Thursday was Dave’s birthday, so I agreed with whatever he wanted to do, more than usual, since normally I am not very agreeable. He didn’t want me to go to my Thursday night self-defense class, and the girl I go with thought that was strange, but I didn’t say anything and went Tuesday instead. He wanted to have his birthday dinner at Bandera’s, best ribs in the bay area, in los altos, terribly inconvenient, but ok. I arrive in palo alto and he informs me that Bandera’s is closed. Booked up for a private party. Luckily, he tells me, a friend overheard him on the phone and suggested an even better bbq restaurant on the coast. Well, ok. That’s pretty far away, but it’s your birthday. Bbq on the coast. We drive out, the sun is setting, and it’s breathtaking. Im scanning the sides of Highway One for a neon sign reading “Serracina,” which serves bbq, and after 30 miles I start thinking, “good god, he’s lucky it’s his birthday,” we’re almost in Santa Cruz. Then we pass “our spot.” The first time we were there was April 23, 2000, and we had “the talk.” We decided we would start dating. As we pass I say, “Look how far we are, there is our spot. It can’t be this far!” He turns around, and says we should stop anyway. Plus, he has to pee. Ok, damn. Has to pee. There I am wobbling down the rocky slope in my traction-less boots, and we get down to the bottom. We walk over to the exact same spot where we were nearly three years ago and not until he was down on one knee did I know what was going on.