The hog takes a spin through Central Park, Greg commenting, "At one point I looked back in the rearview mirror and I saw her back there and I thought, 'It doesn't get much better than this.'" This Love in the Time of Coors Lite sentiment segues them right into Central Park, where we discover Greg setting up a picnic on an eerily empty lawn while Greg tells her, "This is pretty much my favorite place in all of New York." See now, no. My favorite place in all of New York is a shitty Mexican restaurant in Brooklyn called "The Santa Fe Grill," because they have the cheapest chimichangas in Park Slope and they serve their frozen margaritas with tiny plastic animals in them. The only people in New York whose favorite place is Central Park are the people who have visited New York once or the people who literally call the park home. I'm pissed at Greg. I'm pissed that my spell-check doesn't know how to spell my favorite Mexican restaurant menu item. I'm pissed at everything. Shut up, The Bachelorette.

Greg and Trista are pretty damned far from the lake and the reservoir, so it's almost understandable that Trista has to wallow so shamelessly in the shallow end when she admits, "Because of his eyes and because of his looks, I would like to get on a more intimate level with him." Greg spreads the blanket and pours, much to Trista's amusement, hot chocolate into wineglasses. They toast to the day, which Greg calls "a perfect day in New York." I mutter a tiny prayer of thanks to Greg's motorcycle (which is parked where, exactly?) as I suddenly realize that its mere existence removes the possibility of any of the words "hansom," "carriage," or "ride" from this already Ephron-directed cliché "dream" date. But alas, it gets worse. Greg: "I saw the most amazing engagement I ever saw or heard of. I was in Rockefeller Center..." Dude, are you sure you live in New York? "It was Christmastime. Everyone's there. Hundreds and thousands of people." I'm pretty sure I wasn't there. But I'd sure love to meet the rosy-cheeked, Capra-esque extra hired to play me. I mean, I adore New York, but you can't sugarcoat it and expect the façade to hold up for a minute. It's no wonder she hated your apartment, think as she did that you lived in a twee hut at the toe of Lady Liberty under a thatch of yum-yum trees. But anyway: "All of the sudden [sic], this guy pulls the girl to the center [of WHAT?], and something flashed on the board [MEH?], and he gets down on his knee and pulls out a ring right there, and she hugs him and cries." And? AND? "And everyone was clapping." If this story doesn't end, "And that was the time that I had the dream when I was seven that God had been replaced and the universe would now be run by the librettist of On the Town," I'm gonna have a problem. Because seriously, that never happened. And even if it did, what was he doing there? He finishes the tale by tying it thematically to the experience they are now sharing: "Even if she said no, he'd have twenty-five girls waiting for him when he got off the rink." Awww. Sorry it didn't work out with that girl, Greg.