For some, a proposal is completely planned out. I once knew a guy who picked up his girlfriend in a limo, drove her to a helicopter pad, flew her to Catalina Island (a small plot of land about two hours off the coast of Southern California by boat) at sunset, and led her to a rose petal-covered hotel room overlooking the ocean.
Mr Cowboy Boot’s proposal was nothing like that.
But, before I whine and moan about not getting a chocolate-covered smorgasbord of perfectly timed bells and whistles, here are some clues into why the sporadic proposal was a-okay.
The view from our hotel room
Our mode of transportation
Heading into a cave via boat
Going up the side of a mountain via chairlift
If you didn’t guess it–which you probably didn’t, because I didn’t include a picture of a cappuccino or a ridiculously good pizza–we were in Italy. More specifically, we were on the Isle of Capri. But not because of any mad scheming by Mr. CB (I wish!).
Last April, I went abroad on assignment to write an article for a magazine. Because my way to Europe was paid, we decided to piggyback on my gig and take a 10-day vacation around Italy afterwards. We did a few days in Florence, Tuscany, Capri, and Rome.
Now, I’ll let you in on a little secret: I knew he was going to propose before it happened. When FMIL Cowboy Boot was visiting Santa Fe last, she happened to mention diamond rings in front of me. I sat there politely and kept mum. Two days later, Mr. CB and I were watching a movie in which they talked about a 12-carat diamond. “12 carats?!” He exclaimed, practically flailing off the couch. That’s when I knew it was coming—he knew more about diamond size than I did. Check.
And what a more obvious plan than to take advantage of a Rico Suave-country like Italy. At each sightseeing overlook, each “viewpoint”, I cringed, hoping Mr. CB wouldn’t ask me in front of thirty camera-clad tourists. That just wasn’t either of us—but sometimes a guy who’s trying to be romantic is blind to cheese-factor. (I’ll credit Valentine’s Day for the demise of romance.)
The proposal: We’d had the perfect day on Capri. We had zipped around the island by motorino, been oared into the Blue Grotto (Caesar Augustus’ private swimming pool back in the day), taken a single-seater chairlift to the top of Monte Solaro and hiked our way down, and had beers from our mini-bar on the balcony of our hotel room while cuddling under a blanket at sunset. We went inside to get ready for dinner, when he grabbed me and said, “I’ve been waiting to ask you this all week. Will you marry me?”
No champagne. No ring in his pocket. No mariachi band about to plow through the door. Just me, him, a private hotel room, on a whirlwind vacation in one of the most romantic countries in the world.
I couldn’t have asked for more.