Washington Wedding

Although it wasn't really in Washington.

A few weeks ago, I was indirectly invited to the wedding of my second cousin, BJ, who lives in the Maryland suburbs of Washington, DC. Now, I have to confess that I hadn't seen him for more than 10 (12?) years. In fact, I wasn't sure I had actually met him. I  remembered spending time with his brother, Paul, when I was about 12, but I had no memories of BJ.

I should note here that my mother's side of the family has a branch of Millers who reside in the Washington metropolitan area thanks to my grandfather's brother Don, my great uncle. Growing up in Delaware, we were, in a way, better acquainted with the DC  Millers than the LI Millers due to proximity: my mother's cousin Bill had a house in Dewey Beach, her uncle and aunt Don and Marie had an apartment in Ocean City, and their children--my mother's cousins-- had long visited the DE and MD shores both growing up and in their adult lives, bringing their children there on holiday. So as a result, I have good memories as a child of them visiting us, and us visiting them. I have especially fond memories of going to a house that belonged to my mother's cousin George's wife Cathie, which was situated on the cliffs of the eastern shores of the Chesapeake. There was the first (and only) time I rode a motorcycle (it was actually a dirtbike), and I remember hiking down the cliffs to the shore of the bay to swim during the day and hanging out with my second cousins at night in the old wooden house while our parents listened to classic rock and drank margaritas from salt-rimmed blue glasses. One memory that most saliently sticks in my mind was George riding up to the house on a rider mower, smiling cheerily, with a blacksnake he had found coiled around his fist, the serpent trying fervently to overpower the firm grip around its neck.

Despite these fond memories, I hadn't seen any member of the Miller family in at least ten years save for Billy, whose house in Dewey Beach I had stayed in in an un-doored, un-walled, and most certainly un-carpeted room off the garage with a former NFL football player-turned-bouncer named Reggie about six years ago (although thank god it had a ceiling fan; DE summers are blazing). I expected, at the very least, an awkward reunion with this branch of the family.

I suppose in a certain way I wasn't terribly looking forward to it because I knew I would have to report on the goings-on of my life in the past n years. Having to update family on such things is painfully uncomfortable in two ways. First, I have to summarize my experiences of the past n years or so to accommodate the parameters of a friendly conversation---something I have done over and over again since being home and have repeated ad nauseum every time I meet someone I haven't seen since last year, or two years ago, or three. Such conversations are always the same, and terribly tedious to have to repeat over and over again. That's to be expected though when you haven't seen family for quite some time, I suppose. However, what's most loathsome about these conversations is that whenever I am asked about what I have been doing, inevitably the next question is What are you doing next?  God how this question irritates me more than cold butter. Nevermind the fact that I've been away collectively for 3 years, traveled through x countries, learned two new languages, got y, and chalked up another degree---having a plan for what to do next is more important than the sum of one's experiences. Really, folks?
The second bit that is uncomfortable about catching up with people is that I have to summarize my experiences of the past n years, which always makes such experience feel trivialized and, therefore, marginal and insignificant: What the hell have I been doing? Was I wasting my time? ..... It's always good to see family, but when such encounters lead to timidly self-conscious and pessimistic self-evaluation, the prospect of catching up with family and friends becomes an unsavory one. Nonetheless, however,  I coasted down to DC with Paula and my mother as a backseat passenger.


We were slated to stay in a country club Don had been a longtime member of, which had a guesthouse attached to it. The guesthouse was more like a motel with its modest rooms, but the country club was spacious, cozy, and had a historically country-gentry feel to it. You know, like the kind of place the chaps would go to smoke cigars and have a brandy and talk politics after an exhausting day of hunting with the hounds. Upon arrival, we put our bags in the room and poked around the premises before heading over to Uncle Don and Aunt Marie's house around the corner.

The Overlook Hotel?

Don and Marie live in an old house off a tree lined street in Bethesda. I hadn't been there since I was about twelve, and even though my memories of the place were more than vague, upon entering I could see that nothing had changed since the last time I had been there. After greeting Marie, who was very happy to see me, I walked to the sun room where Don was parked in a chair watching golf on television. He didn't look much older than the last time I saw him. It was about ten years prior, and I remember having lunch with the two of them not long after he had had heart surgery. I remember he opened his shirt to show off his pacemaker, which you could see under his skin like a subcutaneous pack of cigarettes. He thought it to be quite novel.
He was less animated this time, and he didn't remember me. He looked puzzled when I said hello and shook his hand, so I had to reintroduce myself, but that didn't seem to ring any bells. He couldn't remember my mother either, but he did remember that she was the "pie lady", as every time we used to see them my mother would bake a pie for him. Nontheless, he seemed cheery, and he looked surprisingly well, considering the guy is 93.
That evening the whole family came over because George and Billy were steaming a bushel of crabs. I must confess that it was a bit awkward with everyone there at first, but it turned out not to be as bad as I had anticipated. Family is family after all, and the temporal rift that distances you from them is easily dissipated over good food, so before long we were all yukking it up and laughing over old stories and familial gossip. I had forgotten how much fun those Millers were!!

Just like old times.

The next day, Paula had recommended we have breakfast at a locally famous diner in downtown Bethesda, so we went early in the morning. It was your typical greasy spoon place, and it was packed with  people chatting loudly and children screaming. This was quite a shock to the system to someone who usually enjoys a quiet breakfast; such jarring noise so early in the morning made me uneasy and grumpy. The whole experience was exacerbated by our waitress, the horrible beast, whose savage manners could make a Neanderthal look princely ("Wan' coffee?" was how we were greeted). Not only did she dick up the order, but it seemed she was deaf in one ear and felt she had to yell at us over all the background noise. When we left, I was appalled that my mother left a tip---and not just any tip, a $10 tip. That's one thing I certainly did not miss about this country: tipping out of custom. Since being back, I've not been to a restaurant, deli, or any other service establishment where the service is more than mediocre. Yet, I still have to leave a tip. I understand that the tip constitutes a large part of the server's salary, but I don't think that tipping should be compulsory, especially when service is bland.

The wedding wasn't until 4.30, so we had most of the day free. My father has been working up in Gaithersburg during the week, so I dropped him a line the day before and although he had to work, we agreed to have lunch. I borrowed my cousin's car and drove up to see him, and we had curry for lunch around the corner. He seemed a bit stressed out from his job, but the impromptu visit with him was nice, seeing as how we don't see each other too often.

I got lost on the way back to the hotel after lunch. Well, not quite lost, but unable to find my exit, or orient my sense of direction. This doesn't happen to often because, if you know me, you know I have a near perfect sense of direction wherever I go. However, in my defense, if you've ever driven around the Washington metro area, you know how confusing the roads can be and how easy it is to lose your way. What's more, while trying to find my way back, I nearly ran out of gas and had to go out of my way to Silver Spring to refuel the car. I did manage to make it back after an hour of these shenanigans, but it was a poignant reminder of why I don't care for the Washington-Baltimore area.

Shit, did I just miss my exit again??

We took a taxi to the church for the wedding at four o' clock. It was a sizable affair: there seemed to be about 200 people in the church, and on the way in they gave each person a plastic container in the shape of a wedding cake filled with bubble soap to blow at the couple as they left the church (as opposed to rice). The ceremony itself was short and sweet, no more than 20 minutes, and the priest had a sense of humour.

Short and sweet.

After the ceremony, it was off to the reception, which was held at a different country club from where we were staying. This one, however, was much more posh---high-ceiling ballrooms with glittering crystal chandeliers and ornate plaster moulding, carpeted hallways, a portico with valet car service. The whole thing was a bit too narcissisticly ostentatious for me, and I felt a bit out of place as well as a sense of pity for the members of this particular club.

The LI representatives.

We had cocktails and then were herded into the dining room for the meal. It was a simple three course meal, but it was quite good actually (I can't remember having a better filet mignon). After dinner, the bar opened back up, the band turned the music up, and the reception plunged into the usual varying shades of shameless debauchery.

Apparently I'm "Mr. Kyle Murphy". If the next wedding screws up my name, it'll be a hat trick!!

The bride and her father.

The groom and his  mother.

The reception was also a salient reminder of the dressing and behavioural styles of American women. I....well, make from that what you will, but I will simply say that it is puzzling what is commonly accepted as stylish here nowadays. Equally puzzling is that binge drinking and the resulting behaviour has become socially acceptable.
While listening to the speeches and watching the customary dances, my mother pointed out something interesting to me: many of the young couple in attendance seemed to be passively arguing. In one couple, the man was talking in low tones to the woman, pleading, and the woman irritatingly deflected his reassuring gestures, sulking. In another, the situation was the opposite: the man wore an expression of feigned nonchalance in an attempt to hide his distant irritation, while the woman stood watching the speech, trying to hide the small tears forming at the corner of her eye. Looking around the room, there were many instances of such arguing. Why so many? Well, it's a wedding, and seeing your friends getting married brings out all of the relationship baggage, because it causes relationship self-reflection. I felt sorry for those poor couples, because it was obvious they all had issues they needed to work through.

The couple's first dance.

The speeches, particularly those given by members of the bride's family, were terribly narcissistic and hence, quite boring. It was obvious the father of the bride was an egomaniac, and that the sister of the bride had a lifelong envy of the attention showered on her older sister. Her speech was particularly long and rambling, filled with stupid little inside jokes and memories. The poor girl, she was so uncreative that she even confessed that she looked on the internet how to give a good wedding speech, and she still failed miserably. Come on, it's your sister's wedding!! No one cares about your inside jokes! Say something supportive and emotional!! That would have done it. But no, she rambled incoherently for ten minutes. This was exacerbated by the fact that the waiters were being stingy with the wine, concerning themselves with clearing plates and silverware instead.

The bride's sister, blabbering away.

They certainly weren't rushing to refill wine glasses, that's for sure.

BJ's brother, Paul, however, gave a terrific speech, probably the best best man's speech I've ever heard. It was short, heartfelt, and straight to the point: I've always looked up to you BJ, and I hope someday you'll be as proud of me and I am of you today. The best part? Complete improv.

Best Best Man's speech ever.

For the remainder of the reception, I stood outside on the balcony, chatting with random people and watching the bridesmaids debauch themselves on the dance floor through the window. The band was quite good, but they were much too loud for me to stay inside.
Around 11, it was time to go---the matrons were getting tired. I got one last drink at the bar, and, standing in line behind the bride, I was glad I was going home: she was pounding tall glasses of straight Gray Goose. It goes without saying that the next morning the stories about what happened after we left the reception were more than colourful.

Even the elderly got into it.

Where the party was at when we left.

The next day we went to Don and Marie's for brunch with all the family. Everyone brought something, so it was an interesting mix of dishes, but it was still delicious. We managed to squeeze in a few family photos before getting back on the road.

The Reunion Brunch.

The Miller Cousins.

Admittedly, I was uncomfortable about the upcoming family reunion before going down. However, I am glad that I went to see the family that I haven't kept up with nor seen for years. We had an excellent time thanks to them, and I hope in the future to see them more and keep in better touch with them.

Most importantly, though, we must remember that we all came together to celebrate a marriage. To this, extend my wish that the newlywed couple have a long and happy future together.

The Newlyweds.

Sunset

Enjoying the final sunsets of the summer, as seen from the dock.

Castaways

It's been a while since I have been to the beach. Sure, I have popped over a few times for a morning dip in the Atlantic with J, but I haven't been out there long enough to soak up the atmosphere for about a year or so. This past weekend, Margaret took the train down, because the weather was nice, and who knows how many more times this year we'll be able to swim? On Sunday, we grabbed a few brews and headed over to Sailor's Haven under mostly sunny (or was it partly cloudy?) skies.

I did miss American microbrews, and not only for the flavour.

We moored the boat offshore and walked in. Mom wanted to collect driftwood, so we went beachcombing. I found an old milk bottle, which I was pleased by, as it is increasingly rare to find old stuff over there nowadays. 

Purple sand.

Gnarly.

It was breezy, but by the time we were done with our walk I was hot and ready to go in the ocean. As usual, the beach was empty and the waves were gently rolling in, perfect for surfing or bodyboarding. 

Bollocks, it's crowded again.

Mom enjoying the weather.

A dockside sunset and homemade enchiladas rounded off a lovely family day out. How many more sunny beach weekends are left this year?

Fernverkehr nach Delaware

After being back in the States for a few weeks, unwinding and catching up with family on the Island, it was time to take a trip down to Delaware to visit my father. Last Thursday I was able to requisition a vehicle, and off I went.

In case you've never made the trip before, the journey from central Long Island to southern Delaware takes approximately 5 hours. This isn't a beast of a road trip, especially in this country. Indeed, in the past I enjoyed taking such road trips---good music, a cup of coffee, the breeze blowing in the window over my hair, a traveling mate....all of it is quintessentially American and very often a pleasure.
However, returning to American roads after a year-long hiatus, I felt these niceties of such long-distance roadtrips to be missing. Breeze, yes; music, yes; coffee, yes; sense of progress, yes---but it was still...lacking. I was unhappy with all the radio stations, the progress---I was antsy. Why could I sit at the computer writing for 9 hours but not in the driver's seat? Hadn't I missed the freedom endowed by being behind the wheel of an automobile?

Of course, driving is like bicycle riding---you don't forget (unless you have senility, dementia, or Alzheimer's), and nor did I. However, while my driving skill remained intact, it seems my sense of urgency had waned. Or had I forgotten how fast everyone drives in New York? Either way, I wasn't in any rush, but these people riding my ass and cutting in at 80 miles an hour was becoming irritating. 
Settling into the flow is one of the essentials of driving (and life) though, and by the time I got to central Jersey I was blasting down the turnpike swearing like the rest of them. Sometimes you have to compromise your own rhythm to go with the flow.

So this road trip down to Delaware reminded me of the things I love and hate about American roadways. For starters, the accessories people put on their cars are always entertaining. I got a chuckle out of the wind-spinning trailer-hitch propeller, the dangling testicles less so. Stickers are more entertaining: on my trip I saw "JerSea Girl!"; "If it's tourist season, why can't we shoot them?"; "My other car is a school bus"; and a Dodge with the tailgate moniker "Eats Fords, shits Chevys".

Reaching Dover, DE, however, quickly dissipated my gripes regarding tri-state drivers. Perhaps driving through NY and NJ had brought out the raging lunatic driver inside me, or perhaps I had just gotten used to the natural hochgeschwindigkeit of the New York/New England region. But once I got within the vicinity of "slower lower" Delaware, the roadway memories of years gone by reared their ugly heads.

I had forgotten that all Maryland (and some Virginian) drivers travel to the United Kingdom to receive their driver's licenses. In case you don't know, the good people of the UK drive on the left, which is where everyone from Maryland also drives in this country on the highway. Yes, drivers from that state seem to be completely unaware that in this country the left  lane is for passing, and slower traffic should remain to the right. As lad with five or six years' driving experience under my belt, I was irked by this sneaking suspicion. However, twelve years later, I can safely confirm the horrible truth that Marylanders, and Virginians, are either completely ignorant or entirely incapable of adhering to multiple-lane highway protocol of the United States. I thank you good folk from these states, because to date you have cost me $1895 in lost gas mileage because of your idiocy.

I had also forgotten that rearview mirrors don't exist in the cars of drivers of Mid-Atlantic states. No, I'm not trying to go anywhere---please stop in the middle of the road before you turn left, the left-hand turning lane is just an 80-year-old vestige. No need to use that 8 foot shoulder for your right turn either, that's reserved as a children's playground. Oh, and no need to use the blinker either, that's another vestige of the past---this being the 21st century, I know exactly what your next move is.

Okay, I'm finished. Sorry. Thus ends my driver rant.

Coasting along the coast into my old coastal home, a wave of relaxation descended upon me: Home again, home again, jiggity-jig. I always get relaxed when I pass over the Indian River Bridge, because it means I've made it.

This wave of homecoming nostalgia was enhanced by the new bridge that has been built over the inlet. Begun seven years ago, it was finally completed recently, and passing over it was both a metaphoric breeze and aesthetic pleasure, lending a proud satisfaction and giddiness to my arrival in Slower Lower. What progress! What innovation! Admittedly, it may look like a simple bridge to most, but as someone who lived there for 20 years, I was tickled by such progressive advancement.

Indian River Inlet Bridge.

Home sweet home.

I have to admit I cried when I saw my father. He didn't look older (he never does, something I hope to inherit), but the gray has begun to creep up from the temples (sorry, Dad---I have to admit it is sexy, though!!). He was excited to see me; he had planned a fishing trip for the next day, so we prepped the gear and canoe and tucked in early, after a few beers and tequilas, of course.

The next morning, we set out at 5.30 for Trap Pond. We made good time, and were able to put into the glass-like water at about 6.30. We paddled out, and the dark steamy surface was boiling with fish.

Setting out.

Unfortunately though, the fish weren't boiling in the direction of our lures. I actually hooked a huge largemouth on my second cast, but he got off just before I pulled him into the boat (Helke fishing code says you have to get it into the boat for it to count).
We paddled down the pond in the pristine virginal mist of a new day, and while the fish churned aplenty, we simply weren't able to catch more than a handful. We fished the cypress stumps, the lily pads, the open water, the shady reeds, the quiet inlet streams, but we got not more than a nibble in most places. In the end, I was outfished once again, as I have always been, by my father---5 to 2.

The Pro at work.

Outfished by the Man, once again. 

Of course when we fish it is always catch and release, but on days where we don't catch as much as we'd like, we buy fish from the store to eat for dinner. I had brought some clams down from the Island, and together with some tuna steaks and grilled vegetables a stellar dinner was created. My old friend Woody came over as well, and while we ate and caught up and joked and listened to Woody play guitar, the laughter flowed and the bottle of Patron disappeared.

The next day I slept late and milled around the house while Dad ran errands. I picked through my boxes for anything that might be needed, and hung out in the shed to relax.

Missed this shed!!

Hanging out makes one restless though, and in the afternoon I begged Dad to go down to have a swim at the beach. Recent hurricane remnants had made the ocean rough, and a swim in the frothy mix left me knackered, but it was nostalgically refreshing. That night, we went to Rehoboth for dinner, and enjoyed a delectable selection of microbrews on tap. 

Wider than usual, Bethany is.

The next day before I had to return we went to Southside to have a walk along the Inlet and have a look at the bridges' progress. It had rained something fierce the night before, so the weather was absolutely clear and beautiful. The views of the bridges were quite nice as well.

Southside.

26 years older and he still looks better than me.

New bridge in back, old in front.

The old (r) and the new (l).

 

After our lovely walk, I had to begin the long and boring drive home. I wasn't happy, because like reacclimating to the nuances of driving in America, I was just getting settled back into the "slower lower" rhythm (a term I always hated growing up there, and still do). 

Setting out from my father's driveway is always hard, because primally---having grown up there---it feels like leaving home, and thus I never want to leave. However, this time I was reassured by the fact I wouldn't be too far. Home is now only a five hour drive.

My old Delaware home.