Done

I’m entirely ready to be home.

Capped the evening by being stupid. Dropped all my credit cards in the taxi. I’m not particularly worried about their fate; it’s the failure to be better that bugs me.

For six nights, I’ve eaten poorly and failed to ride a bike. No wonder I feel so out of sorts.

And I miss Mimi and Jen. I’m nobody without them. They’re both the best thing about me.

A full day, anyway; that’s my excuse.

Up for a walk and breakfast at a bookstore, back to the room for a regroup, then another hike to the Lincoln Memorial, up and down the steps twice before lunch with dear old Poon—a happy one at that—at the Daily Grill, where no gardenburgers are served.

Another hot walk—this one with Sam and Alison—to the Swedish House for Andrew’s wedding. Everyone there is so smart and articulate that you so want to be better than you currently are that the stories you tell become believable enough to believe them yourself.

I cried throughout the ceremony, set up because all five of the couple’s parents were there while none of mine nor Jen’s are, (although all were at our wedding), but then because each person who spoke came from their heart and their history about bride and groom.

Andrew’s cousin read some passages their grandfather had written about his experiences as a West Virginian coal miner in the 1930s; Juliet’s brother read from correspondence between his sister and their grandmother.

The vows were perfect: Juliet’s witty and self-deprecating, Andrew’s heartfelt and honest, a perfect example, as best man Jonathan said in his subsequent toast, of lovers who can think with their hearts and feel with their heads.

I heard someone say that this was the talkiest wedding he’d ever been to; me, too, but I loved every word of it, although by the time I’d been at the after-party a while, I’d heard enough already.