This story originally appeared on Twitter.
A few weeks before going to Santorini in early June, I told my girlfriend, Jenn, not to expect any “big questions” on the trip. That was, in part, because I didn’t want to be a walking cliché. Also, crucially, the ring I’d ordered wouldn’t be ready.
Around then, I was assigned to write a profile of Tom Hardy for the September issue of Esquire US. Amazing! But, him being a world-famous celebrity and all, he could only meet in London, two days after Jenn and I were to arrive in Greece. Shitty!
The day before we took off on our truncated trip, I got a call from jewellery designer Pamela Love: The ring was ready! I was too busy prepping for Hardy to think much about how this changed the proposal plan—I just hid the ring box in my bag.
En route to Greece, we missed our connecting flight in Paris. What was supposed to be a two-hour layover turned into an over-nighter, which meant I’d be in Santorini just one day before leaving for London.
Tired and deflated, we headed to a budget motel near the airport. Our vacation was already interrupted by Hardy. Fine. But now I was convinced the universe was plotting against us. Don’t believe me? Our room had a bunkbed.
Then we realised: We had thirteen hours in motherfucking Paris! We took a taxi to the city. Our first stop was Clown Bar in Le Marais, where we nabbed the last reservation of the night, at 10 pm. That left us with five hours to kill.
For that afternoon, we were like characters in a Linklater flick: We wandered semi-aimlessly down cobblestone streets; we stumbled upon a garden tucked between towering mansions; we sat on the banks of the Seine.
I made the decision as we crossed the Pont Marie at sunset: I was going to propose that night.
Thing is, the ring was in my bag next to the bunkbed in the budget motel. The question would need to wait. Just after I’d decided, I took this picture. Jenn had no idea the Big Question was coming, but I did.
At Clown Bar, we ordered the restaurant’s best-known dish: Veal brains. We both loved it (them?), but I could only handle a few bites. Jenn downed the rest.
Tired and brain-filled, we took a taxi back to our motel. We needed to be at the airport in three hours. Jenn showered while I pulled out the ring and paced back and forth and tried to figure out what the fuck I was going to say.
She came out and sat on the bunkbed. I fell to one knee and managed to bumble out a string of words that approximated a proposal. “Yes, yes, fuck yes!” she replied.
We somehow got two hours of sleep, woke up well before sunrise, and willed our bodies to the airport. On our way out the door, we snapped this pic:
We made it to Santorini. (Beautiful!) We agreed not share our news with friends and family until we returned home—the engagement was ours and ours alone, at least for a few days. The next day, I left for London.
My time with Hardy was its own wild story. As Hardy and I were parting ways, I told him I got engaged just days before. Then, I’m not too proud to admit, I asked Hardy to record a congratulatory message for her. I said I wouldn’t post the video, so all I can offer are screenshots:
I returned to Santorini. For the rest of our time in Greece, we kept our news to ourselves. Jenn loved the video Hardy made her. You know what she and I love even more? Being engaged.
And that’s how, for one week in early June, only three people on the planet knew about our engagement: Me, my beautiful wife-to-be, and Tom Hardy.
