Ten Years Ago Today: The Morning of...

Not to many years ago, the summer in which Spain gleefully won the Euro cup, I shared a week with friends in the tiny village of Esparaza on the french side of the Pyrenees.  We toured the nearby castle city of Carcasonne, hiked the crumbling ruins of the Cathars, and had beer splattered on us in a local pub by exuberant Spaniards upon Torres scoring the cup winning goal.  (The french were indulgent as their own team had exited the competition at a shamefully early stage..  in fact, the french have been quite crap at soccer in recent years..) We toured Esparaza’s hat factory, kayaked down quite clean rivers and we ate decadently rich meals.  

One night after a particularly fulfilling meal, we gathered relaxed and full to bursting in the sitting room. Warm dark wood floors met with pale cream walls as moonlight streamed in through tall open shuttered windows. Wine and conversation went hand in hand and as always happens at these things..a guitar appeared.  Dan, with his overly long preppy cut and crumpled cotton button up shirt, plucked aimlessly a few moments before settling in on a strum pattern. As I watched over the top of my wineglass, I fell completely and irrevocably in love, not with Dan (though he was lovely) but rather with the song he played.  Dan had unknowingly begun my love affair with the beautiful simplicity of Dylan’s song “Boots of Spanish Leather.”  Later when I had left a lover and France behind for good, the song took on a new shape and stronger personality. I took it out at gigs fully knowing I couldn’t give it it’s proper due and I played it late on warm Chicago summer nights with open windows and abundant moonlight. Recently I learned that the woman within the song had left this world behind and in paying my respect, I play it again.  At the ever so wise ages of 17 and 20 years, Suze and Bob Dylan met and loved with all the innocence and messiness that 17 and 20 would imply. But life has a way of changing the shape of that which we expect.  I have always thought of this song as a testament to the moment of letting go with grace, of holding one’s head high as a perceived future becomes opaque and a new one must be imagined.  Bob Dylan went on alone to become all that we know him as and his Suze married and shared 40 + years of life and love with her dear husband.  Luckily though, we still have reminders of the small moments all those years ago, to give us a soundtrack to our own small moments.

Recently, I have traded in my boots of Spanish leather for “One night in Bangkok.”  As I had mentioned before, the lead up to our wedding was fraught with chaos and unfortunately, romance had been tossed aside in favor of to-do lists and frozen smiles. After the first feat of simply making it to Bangkok, the days proceeding and the wedding itself became a series of tasks to be performed..all with their own cultural perils.  Smile pleasantly, bow to So-and-So,  shake hands with So-and-so, touch So-and-so’s feet, suck in the stomach, eat what is put in front of you and at ALL COST.. Avoid questioning the events, their planning, their execution and your part in them.  I simply went where I was told and did as I was advised, living my life in five minute increments.  In the midst of the insanity, I had completely forgotten that all of these random events had the intended outcome of me actually becoming married.  It wasn’t until about nine hours after the fact, when my new husband said something particularly stupid, (I can’t remember what exactly as he is quite prolific in the senseless things he says..) when I looked at him with the crashing realization that no matter what foolish things he says or does..I absolutely cannot leave him! (For 7 lives!!)  In the chaotic messiness of the wedding preparation, I had missed my chance to run screaming for safety.

The morning of the wedding dawned softly with the coo of a pigeon on the window sill and enough humidity to promise a warm day to follow.  I had opted to sleep through dinner the night before, yet still woke without the desire to eat. Lying on my back in bed, I lingered over my last few quiet free moments. I raised my arms to inspect and admire the dried cracking henna and the dark stains beneath, only to clumsily drop bits of henna in my eye. (Of course..)  So accompanied by the instant rousing desire to flush my eyes with water..the day had hastily begun.  

After a thorough eye rinsing, I wandered out to the dining room table to join Mahapatra Uncle for tea and toast. (‘Auntie’ and ‘Uncle’ are terms used for anyone elder than oneself, which is quite convenient for eradicating the need to remember 500+ names. However, since Mahapatra Uncle was standing in as father..perhaps a stronger title is necessary.) As the household slept on, we chatted aimlessly while I tried unsuccessfully to scrape henna from my arms. (I suspect that the Mahapatra household will forever contain tiny bits of my henna throughout..)   Having written the inscriptions for our wedding invites, Mahapatra Uncle is known among friends and in his community for having a gift with words.  He has a knack for giving the most simplistic moments of life a grandioso flair and for phrasing life’s incredibly complicated times in a way that seems as easy as taking a breath. Unfortunately, I can’t remember anything of which we talked about in those last quiet moments of the morning..I only remember feeling calm despite all that was to come.  

As dawn merged with true morning, the house began to wake. Sheena arrived with her minions at 6:30 am to begin the LONG and arduous process of transforming me into a beautiful, meek, indian bride.  My hair dresser was a pretty woman possibly in her mid 50s whose idea of a hairstyle involved 80s hair band style teasing, gallons of hairspray, the potential use of cement and approximately six thousand bobby pins.(I have never had my hair professionally done..so I have these same notions of all hairstylists.)  Though I had moments of skepticism and mild fears of resembling Zsa Zsa Gabore, the final outcome was a lovely upswept collection of curls. I suspect though, that in that moment had I been shot in the head, the bullet would have merely bounced off of my ironclad curls and I would not have felt a thing. 

Throughout the hair teasing, Sheena had been hard at work slathering me with foundation, essentially erasing my face in order to draw it back on with nicer features.  In the back of my mind, I could hear the voice of an indian friend referencing her own  wedding day makeup...”I looked like a fat man,” she had said. One of Sheena’s beautiful young Pakistani sidekicks had taken my hand and was attempting to bring beauty to my nervously chewed cuticles when Sheena mentioned in hindi that they would like three glasses of water.  My grasp of Hindi is incredibly rudimentary thanks to my Hindi tutor who gave up once he realized I would cook for him even without a lesson. (He’s gained 20 lbs since we first met over a year ago..) As a result, I have the comprehension of a one year old child and thus was able to add to Sheena’s request for water, asking for a fourth glass.  Surprised, Sheena met my eye in the mirror and asked with obvious apprehension if I in fact could understand Hindi.  Suspecting from her worried expression that slightly unflattering things had been said around me, I mischievously nodded yes. She quickly went back to work with slightly more gentle sweeps of the blush brush. 

Two hours, two pounds of makeup, 5 pounds of hairspray, 10 pounds of silk and 15 pounds of gold later, I stood in the middle of the Mahapatra home, afraid to move in fear of wrinkling anything, while everyone else bustled around, finishing their own last minute preparations.  I headed down to the cars in an elevator with Isha, a deceptively young and unassuming looking PhD student of biotechnology, and Saloni, a high school girl who always seemed to be wearing clothes I wanted.  One of them handed me a last minute gift, a pretty gold, green and purple necklace that would perfectly match what I was to wear later that evening. (Perhaps it is my adoptive indian side coming forward, but I strongly suspect that Isha would be a perfect match for my weight gaining hindi tutor Aditya.. both incredibly smart and nice, yet equally unaware of their appeal.)

As our cool air conditioned cars drove the single mile to the hotel in which the wedding would take place, I peered out the tinted window at a Bangkok in full morning swing; countless cars and motorbikes, incredibly brave cyclists, an array of food vendors and herds of pedestrians. I imagine that even saree and heel clad, I could have walked the distance to the hotel in the same amount of time it took our car to navigate the brutal Bangkok rush hour.