Because my best friend and I go to different schools, and because our work schedules conflict when we are at home, this trip is one of our first opportunities in a long while to spend lengthy, uninterrupted time together. Our conversations are everything great and small, from deep, soul-searching Q&A helping us to understand each other more fully, to that sappy romantic banter that people get into when they are in love. It's all wonderful.

On our first full day there, we talk about the future. Careers. Engagement. Marriage. It isn't a new topic for us by any means, so she chides me about when I'm going to ask her. "You're a feminist," I tell her. "You should ask me." I've told her that joke before.

We talk about when, where, and how. "Someplace warm," she suggests, then asks me if I have any ideas. "The John Hancock Center sounds good to me," I tell her, because we plan on ending our day there tonight. She punches me playfully in the arm. "You better not," she warns, but I don't ask why. We take a lot of wrong turns. Either we find the public transportation system extremely confusing, or the public transportation system finds us extremely confused. We repeatedly get on the right train going the wrong direction.

Throughout the day, my left shoe keeps coming untied and I have to bend down in the slush to retie it. The lace gets wetter as the day progresses, and my fingers get colder in spite of my gloves.

My best friend has an extreme aversion to cold weather, and I can tell that this could become a miserable day. I tell her I'll make it up to her by the end of the day. I say I'll think of some romantic line to say when we're at the top of the John Hancock Center which will be as heart-melting as anything she's ever seen in a movie.

At Navy Pier, a touristy place not surprisingly void of tourists (as this is, after all, a dumb time for people to visit Chicago), we eat lunch, and get our faces digitally inserted into a photograph of Superman and Lois Lane. She, of course, is Superman.

I buy a cheap, but cute wooden box. She tells me at the price I'm paying it probably won't last. I agree and buy it anyway. I pretend it's a ring box and put a Life Saver in it to reenact the commercial where the child proposes to the other child. I know I'm a terrible tease, but at least she doesn't hit me this time.

We finish the day by walking up Michigan Avenue toward the Hancock Center. It's even colder and we make plenty of stops in stores. At some point my mind is drifting and she asks me what I'm thinking about. I smile. "I'm trying to think of something else romantic to do when we're in the Hancock Center," I tell her, "since I'm not allowed to propose." I take great pride in carrying jokes far beyond their capacity to humor people. She laughs, but hits me again anyway.

We have a romantic dinner at a small Italian restaurant, where the food is delicious and, on a side note, reasonably priced for Chicago. It's dark when we reach the Hancock Center and colder than ever. We're both tired and it takes a few minutes inside before my eyes can focus. When they do, I see a sign that says the visibility tonight of the Chicago skyline is only six miles. One of the men at the counter discourages us from going up. "You're not going to see much," he warns, "not even worth the price of admission."

Right then another man puts a phone down and changes the sign. "It just went up to 30 miles visibility." That isn't incredible by John Hancock standards, but it's all you need to see the city at night.

There's no line and we have the long elevator ride to ourselves. It is dimly lit on the 94th floor, and the view is mesmerizing. As we look out, I can see her reflection along with the Chicago skyline, which makes the view that much more beautiful. There are only a few other people on the floor, and none are in view when I reach into my coat pocket and take out the wooden box I purchased that afternoon.

"I can't think of anything more romantic, so here." I hand her the box. "It isn't much." Then I notice my shoe is untied, so I go down to tie it as she opens the box.

Inside is a felt bag, and she unfolds it tentatively. "It feels like a ring," she mumbles, and as she pulls the gift out, I touch her hand from where I am kneeling.

I ask her. Her mouth drops and eyes widen. "Are you serious?" she manages. I nod. She smiles, nods back.

"Yes."

Now that our trip is over, all I can think of is how much I'd like to take my betrothed to a nice, warm beach. The warm beach part, of course, is optional.

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