Lorelai: Wait, close your eyes and breathe. I smell snow. Rory: Ah, it's that time of year. Lorelai: Can't you smell it? Rory: You know, it's like dogs and high-pitched noises. I think it's something only you can smell. (Rory sits down next to Lorelai and pulls a blanket over the both of them) Lorelai: I love snow. Rory: Really, I had no idea. Lorelai: Everything's magical when it snows, everything looks pretty. The clothes are great. Coats, scarves, gloves, hats. Rory: Thermal underwear, wool socks, ear flaps.
(Lorelai's message machine) Max: Lorelai, it's Max. Medina, Max Medina. And once again we miss each other. It's now 2:00 in the afternoon on Thursday, and I'm in my office grading a paper entitled: Emily Dickinson, Get a Life. Anyhow, as I sit here, losing my faith in mankind, I wonder if we're ever gonna actually go on that date we talked about many moons ago. I teach a night class in Stamford twice a week, and when I pass that Stars Hollow sign on the turnpike, I think: "Out there is a beautiful woman that I someday hope to spend time with." Anyhow, I'm just thinking about you. I don't know, maybe next week we can find some time. Bye, Lorelai...Gilmore. You knew that. Okay, bye.