending - if temporarily stalled - pure animal gluttony.
"Feed me."

I glance down at her. "Yeah no problem." No punctuation there either.

As it turns out, it takes us about twenty minutes to get the table we've reserved. Sitting there, right outside the source of the maddening seafood smells, time dilates to a crawl. Ironic, isn't it, how I'm themeing this whole series of shenanigans around Emily's adventures in time and space and here I am at its mercy, right at the very beginning.

After the longest twenty minutes in the history of the universe, in we go. It's hard to express just how fast Emily rockets to the line without using a modern physics textbook, but she's practically on her way back before I'm halfway through the line.

The arthropod holocaust is swift and severe. In surprisingly little time Emily sits behind an oubilette of crab shells, with one mostly eaten half-ear of corn sitting off to the side for presentation's sake.

She's wearing the world's most satisfied smile.

I'm still going. I always have a difficult time pinning down just why crab (and its various arthropod cousins) happens to be so immensely satisfying to eat, but it's not just down to how delicious the meat itself is. (And it is.) Perhaps it's having to work for it, using that hidden talent of popping the leg open at the knuckle using a fork, without having to resort to that specialized plastic doohickey spawned from Joe's Crab Shack. (Surprisingly, the metal cracking tool is nowhere to be found. Perhaps Disney doesn't want kids trying to crack their siblings' hands in it.)

Emily toys with an Oreo bonbon while I stuff my face with crabmeat.

"You know what I like about these?"

"Mmhmmpf." I use my incisors to strip a chewy hunk of crabmeat off the sinew. The mild buttery-spicy-sweet flavor melts within my mouth. "Y'like'cndy."

Em giggles at my caveman speech. "These are great because they're Oreos that someone stuck in a blender and somehow mixed with cream cheese and then coated the whole thing in chocolate. And I'm going to eat every last one unless you get one," she grins.

"Fine'by'mhee," I mumble, still chewing as I crack open a particularly meaty knuckle. The carapace jabs me in the flesh of my palm but I have the last laugh as I extract the meat.
Five minutes, and about two entire marine ecosystems (and an Oreo bonbon) later, we're both sitting relaxed in the booth. "That...was amazing," Emily says.

She rolls her eyes and lays her head on my shoulder. Oh crap. I know what that means - like a satisfied housecat, Emily's threatening to pass out asleep in warm, content bliss. But she's got another envelope to open. I yank the second little blue envelope out of her purse and hand it to her. "For you, madam. Before you pass out on me."

#2
I am so glad you made it to Cape May Cafe! Kindly sit back and enjoy your steamed crab legs and mussels. This is something I know you have been wanting for a long time.

It's okay. You don't have to have a long flowery explanation of the place or anything like that.
This illustrates one of my favorite things about you - you enjoy simple pleasures in life, but are not ashamed to appreciate the more elaborate ones. This is the first step to your mastery of time - and that is recognizing what you want to prioritize.

The future is an uncertain thing. That is just the way of things. But all good plans must start from good intel, and all good intel must come from a reliable source. You, my dear, are this reliable source when it comes to the things you enjoy. You thread together the simple pleasures of life - a seafood meal at a warm and comforting place like this - with an appreciation for the craftsmanship and the level of attention to detail that exists in a place like this hub - world in which you stay.
Now, for the next part of your adventure.

The first world we will be journeying to, appropriately enough, will be England.
Here is what you must do. Find the "Rose and Crown Pub" and try something new. Why? Because of any of the worlds in your multiversal hub, England is the one most tied to tradition. Upon the surface, it looks most towards bringing the past into the present. Certainly, America has a quaint recreation of the 1700s, but England most elegantly strings the threads of the past together with those of the present.
I want you to share a "Cider and Black" with your traveling companion. Why? The drink might be terrible, for all we know. But it might be glorious. It is the uncertain future. It is acknowledging the past while taking calculated risks in the future.

And let's face it, if you want to learn how to master time and space, England is pretty much the place to start.

See you there!
- The One Who Moves

Chapter 06: Taco Mac Part II, Or Em Discerns her Part in the Game

“I have this book.”
Leave it to Em for the first words out of her mouth to be something like that. Then, a beat later, she quirks an eyebrow at me. “Did you…?” she asks, before trailing off.

“What do YOU think?” I ask.
“I’ve been trying to get you to read this for -”

“Ages,” I finish. “I know. Open up the back cover.”

Inside, written in gold ink, is a little message for her.
“I have this book.”

Leave it to Em for the first words out of her mouth to be something like that. Then, a beat later, she quirks an eyebrow at me. “Did you…?” she asks, before trailing off.

“What do YOU think?” I ask.

“I’ve been trying to get you to read this for -”

“Ages,” I finish. “I know. Open up the back cover.”

<3 Love, Jamie 

On top of that, there are five little blue envelopes tucked away inside the package, as well as a disposable camera. Anna and David are cracking up at Emily’s ever-increasing grin.

“This is so crazy,” she says, taking the envelopes and inspecting each one.

The first one

For Emily

My Adventure Co-Pilot

You have never been a great follower of rules. I know this.

It is, believe it or not, one of my favorite things about you. So it's going to be a little odd that the following will not only ask you to follow some rules, but follow them for an extended period of time. How extended are we talking? That's something you'll have to see for yourself.

Rule #1: Document your progress. Included is a pair of disposable standard cameras. You may, at your leisure, make use of digital photography just so long as it's something higher resolution than an iPhone camera.

Rule #2: You must not peek ahead. This is a Very Important Thing. I know that this is a lot to ask of someone who can't measure out her cotton candy intake, but I ask you to do this for the purposes of the game.

Rule 3: Complete the tasks in order. Do not be surprised if tasks take some legwork (or wheelwork, as it will) to accomplish. Do not be surprised if there is something of a stretch between tasks.

Got all that? Good.

Here, then, is your assignment.

This is a game in which you will achieve mastery of time and space. If it sounds like a tall order, you're simply not thinking forth-dimensionally enough. Think of this like your Jedi training. Think of this in terms of The Doctor and his companion. What you will achieve, however, will be something greater and more subtle. Curious? I hope so.

First, you must travel to a space in which you can access multiple worlds and lands. This "hub" world will be central to your adventure. You will not be able to complete the entire adventure at once. Your brain may be stretched somewhat.

It's all right. All part of achieving mastery of time and space.

The next part of the adventure awaits you at a place dubbed "The Cape May Cafe."

See you there.

 - The One Who Moves

"Cape May Cafe!" Emily bursts out. Except it sounds more like "Caymaycafe" when she's really excited.

“That part is not a surprise," I grin. "You planned the Cape May Cafe trip like a month ago.”

“I know,” she says. "But it's still awesome.”

I'll let her have that one. It'll come in handy later, for obfuscating the details of the unfolding plan. Remember, Emily is the Grand Master God-Emperor Champion of Ruining Surprises. I need all the help I can get.

“Sure it is, love. Sure it is.”

Chapter 05: Initial Presentation

It’s nighttime at the Taco Mac on Peachtree, I’m clutching at a manila envelope, and my breath hitches in my throat. It’s the same feeling that I get on a roller coaster, after the lap bar’s gone down and the train’s started to move. Certainly, I’m not out of the station. I have a tiny amount of time to back out. That’s how roller coasters are. You pitch a fit while the underpaid staff can see you, and one of those poor souls will hopefully stop the thing and let you off. But nobody really does that. Just like me, we sit it out and ride up the lift hill, our faces concrete with stoicism.

Tonight is kickoff night, but Em doesn’t know it. She’s got a hell of a birthday present coming to her.
Anna and David have already gotten us a table and I’ve gone racing ahead to go to the bathroom. Well, as covert as I can be with delivering this package while under the guise of going to the bathroom. Remember, for those of you playing at home, I’m not exactly a subtle creature.

That’s why I’ve got Anna.

Em is comfortably playing on her phone in the car -I think- and I jet to a halt at Anna and David’s table. It’s one of Taco Mac’s patented rock-hard wooden booths, the kind that inspires one to drink to forget the seething lower back pain. Or, alternately, inspire a nondrunk customer to leave. That is, if you can get your check over the cheering and yelling. Someone’s playing someone else on the giant TVs. I’m pretty sure there have been political revolutions quieter than this place.

But then, this is Taco Mac. The point of this place is to chow on wings and see how many different beers (of their approximately six hundred zillion) you can try without going in for a closer inspection of the linoleum.

As Anna sees me, her face lights up, an impish grin playing across her features.

“So that’s it, huh?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “That’s it. This is gonna come last after your presents.”

“Ah hah ha.” Yes, Anna pronounces her evil laugh quite phonetically. I’m glad she’s on my side. “This is going to be good.”

I allow myself a rare smile at the proceedings. “I hope so. Let me grab Em from the car.”

Five minutes later, Em and I stroll into the Taco Mac. Barring special circumstances, she’s always on the left, and I’m always on the right. The way her gait works means she uses her right arm for balance more than her left, and having someone to hold her hand improves her pace and her balance.

Which is all lovely, but naturally, the real reason is that smile, those blue-gray eyes, the high cheekbones, all framed by her glasses and the thin, academic lines of her eyebrows.

Yes, I’m smitten.

“Well, aren’t YOU Mister Proud Of Yourself,” she teases as we walk in. Perhaps I’m strutting a little much, but I’ve put in a lot of work since that fateful day I got the reservation at Disney. The master plan is beginning to stir to life.

“I mean,” I say, which is a verbal tic we share. The jury’s out on which of us said it first. “It’s your birthday. And I think you’re gonna like your present, Miss Spoilerpants.”

“I only kind of spoiled my Christmas present.”

I shoot her a look. “Right. You wanted one hint. One. And you figured it out from that.”

She grins. “Not my fault you’re not good at surprises,” she teases.

Oh, wait until you see, Em.

“Fair enough,” I say, letting the conversation dissipate into the din of the restaurant as we sit down with Anna and David.

The meal proceeds easily enough, and it’s only after Em finishes opening her presents from Anna and David that I glance across the table from us, looking pointedly at Anna.

“Oh yeah!” she says. “Looks like something’s come in the mail for you.”

She hands a thick manila mailing envelope to Emily. Clearly, it’s been well packed.
“Gallifrey Bureau of Logistics?” Em grins. “Doctor Who. I wonder who THIS is from.”
I laugh. “Open it up.”

Inside is the last book that Emily ever expected to see: Thirteen Little Blue Envelopes, by Maureen Johnson. It’s a favorite of Emily’s, despite her having gone on record with quotes like “okay, it has the girliest cover of all time” and “well, it IS young adult fiction.” Don’t believe it when she downplays the book. She loves every last word.

Not only that, but she’s been trying to get me to read it for ages.

“I know it’s girly, but why don’t you give it a shot?” - Typical Emily plea

“Well, maybe, but it won’t be for a while. I have tons of other studying to do first.” - Typical (of me)
noncommittal topic-ender, specifically as I’m reading the book on the other end of the phone.

Perhaps here is a useful time to describe the basic plot and structure of the book, Thirteen Little Blue Envelopes. It concerns a girl, Ginny, who receives a curious parcel from her Aunt Peg, who until recently, resided in Europe. It's especially curious, because Aunt Peg has been deceased for some time now - it's as if Ginny's aunt is reaching across time to communicate with her niece. 

Inside Ginny's parcel are the eponymous thirteen little blue envelopes, as well as a debit card and a set of instructions telling her how this escapade is going to work. She ends up traveling all around Europe, from London to Italy to France to Greece and more, following the path that Aunt Peg laid out for her before her death. Ginny's travels through Europe mirror the journey that Aunt Peg undertook all those years ago when she arrived, young, inexperienced, and nearly penniless in London.

For being young adult literature, and for being incredibly girly (we're talking about measuring estrogen in quantities usually reserved for the study of astronomy here), it's an incredible book. I chalk this up nigh-upon-entirely to the talent of the author, Maureen Johnson, who manages to nail each separate voice in the story with ease that comes off as casual to the reader. 

All the Doctor Who trappings? I threw those in for fun. 

Chapter 04: April, Or, Of Reservations and Revelations

“Good morning! Victoria and Albert’s speaking - my name is Danielle - how may we serve you?”

I’ve been pacing my tiny office for the longest five minutes ever. My computer’s clock reads “6:57 AM.” The sky outside shows glimpses of light through the cloud cover and I press two fingers to an aching temple. It’s been a long day already.

 “Yes, hey Danielle. My name is James, and I’d like to reserve the Chef’s Table for Saturday, October 13th.”

 This was a long shot.

 Allow me to explain. First things first, Victoria and Albert’s is without question the most expensive and exclusive restaurant that Disney owns. It’s one of the most expensive and exclusive restaurants by any measure, a seven-to-ten-course hurricane of 19th century French opulence and service. This is the sort of restaurant where courses rest in their own private fog banks that creep across your table, and where one finds cuts of beef from cattle fed rice wine and massaged until slaughter. Each meal is a complex production where the supporting cast is quail egg and mushroom cappuccino and savory hypnosis of the nose.

 Meals at Victoria and Albert’s are not eaten. They are experienced.

 This also makes reservations damn hard to come by. And here I am, precisely six months in advance of my day - without even any hotel reservations, park or plane tickets, or any other plans whatsoever - trying to get a seat in the most exclusive room of the most exclusive restaurant. Guess how many Chef’s Tables there are at V&As. One - just one.

But I, as far as I know, am the first one asking for it. It’s why I’ve been carpet bombing their phone all morning. A reservation at all is nigh-on impossible to get to in this place.

 “I’m sorry, sir, but the Chef’s Table is already booked.” I quirk an eyebrow at this. Wait. Taken? How is this possible? I’m the first one allowed to make reservations here. This is the start of the 180-day window-

 “- guests with prior hotel reservations paid in full have an additional 10 days to reserve seats,” says my receptionist, Danielle, completing the sentence she’d begun while I wasn’t paying attention.

 “Well, do you have any spots in the main dining room?” I ask.

 Danielle considers a moment. I can hear the faint chatter of typing from her end. “Yes, we can seat you there. And we will put you on the waiting list in case the Chef’s Table opens up again.”

 “Thank you,” I say, although I’m not hopeful. If someone reserved it one hundred and ninety-four days in advance, it stands to reason they wouldn’t be giving it up. Of course, it’s hard to be too disappointed, as my plan will work regardless of location in V&A’s. And really, when the regular room is $135 a head and extraordinarily exclusive, who can complain too much?

 “Yes, thanks, that’ll be great,” I tell Danielle. “And please let me know if anything comes up.”
 I don’t have long to wait.

A week later, I walk into my office from a morning meeting and my phone shows I’ve missed a call, complete with voicemail.

 Danielle, from Victoria and Albert’s.

 Thirty seconds later, I’m pacing the tiny room waiting for them to answer. Please pick up, I say in my mind. Please.

 “Good morning! Victoria and Albert’s speaking this is - “
 “- Danielle?” I blurt. My tongue is ahead of my brain. “Er, sorry about that. I see I, ah, missed a call from you and when I heard your voicemail - “ At this, my fatigued brain gives a momentary pause, enough for the cool and collected Danielle to swoop in and rescue the conversation.

 “Yes, Mr. Cotton, excellent news. We’re pleased to say that the Queen Victoria Room is still open. Would you like to reserve - “

 “Yes.” There I go again. “Sorry again, Danielle.” She laughs, quite politely. I’m certain she’s spent hours honing that at Disney boot camp. “Quite all right, Mr. Cotton. We get that a lot. I’ll put you down for the Queen Victoria room, Saturday evening, October 13, 2012.”

 “Thank you so much,” I tell her. We exchange a few more service-industry pleasantries, but to be honest, my speech mechanisms are pretty much on Politeness Autopilot at that point. I’m floored. Whatever Disney voodoo spirit has been playing with me has clearly nudged me in the right direction.

There are, after all, regular seats in Victoria and Albert’s, and then there is the Queen Victoria Room. I’ve read the description, but in my myopic frenzy, I never considered the most opulent room of the most opulent restaurant. How could I have overlooked THAT room? For starters, there is exactly one seating per night. Four tables, ten courses, two waiters apiece - who could be sous chefs at lesser restaurants - and unparalleled service. The price is head-spinningly high - two hundred ten dollars a head, before tax, before tip, before any form of alcohol. But then again, this is a once in a lifetime moment.
 “Do it once,” I tell myself, “do it right.”

 Now, all I need is, well, the rest of the vacation to line up perfectly around that event.

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.