Boston Wedding

I took my first trip to Boston this past weekend, as Rebecca's escort to the wedding of her longtime friends George and Pat. She had often spoken of George and Pat, but I didn't know until I saw the invitation that they were both men. It actually made me excited and happy to be going, and I usually avoid weddings. It was a chance to spend a weekend seeing historic Boston and witnessing a little history-making ourselves.

Miscellaneous

In addition to sightseeing and the wedding, we did the following, mostly in order: went to a nice cocktail party given by the grooms-to-be; had a nice dinner with Rebecca's mother; rode with a crazy cabbie who didn't know where he was going but wanted to get there as fast as he could; stayed in a Quaker-run sort-of bed and breakfast; and attended a brunch that included the editor of the "Ideas" section of the Boston Globe (Jenny), a film critic who also works for the Globe (Wes), an English professor at Harvard (Leah), an art history professor at the University of Chicago (Rebecca), and my unemployed ass.

The Ceremony

The ceremony was at the Four Seasons Hotel, in the heart of curvy and confusing downtown Boston. It's a swanky joint, and the ceremony was held in a huge, beautiful room lavishly but tastefully decorated. The ceremony was officiated by a theologian friend of the grooms', and it consisted of friends and family either giving speeches, reciting poems and fragments of plays, or performing songs. It was very casual and fun. One man even led us in a singalong of "Let Your Love Flow," which wasn't quite as corny as it sounds. The best part, though, the most emotional and beautiful part, came when the justice of the peace said two little words that gave everybody chills and brought me the closest to tears I've ever been at a wedding:

"legally married."

I don't know the grooms; I'd just met them both the day before. But they've been together for seventeen years, and in my opinion, nobody deserved the right to be married more than they did. Now, thanks to a ray from heaven or some kind of cosmic karma, in the state of Massachusetts, they were able to. I felt like I was witnessing something historic; maybe I was, because who knows how long this will last. I hope it spreads; I hope all people hopelessly in love with each other, no matter what their sexual inclination, get to experience that someday. It was the greatest wedding I've ever attended.

The Reception

The reception that followed the service, in the main ballroom of the Four Seasons, was equally great. Tuxedoed waiters diligently made sure our glasses remained full, and unobtrusively brought out some damn fine salad, chicken or salmon, and chocolatey-heaven dessert. There were speeches, some funny, some moving, most of them both. One woman began by saying "This is my first time addressing the Democratic National Convention," and Pat ended his speech by saying "We've decided to take each others' names: I'll be George and he'll be Pat."

Also at the reception was dancing. Those of you who know me know that I don't dance. I believe that only one regular reader of this blog has ever seen me dance: Shane was present the last time, at my mother's wedding in 1996. But this time it was different. The wedding was so memorable, the reception so marvelous, that, although we had been thinking of making an early exit, when Rebecca's mother came to ask us if we would dance, I had to say yes. I'd like to say I was the second coming of Kevin Bacon, that I put Jennifer Beals to shame—but that would be a big stinking lie. I did the white boy shuffle: shuffle the feet, wave the arms at about waist level or below, roll the shoulders, and bob the head. Don't try anything too fancy, because the top half and the bottom half of the body can't do radically different things or they'll separate and fly across the room.

Sightseeing in Boston

We spent Monday wandering around Boston, getting a sunburn and looking at history. It's a pretty amazing place. You can't spit without hitting a historical landmark, and they're pretty formidable landmarks. We saw the cemetery where Ben Franklin was buried, the one where John Hancock was buried, the one where the Mather clan (Cotton, Increase, etc.) was buried. We saw Paul Revere's house, and the "one if by land, two if by sea" church. I've lost track of the other wonders of American history we plodded past, on increasingly sore feet. Boston is proof of the old saying: if you stick around long enough, something's bound to happen.

The Trip Home

The trip home was uneventful, except for one of the most terrifying things I've ever experienced on a plane. We were exhausted from a busy weekend and a day of marching around Boston in the hot sun. We just wanted to relax on the plane, with the five extra inches of leg room you get if your girlfriend is a United Premier customer and buys your ticket for you. Rebecca was feeling a little sick, and I was engrossed by Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Love in the Time of Cholera, when this cute little kid sitting near us started saying something in a gleeful, sing-song voice as the plane started its takeoff:

We're going down! We're going down! We're going down!

Little kids creep me out, especially when they're making predictions. Filmmakers have known this for some time. The Shining. The Sixth Sense. Even The Ring. "We all float down here!" Etc. When this kid started yelling that we were going down, I knew we were finished. I wanted to smother it with a pillow, and I doubt I was the only person on the plane to feel that way. Thankfully, this kid's precognitive powers were on the fritz, because we made it back safely.