Through some miracle, or the universe’s way of ‘saving the best for last’, Tate and I hadn’t crossed paths despite our ever-growing list of mutual acquaintances. It wasn’t that either of us was particularly looking for “THE ONE” but we both quickly realized on that first date that this one person was going to turn out to be just a little more special than any of the other ones.
Most of our first date conversation was consumed by planning hypothetical trips, and playful attempts at one-upping the other while recounting tales of past travels. We even walked out of dinner that night with a pact to make it to Spain together one day (completed August of 2017)
First dates turned into fourth dates, and those segued into eighth dates and after a while I started to realize it wasn’t the number that counted, but the way I always seemed to walk away with a grin after our ‘good nights’ and ‘goodbyes’.
They say you never really know someone until you’ve travelled with them, and it wasn’t long after meeting (3 months, if you’re counting) that we were jetting off to Cabo for a long weekend. When he, albeit hesitantly, offered to trade so I could have the window seat I sidled in with a sigh. Somewhere between take off and cruising altitude I knew I had landed a keeper.
We slowly began building a little life of adventure together, and becoming a regular staple at each other’s family gatherings. At one point, my late grandpa was even convincing everyone that we were going to come back from Fiji (our first New Year’s trip together) as a married couple.
We didn’t exchange any vows that trip, but we did come back with a few good stories of surviving a cyclone in the South Pacific, and a cemented love of wandering this world together.
Since vacation days unfortunately aren’t limitless, somewhere between Vietnam and Vancouver we’ve settled into an 1890’s home in downtown Indianapolis and fill our free time with Netflix binges, bike rides, breweries, Nintendo 64 battles and a steady rotation of our favorite restaurants.