Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

I didn’t plan it, but a while ago I hit on the perfect solution to the annual Valentine’s Day stress-test, i.e., devising something romantic to do on V-Day. To be honest, I hit upon this solution a long while ago—thirty-eight years ago, to be exact—but it stands up to the test.

Many people, caving in to V-Day expectations and pressure, will plan something big. A recent article looked at setting up a “big night” on the town, with dinner, theater tickets, after-show drinks, and transportation, and ranked ten major U.S. cities by cost. Spoiler alert (though it’ll be no surprise to those of us who have set up an evening like this): city-dwellers can expect to drop between $350 and $550 (USD) for such a night.

My solution is much more affordable, and it has the added advantage of not needing to be “topped” in subsequent years.

In short, it’s this: pick a point in the past when you and your Special One did something that was nice, loving, low-key, and just-for-you, and do that, every year.

What? Sounds lame, you say? Sounds terribly unromantic, like I’m just mailing it in? Do the same thing, every year? That’s crazy talk! 

No, really, it isn’t.

On Valentine’s Day in 1982, my Special One and I went on our first date. We had met just two weeks before, backstage at the ballet we were performing (yes, we met on opening night—you can ask me later how that transpired), and this was the first time I’d been able to cajole her out for a meal (not usually difficult, getting a ballerina to eat a meal, but at the time she was living with another guy and that . . . complicated things a wee tad). 

I opted for lunch at Don Pancho’s, a Mexican restaurant in downtown Mill Valley that was good and within my limited budget. I was nervous, as dating, even back then, was seriously outside my comfort zone, social interaction not being my forte. For her part, she was guarded, as my courtship strategy was already proving to be rather unconventional (in her presence, I told her boyfriend to be on guard, as I was determined to prove myself the better choice).

We had a very lovely time together. The food was up to Don Pancho’s reputation. My inamorata was full of laughter and repartee, and she attacked her food with a gusto that is reserved only for athletes and ballet dancers, i.e., people who generally expend more calories in a day than most of us do in a week.

I have no memory of anything I said—I may have come off like a total dunderhead or I may have tossed bon mots with aplomb—but I remember the room, the dark wood, the bright light from the window. I remember the smells of California’s early spring and Don Pancho’s ancient mole sauce. Most specifically, I remember her smile, her laugh, and the fact that at one point she ate a mouthful of her own hair when one long tress of strawberry blonde got tangled up in her enchilada. (I did mention that she ate with gusto, did I not?)

It was a very special day, a memorable day, and the following year, when we were talking of what to do for Valentine’s Day, I suggested we simply recreate that first date, and go out for a meal at a Mexican restaurant. 

Far from it being perceived as a lazy man’s way out of the Valentine’s Day quandary, we both viewed it as an affirmation, a way to memorialize the day when love began to bloom (for her; I was already completely twitterpated). Now, decades later, it is a tradition to which we both look forward, every year, no matter where we find ourselves.

This year, we’ll find ourselves back up at Fort Worden. The best Mexican restaurant in town is reportedly a food truck, so this year may be a variation on the theme we’ve set for the last thirty-eight years (especially as it’s supposed to be raining buckets all weekend).

But regardless where we go, the melody will still be there, that old and familiar tune playing along in the background, just as we remember it.

k