At 32 and single, Lindsay had all but succumbed to the notion that her destiny was to be the Liz Lemon of Seattle; she had swiped her way through most of the city with little luck. And then one day she crossed John’s profile. Cute, smart (Villanova and Harvard!), tall (6’5”!) and seemingly outdoorsy. She swiped right. He responded almost immediately. With a compliment. (Being kind and straightforward? What kind of game was he playing?) Against her better judgement, she agreed to a date. John picked a bar he had never been to and they agreed to meet at 7. That would give her time to bail. Something nagged at Lindsay, however, to keep the date. So she showed up that evening early to the saddest bar she’d ever been to. There was one patron (a homeless man who would later get thrown out) slumped at the bar and a bartender with a limp lei around his neck. Above the practically inaudible music, he slid her a menu of frozen cocktails and pointed to a singular hanging decoration. “It’s tiki night” he said before turning his attention back to a silent tv on the wall. She frantically texted John casually suggesting they go somewhere else (literally anywhere else.) He was going to be humiliated the moment he walked in. That he picked such an awful bar. And then it would be awkward. And she wasn’t up for finding another bar and another parking spot. THIS was why take out in bed was always the answer. Her panic was broken by a text saying he had just parked and would come check it out at least. She was mounting her excuses to rain check when a tall blonde guy walked in the door. With a big smile he said hello, gave her a hug and then looked around. “Oh. Wow.” “Yeah…” Leave now? Die on the spot? “This place is insane...” and then that smile crept up. “We are fucking STAYING!” With that one statement he flipped the weird into wonderful. They sidled up next to the homeless man, ordered every tiki drink on the menu and laughed for hours. The rest is history.