I shall start at the end which is actually the beginning.

On a bitter, gloomy night in November 1999, my then-wife, upon her return from a business trip, suddenly and unexpectedly announced she was leaving me. After seventeen years of what had been (for me) a perfect marriage, I was entirely stunned and crushed. Some feminine insight of the effects of male/female miscommunication can be found in psychogirliness' current column. The condensed version of her reason for leaving was, “I feel alone and if I'm going to feel this alone, I might just as well be alone.” (Later I discovered that was actually code for, “I'm fucking the guy I was dating before I met you and I've decided I like it better.”) C'est la guerre, I learned in a sudden and devastating moment what a broken heart feels like. And I now know it continues to hurt for a very long time.

Fast forward a few months to Superbowl Sunday evening. I was invited to a business associate's home, the object of which was to ignore the game but watch the commercials, bullshit, and have cocktails and nibblies with friends. I really did not want to go. I mean I REALLY did not want to go, but he had pestered me about it several times during the prior week. I knew I'd feel guilty if I just blew it off, so I said to myself “Aw fuck, just go over there, have a couple drinks, be polite, then leave.” I arrived and met the other guests; the most notable was a very pretty Scottish woman, with whom I had an enjoyable conversation. I ended up staying longer than planned and went home thinking “Well, I did the right thing and it wasn't so bad after all. It was actually….okay.”

Now fast-forward to late autumn. I was at an employee's wedding reception and he introduced me to his sister. She was very pretty, a lot of fun, and we danced several times throughout the evening. Some guy strolled over at the last dance and asked her up. She said, “No, sorry, I'm saving this one for Geoff.” It was a heady feeling and it made me realize for the first time in a long time that I missed female companionship. It inspired me to ponder who I might like to ask out. Every woman I knew was either married or definitely not my type. I wasn't looking for a relationship; just someone to take to the occasional movie, dinner, or the symphony. I wanted someone with whom to share a congenial evening with lighthearted conversation. Then I remembered that lovely Scottish woman I'd met in January and I thought, “Yeah, she seemed interesting.” Unfortunately, I knew almost nothing about her. I couldn't even remember her name.

The next day, I called my associate's wife, the very good friend of Miss Scottish Lassie. “Hi Trish, remember that woman at the Superbowl party -- the one with the Scottish accent? I was thinking of asking her out to dinner, but I know almost nothing about her. Including her name.” I laughed sheepishly and Trish replied, “Well, actually she has been dating someone, but I know for a fact that she would be thrilled if you asked her out.” Hmmm… I thought, how does one know something like that “for a fact?” Unless…… ahah! I have been the subject of conversation! “Oh,” I said. “In that case, can you give me her info?” I got her name and number, squashed the butterflies in my stomach, and placed the call. We agreed to meet several days later at The Earle, a quiet restaurant with an awesome wine list.

I arrived a few minutes early, as is my custom, and she arrived right on time. So far as I was concerned, the date was off to a great start. I cannot abide tardiness. We had a pleasant evening and found loads to talk about. Suddenly, I became aware we were the last two in the dining room; the wait staff were looking at their watches, yawning in a very un-subtle manner. As I walked her the couple of blocks to her car on that warm and very misty autumn night, I asked if I might call her again. She said, “Yes, please” with ego gratifying swiftness.

We had several more dates and were becoming well acquainted; one night, I told her of my plans to travel to France the next June to attend a wedding. The wedding was to be in the south of France but, because of my long devotion to the history of the Napoleonic era, I was most looking forward to seeing Paris. She told me of her extensive travels through Europe from the time she was a young adult, but she had avoided going to Paris; she had actually turned down several invitations to do so. When I asked why, she told me that it held a very special place in her heart and that she would only consider going with the RIGHT person.

More months passed and we were getting a bit serious about one another. I finally mustered the courage to ask her, “Will you go to France with me?” Then I blurted out the big one, “And to Paris?” She thought for just a moment and said, “Yes, that would be lovely.” Oh man, I had such a shit eating grin on my face.

Soon, I realized I loved this woman; I wanted nothing more than to marry her. In my need to make important events dramatically memorable, I decided to propose at the top of the Eiffel Tower. What could be more romantic? Not only that, but I would do it in French. I designed this:

and picked it up the day before our flight. I carried it safely in my pocket to La Ville-lumière – the City of Light, where I had a special destination and a very personal plan to execute.

On our first morning there, we set out to visit Monsieur Eiffel's tower. You already know my purpose. My lover's had to do with this poster that had hung in her bedroom since she was a wee young teenager. Her granny in Scotland had given it to her and the woman's pose holds great spiritual inspiration for her.

We made our way through the bustling Parisian streets, but alas, the Eiffel Tower was closed. CLOSED??? What the fuck????? “Monsieur, the elevators are being repaired.” Fucking French, it figures, of all days they chose this date to fix their elevators. My companion gazed at me with her usual sweet disposition and said, “Don't be upset. Look at all of these people that are only here for a day. We'll be back in Paris in two weeks and it'll be open, and we'll go then. Many of these people will never get another chance.” Months later, she confided in me that my behavior that day really worried her. She thought, “What kind of guy is he to get so upset over such a trivial thing?” She knew nothing of my intentions. Curses, my plan was ruined and I was beside myself; I had planned this for so long! I had no desire to wait two more weeks to carry it through. We left and began wandering along the Left Bank, when we came upon Notre Dame Cathedral. It was Saturday and the place was a zoo. The line to tour the upper areas of the cathedral was a mile long, so I asked, “What do you think about attending Mass here in the morning? Let's wait and take the tour afterwards when it won't be so crowded.” Then it hit me: The next best thing to the top of the Eiffel Tower is the top of Notre Dame. I had the solution to my dilemma. I would ask her when we got up there! In the morning! After Mass! Crisis averted, I exhaled a sigh of relief.

So, at about 10AM Paris time, on June 10, 2001, I became betrothed to the most beautiful woman in the world right here:

Overlooking this:

And this:

At our wedding one year later, I gave her this: CLICK HERE

AND (SO FAR) WE HAVE LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER.

EPILOGUE:
We did make it to the top of the Eiffel Tower two weeks later as my soon-to-be fiancé had predicted. We then reserved the next day, our final full day in France, for a visit to the Louvre. We had been standing in the entrance line for a bit, when it was announced that the Louvre would not open that day. The workers had gone on strike. I just looked at my love, shook my head, smiled and muttered, “Fucking French.”