When I was in college, a friend took me and another friend up in an elevator in the Ala Moana hotel. We walked into the lobby, grabbed an elevator, and got off at some floor kind of high up. We went through a door to get to the stairs, then walked down half a flight, where another door opened out, onto a balcony.
The balconies above and below were, I think, for hotel rooms. This one seemed only to serve the purpose of — heck, I have no idea what that was there for.
We hung out for a little while and got out of there, probably to get food somewhere open late.
A few months later, I was with a girl on a date, and we were in the area. So of course I took her up there. Maybe we brought some food and made a picnic of it, or maybe we just hung out and looked out at the lights. It was windy; I remember that. It wasn’t as romantic as it could have been, because dang, it was this little balcony with nowhere to sit or anything. All we could do was stand there, arms resting on the rail. It was cool because we weren’t supposed to be there, and it was cool because who does that? But the experience itself left something to be desired.
I may have scored romantic points just because it was unusual. And it was, unlike most of my creative dates, completely stolen from my friend who was dumb enough to bring two guy friends up there. This would be a better story if, while we were up there, standing really close to combat the chill, the door swung open and that friend appeared with a girl.
You know what else would make this a better story? If I could remember who I was with. I can’t for the life of me remember who my date was. You’d think a thing like that, which I have only done with one person, would make it easy to remember who the date was. I find this amazing, because I pretty much remember who I take out and what we do.
Somewhere out there is a woman who doesn’t even remember that she went out with me once, let alone that I took her up to a fire escape balcony in the Ala Moana Hotel.