If you're wondering why nothing happened on this week's episode, look no further than the six minutes and fifty-five seconds worth of "previously"s that my notoriously diva attitude once again precludes me from recapping. Oh, fine. Previously: Guys wore skullcaps and consumed alcoholic beverages we can both literally and colloquially describe as "fruity" because of how damn gay they are. Like, as in they come with a slice of pineapple. And a frilly umbrella. And some hot man-man porn.
Also, previously. Ian is a spy.
Meredith "The Turtleneck And The Hair" Phillips wanders dreamily through a riverside skyline. The color palette of her outfit is taken from the special "Pacific Northwest" edition of Crayola crayons, and the specific shade of Meredith's jacket is known to locals as "The Steely Portland Sky That Shapes The Tragically Dark Sensibility Of Those Who Spend Their Formative Years Shackled In By Its Unrelenting Cloud Prison." Children rendering this image on construction paper might be encouraged by the nearest optimistic adult to offset Meredith's camouflaging by coloring her pants in the far warmer "Seasonal Affective Disorder Heat Lamp," rather than the dire black she's actually wearing. Anyway, I've heard it's a beautiful city.
"I'm here in my hometown of Portland, where I'm bringing home two great guys," Meredith says by way of introduction, without explaining, in that case, what that means happened to Ian and Matthew, har har hardy hardy har. Thank you. I'm here all week. Try the veal. "It's really difficult," she continues, "that I have such strong feelings for Ian and Matthew." Oh, I know. The poor thing. Waking up every morning on those three-billion thread count sheets in a mansion and brushing your teeth with coconut milk and drying off after a hot shower by slipping on a robe made only of the finest baby flesh. But at least all of these amenities -- not to mention the attending television cameras -- give a clear indication of what her life will be like with the person she chooses. So. Y'know. There's that. "I'm torn between which path I want to go down," her inner monologue continues on, the voices in her head thankfully filling her head with cheap Frost-ian metaphor rather than a command to listen to The White Album and then smite all of her enemies. Good thing that hasn't happened. YET.
But for right now, we know just which path Meredith will walk down. She strolls on some kind of dock near a bridge, still on the water ("Portland! It's the Venice of Portland!" So say all the brochures, anyway), and meets Matthew. The two trade a big-ass, tenderizing hug, and they stroll hand-in-hand toward a two-story yacht-like thing called "Crystal Dolphin," sketched along the back with what must have been thousands of dollars in retainer fees for Portland's only "Edwardian Script IT" calligraphy expert.