After rehearsal, I took Marcia home to grab a few forgotten items for the hotel room. Lotion, contact stuff, face lotion. Walking into the house, Marcia paused to check the dampness of her potted plants’ soil, just like any day.
Magdi gave me a brief Arabic lesson about the letter that sounds like an “h” in the back of your throat—when it is to vibrate (AKA phlegm rattle) and when it is not to. This lesson was to help me in pronouncing the names of dozens of Egyptian relatives. Said pronunciations were practiced dozens of times throughout the weekend, alone and for approval/correction.
Jara was able to contain herself. No adoption of British accent while speaking to British-accented cousins. I have not stopped saying, “It’s just there,” since, however.
“Where are your parents?”
“I’m tired of watching you. I mean, watching you, I’m tired.”
-“Imagine me naked.” -“Uh. You can’t say that, little girl.”
The bridal party changed course mid-walk to after-rehearsal-dinner party. We sat together for a few moments in a hotel room instead. Magnets on the door. A message was posted: “I’m getting married tomorrow, bitches.” But not actually by the bride. She’s not that vulgar.
A beasty breakfast included one Plate of Awesome, a Purple Photo, the best French toast ever created (agreed upon by everyone at the table, all of whom were persuaded into sampling it), and much feeding of neighbors with your own fork.
On our way to the Durham for pre-wedding photos, Jon and his boys in Marcia’s mom’s Flex sped past my vanload of bridal party. But I know a shortcut. We won.
The only time I cried during the 45-minute ceremony was watching Marcia walk down the aisle. Radiant. Sure.
Before this week, Father Peter, at the Greek Orthodox church of the wedding, called a Coptic reverend to learn some Arabic phrases in order to properly greet Marcia’s Egyptian family. During the ceremony, the “Our Father” was prayed in three languages—Greek, English, and Arabic. That was one of the most beautiful parts of the wedding.
We attached actual cans to the back of the wedding car. And wrote “Just hitched,” as well as “Marcia” and “Jon” with corresponding arrows. Under Brit’s supervision, no penises were drawn.
It takes two to make a thing go right.
Lesson learned: weed whacker not best stored in car trunk on a wedding weekend.
In one of many Wedding-Day Miracles, Caldwell reached developed city and was able to Skype in a congratulations before the reception. Tears were restrained. Barely. Gratitude for sharing the day with a dear, dear friend many hundreds of miles away.
Exiled drinks found a home in the middle of the head table.
Inspirational speeches given, including this one. Physical impression nailed by Daphne; exact voice replicated by Caleb.
Disagreement on enjoyment of Turkish Delight’s nutty pleasantness and also a strange inside-of-Fig-Newton-like “candy”/gummy paste.
Carafe of iced tea disappeared in ten minutes. One person. Delicious.
Sparkler send-off ended in mild bickering over flameholder’s responsibility to keep watchful eye on sparks while dancing in parking lot.
Celebration breakfast consisted of chocolate croissants (though the chocolate was on the outside, not the inside, as one pastry snob pointed out) and mimosas; gift, luggage, and people deliveries; flirting from married men (like father like son); and, of course, E-85 gasoline.