Seeing as the Philadelphia Museum of Art is my go-to date, I know exactly where a first kiss ought to take place. There are several possibilities, actually: the second floor opposite the staircase where the windows overlook the Parkway, any one of the gazebos that flank the building, or even the staircase itself (and this, if you’re on your second glass of wine and wearing heels is probably your best option).
Well, Date #7 totally ruins my plans. When the band finishes its first set, he takes me by the hand and leads me down the steps to the prints and drawings gallery, which boasts a new exhibition called “Romancing the West.”
I know all about “Romancing the West” because the curator gave an entire PowerPoint on this very subject during the museum’s Press Preview last month. I decide to share some of the curator’s more salient points with Date #7 only to discover that I can’t actually remember anything (aside from “They had really good food at the Press Preview”) so we talk about Wounded Knee instead and anthropology and Native Americans and Oregon Trail the computer game (which Date #7, unfortunately, is too old to remember).
I take it upon myself to explain the intricacies of Oregon Trail—how you have to select people for your wagon party and outfit your Conestoga at the general store before you set off and that you should always buy an extra axel because they have tendency to break when you have to ford a river—but then I fall silent.
Date #7 is giving me a look—a look that says, “Charming though I find your description of growing up in the 1990s and the computer games that accompanied your childhood, I’d really like you to stop talking about wagon trains so I can kiss you.”
So I do. And he does.
And… well, I have revised my opinion on the best places to kiss in the art museum. The prints and drawings gallery is where it’s at. The American wing isn’t bad either. And the benches behind the museum that overlook the Schuylkill… and the block behind Lovash, the Indian restaurant on South Street where we go for dinner… and so on and so forth until it’s 1:00am and we’re on my parents’ roof deck trying to convince ourselves that it really is time to call it a night.