February 2, 2001
Saturday morning, I was lounging in bed, as is my wont, listening to Keith tap away at the keyboard, playing one of his war games. I lay there, drifting in and out of a very light sleep, partially dreaming and partially listening to him. Eventually he got up and moved around. I stayed in bed.
When he came into the bedroom and started opening dresser drawers, I asked him sleepily, "Whatcha doin'?" And he said, "Packing!" and headed back out for the living room as though he'd said nothing particularly unusual or remarkable.
"Packing?! For what?" I was definitely awake now. Oh yes, definitely awake. Packing? Were we to go on a trip? Suddenly, my weekend had been transformed from a featureless blob of unplanned laziness into a vista of unexplored possibilities. If it were a trip, where would we go? Would it be exciting? Was it just to visit friends? Was this all an elaborate joke?
Keith looked smug. "Oh, just an overnight trip."
I sat up in bed and drew the comforter up around me, bouncing up and down. "Where are we going? Where are we going? Huh? Huh? Huh? Where are we going?"
Keith looked exponentially more smug. "It's a surprise. Don't you remember what happend five years ago in the third week of January?"
Oh. Oh! January, 1996. The first time Keith and I met. It was an icy weekend in Chicago. I remember waking up in the morning and seeing only a thick covering of frost on the windows. It was so cold outside that in the 15-minute walk from the hotel to the Cheesecake Factory, my hands went completely numb inside their gloves. I remember that Keith asked me if I thought it would be too much for him to warm my fingers inside his mouth. I blushed and said that I thought it would be a little much. The Cheesecake Factory had a longer line than usual because nobody wanted to sit next to the glass windows, which did an inadequate job of keeping out the frigid air. After dinner, we tried to walk to the Art Institute and were turned back by winds that made my skin feel as though it were being torn away. We went back to the hotel instead. That was the third week of January, five years ago.
And so we finished packing up, and off we drove. Keith refused to tell me where we were going. I tried to guess. First, I guessed we would be going somewhere in downtown Seattle, but Keith got on I-5 heading north out of the city. North? Nothing is up north except, well, Vancouver, I guess. My second guess was that we were going to Vancouver for the weekend. But Keith got off at the Mukilteo exit. Mukilteo? Nothing is in Mukilteo except our mini-storage unit. And surely we weren't going there...were we?
I sighed deeply in relief as the turn-off for our storage unit receded into the distance. But if we weren't going to the mini-storage unit, what were we doing in Mukilteo? Finally, I saw the signs for the ferry. I actually squealed in delight, and Keith grinned. I adore the ferries. And it was a beautiful day. I love the ferries even in the rain, but this day was bright, sunny, and clear -- a rarity for Seattle in January. I took it as a portent of good things to come.
We drove onto the ferry, parked the car, and headed up for the deck. I bought myself a cup of hot cider to keep my hands warm, and we walked out into the fresh air to watch the water, and the mountains in the distance. I still had no idea where we were going, but going on a ferry ride was good enough all by itself. We watched the teenaged girls standing a few yards away trying to feed seagulls from their hands (they succeeded, eventually), we let the wind whip through our hair, and it was wonderful.
The ferry arrived at Whidbey Island. I had only the vaguest notion of where Whidbey Island was, or what it was, but there we were, and Keith seemed to know where he was going. He drove us through the countryside, and I admired the Pacific Northwest foliage and rolling hills and quaint little towns, and read to Keith from Peter the Great in between staring at scenery.
Eventually, he parked the car in a little town called Langley, and asked if I didn't want to walk on the beach, maybe? The beach?! There's a beach?!? Sure, I'd love to walk on the beach!
My previous experience with ocean beaches had been in North Carolina, swimming in the warm Atlantic during summer vacations with my family. This beach was different. It was cold, and all of the driftwood was white with frost. There were no huge breakers, because this was a protected inlet. But it was the Pacific Ocean, and we were walking on a sandy beach, and there were shells crunching under my shoes. I wondered if the tide was coming in or going out, and Keith stuck a little stick into the sand right at the water's edge. He said that when we came back, the stick would either be high and dry or underwater, and then we'd know. And we walked on.
A beach, with the mighty Pacific Ocean stretching out before me. Sand and tide and seagulls. Keith and I walked arm and arm down quite a bit of it, picking our way through tangled driftwood and fallen trees, occasionally stopping to pick up an interesting rock or to try to skip rocks out over the surface of the water.
Sometimes, when life becomes particularly beautiful, it is as though time is standing still. It is as though I am living in my own memory of an event. We walked along, with the ocean at our feet and the mountains at our back, with gulls lazily circling overhead, and time seemed to stretch out, to become tangible and thick, to stop moving entirely.
When we returned to the spot where Keith had stuck the stick into the ground, it was missing, but that was all right. "Maybe a gull ate it," I suggested. Keith nodded thoughtfully. "They will eat anything, it's true."
Then, instead of leading me back up the path to the car, he directed me towards a wooden staircase leading up to what appeared to be some kind of resort hotel. It's the kind of place that has a balcony for each room, and windowboxes planted with flowers around each balcony. And of course, it turned out that Keith had reserved us a room at this resort hotel. I felt weak-kneed at this overabundance of romantic surprise.
Keith gave me the key and sent me to open up the room while he got our bags from the car. There was a bed with a duvet on top, a fireplace, the balcony with flower boxes, and in the bathroom, there was a hot tub. It was charming and lovely. It was Keith's gift to me.
That evening, he told me to get dressed up (he'd told me, when packing, to pack some kind of nice dress, but of course wouldn't tell me what for), and he led me up to the attached restaurant. We had a five-course meal, prepared by the restaurant's chef, who specializes in Northwest cuisine. There were mussels in a spicy broth, squash soup in an apple-cider base, stuffed duck, a salad with winter greens, and a fluffy, wonderful pear tart for dessert.
I imagined that all the older couples sitting around us were secretly envying us for our youth. I imagined that all the women were secretly envying me for having such a romantic, wonderful partner. Of course, they were all there with men as well, so this theory may be somewhat flawed, but I couldn't help thinking it under the circumstances.
And so we passed the weekend, recovering from the massive amount of rich food at dinner, lighting fires in the fireplace, and just generally basking in a romantic glow. I hadn't even remembered that we had an anniversary at this time of year, much less made any plans for it. Yet, there we were, in a little seaside village on Whidbey Island, nestled into a romantic vacation resort.
The next morning, we went to a little bakery and bought ungodly amounts of baked goods and pastries. Bearclaws, muffins, cookies, you name it. We also bought a loaf of bread, because I wanted to feed the ducks. It turns out that whenever seagulls are in the area, it is nigh well unto impossible to feed ducks, because the gulls are much more aggressive about diving for breadcrumbs. And, let's face it, gulls aren't nearly as cute as ducks. We gave up and kept the rest of the loaf for ourself.
On the drive back, we decided to go around the long way rather than take the ferry. It turns out that Whidbey Island is actually quite large. An informational pamphlet at a rest stop said that it was the second-largest island in the continental United States. (Keith guessed that Long Island is the largest.) The greenery and foliage here in the Pacific Northwest is like that of nowhere else I have ever been, and on this island, it was particularly stunning. I've often heard the term "rainforest" used to describe this area, but I never gave it much credence until I saw the trees and the lush undergrowth there on Whidbey.
At Deception Pass, we parked the car at a scenic overlook and went out onto the bridge that crosses the pass. It was vertigo-inducing and a little scary, but the view was unbelievable. Blue-green water flooding between the tall cliffs on either side. Apparently, the Spaniards had always thought the pass led to just another protected inlet, but in fact it does not. It goes through to the Sound. Hence, "Deception Pass." We stayed and watched the water for a few moments, then left to drive on, back to Seattle.
I wasn't going to write about this. I was going to keep it to myself, special and sacred, and not publish it for everyone to read. But I wanted to give Keith something to show him just how much I appreciated and adored what he did for me, and so here it is.
Happy anniversary, baby.