He drove up in his little Fiat and leaned over the passenger seat so I could see him. I rose from the steps where I was sitting and descended to meet him.
I don’t know why, but I find something so romantic about having a car pull up and getting in to commence a date. Every motion is enjoyable to me—the movement and stopping of the car in front of the curb, opening the door, slipping in and setting down my purse, closing the door, and zooming off.
Maybe it comes from scenes from the 50s-set TV show “Happy Days.” I do not recall specific episodes, but I have a vague impression that Fonzie picked up his dates in his car. Or maybe it comes from any number of movies I watched as a teen.
Maybe it’s because I’ve mostly dated in cities and so am accustomed to meeting at metro stops (which can have its own charm but is very different).
Maybe it’s because I like the feeling of trusting someone to take me wherever it is we will go.
Although he and I weren’t meant for each other, I have good memories of zipping around Paris as he worked the stick shift and I soaked in the city from the middle of the avenue.