Tango, June 30th, 2007
*NEW YORK
Obvious choice? Maybe. Wanna make something of it? The truth is, leaving this brash five-borough beast of a town off any list of superlative cities would be unthinkable. It’s impossible to deny that the place that spawned Sex and the City and metrosexuals, G-strings and gossip rags, really did write the book—and publish the magazine article, and broadcast the Katie Couric interview, and bring you the reality-TV show—of love, American-style. Best of all, you don’t have to get engaged to Donald Trump to enjoy the finest wooing and cooing New York has to offer. In a city full of dreamers, imagination works just as well.
Just witness how New York might seduce an innocent young girl writing at her kitchen table. It’s July, and sultry. A rivulet of sweat is trickling down the back of her neck. Trucks and buses brush past her open window; a subway train—which she knows is packed with passengers, body to body—sails by, its deep rumble mixing with Latin music on the corner, mingling with exhaust fumes, and drifting in, uninvited, insistent, unrelenting. Even the Mister Softee man with his truck and his frozen treats and his tinkling, slightly forlorn tune can only transport her for a moment and then she’s straight back into the rhythm of a city just below the boiling point. When the sun sinks and the asphalt cools, she knows that New York will play a more genteel lover, offering her and a date the Philharmonic in Central Park, with a bottle of wine during and fireworks after, and maybe fireworks after that.
She could just as easily close her eyes and imagine summer turning to fall, when the Greenmarket at Union Square has 17 varieties of apples trucked down from their leafy homes upstate and laid out in a rainbow between the bright orange pumpkins and dark, dusty beets. Before she knows it, it’s wintertime, and her fingers are frozen from waving, trying to hail a taxi, but suddenly there’s a handsome stranger in a bright red cashmere scarf who’s offering her his cab and smiling, his grip firm as he helps her inside. Behind her, lovers glide arm in arm around the rink at Rockefeller Center, and she really can smell chestnuts roasting over an open flame ‘round the corner at 50th and Fifth.
When she almost can’t bear the cold for one more second, spring arrives. The elms in Central Park look like they’re vibrating, with yellow-green buds on every winding bough. Oh, spring in New York, when hemlines go up, tense shoulders go down, and you can fall head-over-stiletto-heels on nearly every street corner, and buy your love a bauble (“Rolex? Rolex?”) to prove it.
The ultimate romantic New York experience in any season may be simply losing oneself in the fray. In a city where passions run high and space is at a premium, the most private moments often are played out in very public forums, creating a kind of instant intimacy between strangers that ratchets up the intensity of everyday life. On the other hand, New Yorkers know when to look the other way, and exist by a code of willful ignorance that serves as a sort of synthetic privacy substitute. How easy—and thrilling—to hide together in plain sight.
-Kelly Bare
MEET between the lions, on the steps of the New York Public Library at 42nd and Fifth; over a dozen gleaming bivalves, clam chowder, and beer at the counter of the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Terminal; or at the Cherry Tavern in the East Village, where a beer and a shot will set you back only $5.
FIGHT on a subway platform. Don’t be surprised if bystanders offer loose change for your performance.
HIDE & SULK at the Cloisters—the branch of the Metropolitan Museum of Art devoted to medieval Europe (in Fort Tryon Park; take the A train to 190th Street). Contemplate art, religion, and life, all with a view of the Hudson River. Plus, it’s the perfect place to swear celibacy (again). Remain on that higher spiritual plane by attending an evening concert at the magnificent Cathedral of St. John the Divine on Amsterdam Avenue at 112th.
MAKE UP while strolling through midtown Manhattan’s blocks and blocks of bling (Tiffany & Co., Cartier, H. Stern, Harry Winston, the 47th Street Diamond District). If that’s too heavily symbolic, try either of New York’s breathtaking public gardens. The New York (Bronx) Botanical Garden’s yearly orchid show, a stamen-and-pistil showdown, will provide an exotic, slightly steamy backdrop for heartfelt apologies. Later in the spring, check out the riotous cherry blossoms or luscious lily pools at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden—with the conservatory next to it all set up for one of the umpteen weddings held there. Who could stay mad? Seal the reconciliation with dinner at the River Café.
HAVE DARING SEX in the backseat of a cab. Scientists have not yet explained why this is so exciting, but it is. Other options: between stops on the G train or late at night in a horse-drawn carriage in Central Park.
WHO ELSE: Donald Trump and Marla (“Best Sex I Ever Had”) Maples; Tony Randall and Jack Klugman; Derek Jeter and the women of the Bronx; F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald; Woody Allen and Diane Keaton; Woody Allen and Mia Farrow; Woody Allen and Soon-Yi Previn; Holly Golightly and Tiffany’s. Anyone running through traffic to meet the love of his/her life at the top of the Empire State Building.
ONLY IN NEW YORK CAN YOU… stay up all night and then go out for dinner; ogle the other beautiful people over the $62 fruits de mer and champagne at Blue Ribbon in SoHo or Brooklyn’s Park Slope; wash down your duck meatloaf and gravy fries with a milkshake at Chelsea’s Diner 24; have a Chinese rice pudding dish while you wait your turn for karaoke at Congee Village on the Lower East Side; or go to Katz’s (remember Meg Ryan’s “I’ll have what she’s having” scene?) and get in the mood to go home again.
*MIAMI
Sex, depending on individual perspective and how often you’re actually having some, is either the ultimate party or a Technicolor plague. Miami is sex, a carnal city that has become one big erogenous zone, and sometimes it would be easier for all concerned, visitors and natives alike, if we could just take a pill (not that pill, you fool!) and make it go away.
Despite the doll-house charm of Ocean Drive, South Beach feels at moments like the hot bottom of Bangkok, lust everywhere and nowhere at once. The invitation for the opening of Tommy Lee’s Rok Bar featured a shirtless, excessively tattooed Lee holding up a slab of raw beef. Sex may be easy, but love is hard, and appropriate settings are equally tricky. Civilized romantics can find oases at Joe Allen or Pacific Time for dinner, and the Raleigh hotel at almost any hour. As palm fronds wave in the breeze by the Raleigh’s famed pool, it’s easy to imagine Esther Williams cavorting in the blue depths. Beach devotees, meanwhile, can roll right off the sand into one of Ocean Drive’s more sensuous dance clubs.
But Miami is also the American Venice, poised between the Atlantic Ocean and Biscayne Bay, with a series of canals that wind their way through the metropolis. As William Faulkner observed, landscape is character–sometimes a scary notion for Miami natives–and every visitor is quickly transformed by the ease, pleasure, and pure sensuality of being surrounded by water. Embracing that singularity is simple, with places to rent speedboats, sailboats, and jet-skis all over town. A modest craft will do: it doesn’t have to be one of those vaguely sinister Cigarettes or some other mega-powered vessel of the kind that always seems to be owned by an over-compensating, horny vulgarian with a silicone-slap-happy girlfriend draped across the bow like a mermaid gone wrong.
By boat, Miami Beach is pure romance, one gilded isle after another, a voyeur’s delight. Start on the northwest end of the Beach, in the calm waters of Biscayne Bay, and take in the series of islands that Christo once encircled in pink fabric, precisely capturing the sex-and-fun-through-fluidity essence of the city. Drift down past the paparazzi pay-dirt of Indian Creek and North Bay Road, a gift box of excessively moneyed hideaways: the tiki-hut complex of Julio Iglesias; Carl Icahn’s gleaming Xanadu; and Jennifer Lopez�s sex-to-burn estate, between the Brothers Gibb and sharing the street with love-god Ricky Martin.
On the open bay, head south to the Miami River, which spills out past the towers of downtown. Take a drink at Big Fish, then linger over a dolphin sandwich at Garcia’s while listing Haitian freighters slide by remnants of grit and whimsy such as the penis-shaped pediment on the old East Coast Fisheries building, a nod to the river’s bawdy history. Or keep going, down to Matheson Hammock Park, home to the lagoon-side Red Fish Grill, and end up at the sunset mecca of improbably poised fishing shacks off Key Biscayne. From there, the confectionary skyline of Miami is as beautiful and exotic as Angkor Wat: this is the city through the haze of a softening filter, and as any lover understands, even true romance can benefit from a little distance and proper lighting.
-Tom Austin
MEET on the beach, of course. No stretch of sand is more promising than that outside the Nikki Beach Club at One Ocean Drive. Spread your towel, make eye contact, and you may eventually wander together right off the sand into this laid-back, elegant club, where you can sip the house specialty mojitos in chaise longues or a private cabana with billowing white curtains.
BUILD THE EXCITEMENT at Mango’s Tropical Café, 900 Ocean Drive. A South Beach institution, the open-air Latin dance club is usually packed and throbbing with salsa and merengues. Inspired by the moves of Mango’s hunky barmen and luscious barmaids, some of whom have triple-jointed hips, you’ll end up doing the merengue too, and that has been known to lead to all sorts of things.
FIGHT in the surf, up to your chin. Try it. The pounding of the waves means you can yell at the top of your lungs without sharing all those intimate frustrations. There’s nothing out there to throw at the idiot you’re with, and the grandeur of the ocean will make your differences seem a whole lot less significant. When you’re done arguing, you can ride a wave back in together.
HIDE & SULK by flagging down a cabbie and telling him you want to run away to the Café Sambal, the superstylish bayside café at the Mandarin Oriental hotel, 500 Brickell Key Drive. Lunch and dinner are busy with both locals and high-profile visitors, but the rest of the time the tables on the terrace offer a beautiful, peaceful view of Biscayne Bay. Just the place to think it over.
MAKE UP at B.E.D., 929 Washington Avenue. B.E.D.’s waiters will serve you dinner in private alcoves with platform beds, then close the curtains, leaving you to your own devices amid the large fluffy pillows. Feed each other or–whatever. B.E.D. doesn’t just get you back together horizontally, it provides the necessary fuel for total reconciliation. Another option is to go old-world, with a night on Calle Ocho in Little Havana: dinner and café con leche at Versailles, followed by the dance club Hoy Como Ayer.
HAVE DARING SEX but not on the beach. Sand and thieves can ruin the moment. Mansion, 1234 Washington Avenue, is full of shadowy nooks. Other club-goers may watch discreetly out of the corners of their eyes, but no one will interrupt the dreamy-eyed lady, ostensibly sitting alone, whose boyfriend is under the table making her night memorable.
WHO ELSE: Just about every A-list star has “done” South Beach, and some have done it together. Will and Jada Pinkett Smith, Jay-Z and Beyoncé Knowles, J. Lo and Ben, J. Lo and Marc, J. Lo and–
[Let’s give Ms. Lopez a break here; at least she’s out there emotionally, unlike some we could name. –Ed.]
ONLY IN MIAMI CAN YOU… rollerblade along a major thoroughfare in a string bikini without anyone batting an eyelash.
*NEW ORLEANS
I’d been carrying a torch for a man too long, so one day I flew from New York to New Orleans and sat in the peeling courtyard of the Napoleon House drinking Pimm’s Cups and getting patted on the head by an enormous palmetto leaf. I was staying at the Soniat House on Chartres Street, sleeping in a four-poster bed, enjoying the lush solitude in the least lonely city in America.
With its lacy architecture and neglected plaster and frolicking drunks being gently ignored by properly dressed snobs, New Orleans is beguiling in its self-love, both alluring to lovers and comforting to the stranger. Its
position near the mouth of the wide Mississippi, its pirate, aristocrat, and polyglot founders, its ebullient party atmosphere and undertow of voodoo, all give it a loose, wild, fragrant, and laughter-filled atmosphere exemplified by the French Quarter, usually considered the city’s center.
An easy-to-navigate grid bounded by Canal, North Rampart, and Esplanade streets and the river, the Quarter is where the tourists wander from the courtyard of Pat O’Brien’s with plastic containers full of wickedly potent rum drinks, muttering, “Mabel, where the hell’s Bourbon Street?” “You’re standing on it, honey,” she’ll say, as they stare pie-eyed at a beautiful boy and girl making out. Bourbon Street gets a bum rap. True, you can find yourself facing an unsmiling Pakistani vendor purveying tubes of grain alcohol, Bud, and thongs, and wondering how your errant sweetheart would look in a T-shirt that says “Hi, I’m a dick and my best friend’s a pussy.” But if you proceed to Preservation Hall and get a seat on one of the benches, you’ll hear jazz legends pouring their souls into trumpets and saxophones, and sway and nod, feeling the pulse of one of America’s great artistic achievements all around you.
You can start a morning by sauntering over to the Moonwalk Promenade for a beignet, a cloud of fried dough rolled in powdered sugar, at Café Du Monde, then read the Times-Picayune with a jolt of strong coffee. Then go on over to Jackson Square and check out the stoned, entertainingly belligerent palm and tarot-card readers arrayed under their umbrellas. For about $35, they’ll tell you like it is.
Of course, the first question I asked was about my former lover: Should I give it another shot? Through narrowed eyes, my reader glanced at a bench, as if she could see him sitting there, and contemplated the vision. She said, “Anybody who lets his socks fall down like that ain’t strong enough for you.” It was as if she knew him! Probably all men’s socks fall down, but still.
To rub elbows with purest New Orleans royalty, there’s Galatoire’s, where the grandees line up outside in dresses, coats, and ties for their traditional Friday lunch. But addictive cuisine of all stripes abounds, from the traditionalism of Antoine�s (faded glamour; French-Creole) and Dooky Chase (suave Creole; shrimp étouffée and gumbo) to Bayou (nouvelle; succulent garlic soup and grilled shrimp), and even the healthful (but who cares?). As I made my way back to the Soniat House after dinner one night, it began to rain. I was passing the Old Ursuline Convent, when someone tapped my shoulder. “Miss?”
I started. (It should be said that New Orleans is not the safest city, and you should be alert.) “What?” I said guardedly, hanging onto my purse.
“My friend here says you’re too pretty to talk to him. I agree.” Then his tall, blue-eyed friend stepped forward into the drizzle beneath the convent spotlight. My mouth popped open. The first guy continued, “You see, I told you she was.”
I started to walk on. “Sorry I bothered you,” said Blue Eyes. “You know, just never know.” Something in me snapped–because he was right. I handed him my card, and he said, “Wow, I’m honored.” He handed me his, and wrote his number at his hotel. “Maybe you’ll think about it and give me a call if you’d like to have a drink while you’re here.”
His card said “Composer.” From New York. Well, I’ll be damned. A few minutes before, I’d passed a hand-lettered sign in a gris-gris shop that read MERCURY RETROGRADE. MAKE NO DECISIONS ‘TIL TUES. Yet perhaps God rewards boldness. I would take a steaming, luxurious bath back at the Soniat House, maybe have some hot cocoa by candlelight. Maybe I would call the blue-eyed guy, I thought shivering. Yes, definitely I would light candles. I was saying all this out loud as I headed away from the convent where they used to lock up single women. But that was OK. New Orleans is a good town for muttering in the rain.
-Dana Tierney
MEET at Tipitina’s, 501 Napoleon Avenue, where every Sunday night they have a rip-roaring fais do-do (Cajun family dance), which starts at 5 and ends promptly at 9 so everybody can have dinner and get the kids to bed. But when it starts, the men run across the room and grab the women. Everyone–the chubby, the senile, the teen-agers, children, and shy out-of-towners–dances.
FIGHT inside the Saturn Bar. You’ll have had too much to drink by now, but at this place, that’s a prerequisite. It used to be an air-conditioner repair shop by day. The end of sanity, of the world. Slug away. Saint Claude Avenue: suitably scary neighborhood.
HIDE & SULK a few paces off Jackson Square, in the Faulkner House, an I-Dream-of-Jeannie’s bottle of a shop on Pirate’s Alley. Tiny, it’s a bit of literary magic, literally inhabited by kindred spirits: William Faulkner (who wrote his first book here), Tennessee Williams, Eudora Welty and Thomas Wolfe, Truman Capote, John Kennedy Toole, and other, younger stars, such as Nancy Lemann, who was mentored by the god known as Walker Percy. The proprietor, Joe DeSalvo, lives upstairs, and if you peer through the glass, you can see an edge of his garden, gargantuan elephant ears and intricate old plantings reined in on trellises, with lovely green-and-white striped garden chairs resting invitingly on cobblestones beside trays of frosted tea.
MAKE UP on a ride on the St. Charles Avenue streetcar. Delicate glances from far ends of the car shunting through a delicate landscape full of lavender-and pistachio-colored houses, the dapplings of palm trees. Ease your way closer at every stop. Hold hands without looking at one another.
CELEBRATE THE RECONCILIATION with a drink at the Ponchartrain Hotel or, if you’re inclined to hipness, at Loa, the bar at International House, a cool new hotel. Then have a slab of red meat at Ruth’s Chris Steak House, the one that started it all.
TRULY RECONCILE at the Soniat House or Hotel Maison de Ville. If you’re illicitly involved, or just crave true luxe, these are the places. Tiny, plush, antiques-laden, romantic, and, above all, discreet. Very nice, very pricey, worth it.
RECOVER at Commander’s Palace in the Garden District with the jazz brunch and turtle soup with a shot of sherry in it. Wear your dark glasses, revel, relax, enjoy the guy setting fire to your bananas tableside. Have an eye-opener and start all over.
*SAN FRANCISCO
Romance isn’t about rules. In San Francisco, birthplace of the Summer of Love and same-sex commitment, lovers of all stripes and types can pursue their amorous inclinations. A city this tolerant will be what you want it to be. The peninsular enclave has many faces: the serene slopes of Pacific Heights, Nob Hill with its jangling cable cars, the expansive green of the Marina’s Crissy Field, the Mission’s bustling street markets and nightlife, the Castro’s rainbow window-dressing.
There’s no need to feel schizophrenic, either, if you fancy a bit of each. San Francisco specializes in flights of fantasy, thanks to the varied–and equally passionate–ways it celebrates human bonding. But much about this city, not least its European sensibility and the pulse-quickening views around every corner, will inspire traditional romantics. Spend a day wandering through the cafés, bars, mom-and-pop pastry shops, and focaccerias of North Beach, the city’s longtime Italian quarter. Its quaint alleyways and stairways leading nowhere in particular will put you in the mood for amore. You’re with each other; who cares where you’re headed? Go high, go low–in culture as well as altitude. The stomping ground of the famous Beats still has an avant-garde, isn’t-art-the-living-end air, nowhere more pronounced than at City Lights Bookstore (co-founded by Beat poet/painter Lawrence Ferlinghetti). A visit there should be followed by a latte at Caffe Trieste or, if a quick nip is more your stimulant, check out Vesuvio, the onetime watering hole of Jack Kerouac. After you’ve got your literary cred, you can explore the less intellectual side of the ‘hood by popping in to the Lusty Lady, a
worker-owned cooperative of exotic dancers. In San Francisco, even the strip joints can make you feel good about yourself.
San Franciscans love their food, showcasing it with an almost French sensuality. If you start the day at the newly restored Ferry building along the Embarcadero, where the Farmers’ Market (Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday) brings together fresh and organic growers from all over the Bay Area, you can fill a picnic basket with your own food orgy. (On days the market doesn’t operate, troll the stores inside, like Cowgirl Creamery, an artisan cheese shop; the Golden Gate Meat Company; and Far West Fungi.)
Do we have to mention the Golden Gate Bridge? Yes, we do, and you locals could pay a bit more attention to this icon of romance, too. Grab a cup of Peet’s coffee and walk the span for a sensation that the iciest San Francisco fog can’t ruin. Glimpses of the Marin headlands on one side, the hilly latticework of San Francisco on the other, and the blue-gray expanse of bay and ocean in between can’t help but make you love the one you’re with. It takes only a bit more daring and athleticism to bike across, or you can save your energy for the Marin side and a hike on Mount Tamalpais, where the sounds of the city give way to the silence of the redwoods. On a hot day, on windswept Stinson Beach, float in the Pacific, gazing up at the mountains.
If natural beauty isn’t enough of an aphrodisiac–well, you’ll always have chocolate. The Joseph Schmidt Confections shop on 16th Street at Sanchez is packed with exotic treats, including egg-shaped truffles in flavors from champagne to Earl Grey tea. Whatever turns you on: that’s San Francisco’s way of love.
-Kristine Kern
MEET someone whose Fifi is simpatico with your Fido on the beach at Crissy Field. If you’re dogless, try the famous produce aisle at the Marina Safeway. Worst (or best) case scenario, you’ll go home with something fresh for dinner.
FIGHT at Land’s End. When you really need to get your feelings out in the open, this winding trail along the rugged northwest coast of the city provides plenty of room to clear the air.
HIDE & SULK amid a crowd captivated by the flirting “ladies” who serve up cocktails and hourly lip-synch shows at AsiaSF, a restaurant and nightclub South of Market where the gender-illusionist waitstaff offers good, clean fun, San Fran-cisco-style. Ocean Beach, which runs along the Great Highway, is perfect for a solitary stroll. Bring a sweater, and stay out of the water–the riptides are nasty.
MAKE UP by taking your beloved and your spat out to a Giants game. For the price of a ticket, you”ll get palm trees, water and bridge views, and nine whole innings to nurse your relationship off the DL. (Resist the ballpark’s famous garlic fries.) If it was a really, really big fight, check into the Mandarin Oriental hotel, known for its sweeping view of city and bay. Where else could you watch the weather change or the city lights come on while sipping champagne in the bathtub?
HAVE DARING SEX in a dark corner at the EndUp. Close out the party with San Francisco’s most frenetic after-hours crowd at the club’s “T Dance,” Sundays from 6 a.m. to 8 p.m. Booming house music and the lustful antics of anything-goes patrons should provide ample cover for amorous pursuits. Or drive your baby up to Twin Peaks. Put the car in park, and let your libido take the wheel.
BRING UP TABOO TOPICS at Good Vibrations’ Antique Vibrator Museum, which is filled with clever machinery dating back to the 1800s and guaranteed to spur discussions of all things erotic. If viewing these devices designed to remedy “female disorders” should prompt more than purely academic interest, slip into the shop and buy a modern equivalent.
WHO ELSE: Mayor Gavin Newsom and Kimberly Guilfoyle Newsom; Sharon Stone and Phil Bronstein; honorary S.F. couples: Rosie O’Donnell and Kelli Carpenter, and everyone who got married on the steps of City Hall in 2004.
*SEATTLE
Is there anything more romantic than raindrops spattering against a window pane, a good bottle of wine, and two glasses? Or how about: “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes�” This is the stuff of romance novels, right? And, hey, Seattle is known as a literary town. Smart is sexy, we say, and so is Seattle–maybe not in that flashy, Girls-Gone-Wild way, but remember what happens when the prim librarian takes off her bulky sweater.
Don’t be fooled by the gloomy climate. Seattle will woo you with fresh oysters (nature’s aphrodisiac!), winery tours, and panoramic views of mountains meeting water. The Emerald City sparkles on a clear day, and any warm night is unbeatable in a town that truly appreciates good weather. “It is so nasty most of the year that people just want to stay in and nest, but as soon as the sun comes out, everybody wants to take off all their clothes,” says local bartender Sky Shepard. “The results of both types of weather are pretty much the same.”
Keep your pants on, Casanova. This is about romance. A little foreplay would be nice. (It is rumored that Casanova consumed more than 40 raw oysters a day. We’re just saying.) How about some music to get you in the mood? Seattle may have invented grunge, but thankfully the ’90s are over–there’s nothing unsexier than flannel. From June to August, the city sheds its winter plaid at dreamy Summer Nights at the Pier, where the likes of Chris Isaak and Carole King perform on an outdoor stage at sunset against a breathtaking backdrop of the Olympic Mountains and Elliott Bay. You can drink in the same delicious view from any number of restaurants–Elliott’s Oyster House, mmm–along the waterfront or in Pike Place Market. During cocktails on the terrace at the Pink Door, you might catch a lightning storm coming in over the mountains. If that feels too touristy, head to the Eastlake neighborhood, home to rows of houseboats along Lake Union, and Pete’s Super-market, which has an extensive collection of fine wines. Serafina, just a few blocks away, offers live jazz, decadent desserts, and a reputation as one of most romantic spots in Seattle. (No oysters, though.)
There are little hideaways in every city, but Seattle offers a chance for true, impulsive-as-you-wanna-be escape: hop a ferry at Pier 50 or 52 almost any hour, day or night, to any number of nearby islands. Steal away for a leisurely brunch on beautiful Bainbridge Island, or spend a long weekend whale-watching and beach-combing on the San Juan Islands. Bainbridge, San Juan, Whidbey, and Orcas islands are full of intimate bed-and-breakfasts (or boat-and-breakfasts, if you prefer), charming villages, and natural wonders to hike, camp, and explore. Bill Gates may have helped put Seattle
on the map, but there’s a reason Microsoft isn’t headquartered outside Boston. This is a city that doesn’t need to take its glasses off in order to steam up yours.
-Pamela Sitt
MEET in the Green Lake neighborhood, because you can’t not meet someone while walking around Green Lake, and there are dogs (dating gold), and toned, sweaty bodies. Or at Starbucks, because there are so damn many of them, and it’s sooo Seattle to meet over coffee.
FIGHT at Pike Place Market: You won’t see any of the tourists again, so it’s okay to get a bit hysterical. Someone might even videotape it, who knows? Crazy tourists.
HIDE & SULK inside the main branch of the Seattle Public Library. You can lose yourself in the art and literature of this architectural masterpiece. Seriously, you need a map in there. It’s really big.
MAKE UP at the Herbfarm in Woodinville. Set in a fairy-tale cottage, the world-renowned restaurant offers splendid Northwest wines, seasonal theme dinners, walking garden tours, and a classical guitarist. Romance is heavy on the menu. [But do they serve oysters? –Ed.] It costs a small fortune, but hey, if the fight was worth having, so’s a five-hour, nine-course reconciliation.
HAVE DARING SEX with a panoramic view of the city in the Columbia Tower Club women’s bathroom on the 76th floor of the Bank of America Tower. It’s about as close to the Mile-High Club as you can get without being airborne.
WHO ELSE: Bill and Melinda Gates (news of their 1993 engagement was “the fastest email ever at Microsoft,” according to one employee); Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love; Nancy Wilson and Cameron Crowe (married on Capitol Hill in 1986, the former Heart rocker wore the pearls her mother wore at her wedding); Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, sleeplessly.
SCENE TO MATCH (From Crowe’s Say Anything, 1989.) John Cusack. A boom box. “In Your Eyes.” Excuse us while we swoon.
ONLY IN SEATTLE CAN YOU… make out at the top of what is probably the most phallic landmark ever–the Space Needle.
