I Could Have Danced All Night

Exactly two weeks ago I was sitting in the Library Lounge at the Roslyn Claremont Hotel on Long Island (it's a very long island), killing time. It was only 12:30; my flight home wasn't for four hours, and all the other wedding guests, including Jack, including the bride and groom, had just left.

The groom's parents had hosted a lovely brunch that morning, and I'd had a bagel with lox and cream cheese (and capers!), but it was one of those days when there's no such thing as too much coffee, so I was waiting for the bellman to bring me some more. He arrived with a salver and my own silver pot.

Salvor: Servant of royalty or nobles whose duty was to sample the food and drink prepared for their masters, who feared assassination. The word derives from Latin salvus, meaning safe, the root word of salvation. Eventually spelled salver, the word came to mean the silver tray on which the tested victuals were placed. Later, the nobles switched from silver cups to crystal, because it was believed that fine crystal would break, and thereby protect its owner, were poison to be put into it. — Jeffrey Kacirk

The Roslyn Claremont is a beautiful hotel, but it's secluded, and not well equipped for anything other than weddings. For that, however, it is spectacular. As Sara's wedding guests checked out and piled into vans that would take them into the city for a day of shopping, a new fleet of cars was arriving in the parking lot, unloading people in fancy dress for the next wedding.

But let me tell you about Sara's.

It was a beautiful, emotional, romantic, but not so serious as to be tedious, ceremony, and a learning experience for me. The ceremony began at 7:00 last night. In Jewish tradition, I was told, if you get married on a Saturday it must be after sundown.

There was a program. Six pages printed in blue metallic ink on card stock, with a cover, tied with a ribbon. No expense was spared for this wedding.

Sara's father walked her down the aisle. He stopped right beside me, lifted her veil, kissed her, and sent her on her way. And that's when I feared for my mascara. I've known Sara's father for twenty years — he lives in Toronto, and calls me sometimes, just to see how I am. I remember when her mother died, when we were in university. Now both of us are motherless. I wonder if my father will live long enough to do that for me.

There was a lovely white chuppah.

In traditional Jewish thought, a marriage involved a ceremony that takes place under a canopy. In modern Jewish weddings, this canopy, called a chuppah, is the large prayer shawl (tallit) owned by the groom.

It was large enough for the bride and groom, the rabbi, and the wedding party to stand under. Though I doubt it was made from Steven's prayer shawl.

The Rabbi explained the ketubah.

In traditional Jewish thought, a marriage is certified by a wedding contract known as a ketubah. This legally binding document is agreed upon by both parties, and serves as a visible reminder to all that this bride belongs to this groom.

In other words, added the Rabbi (who I assumed is a standup comedienne on her off days), the bride was considered chattel. There were chuckles from the audience, and the look on Sara's face, a mixture of amusement, sarcasm, and bare tolerance, was priceless.

Then there was the baruch atah, the blessing. And finally, Steven stepped on, and crushed, the glass. The Rabbi said, this couple is now joined together until the pieces of the glass come back together.

And that's a Jewish wedding. It's only the second one I've ever attended. The first was Adam and Lisa's. I felt the same emotions then as I did today. There's just something about their ceremony that's very different from the typical Lutheran or other Protestant wedding in my world.

Jack put his finger on it: "They really mean it, don't they?"

* * *
The reception, too, was different from the ones I'm used to. Instead of a hastily consumed meal of rubber chicken, followed by interminable speeches, followed, finally, by dancing, this reception began with dancing, then there was food, then more dancing, then a speech, then more food, then more dancing... you get the idea. There was, quite literally, never a dull moment.

I danced with Jack. Boy, did I ever. Have I mentioned he's a really great dancer? We even did the Lindy Hop to Glenn Miller. For once in my life I had the handsomest boy at the party. No fewer than eight of Sara's friends and relatives told me so, privately. And Sara, my gimlet-eyed friend, told me she likes Jack.

Throughout the evening, as Jack was introduced to Sara's friends — we were sitting at a table with the Toronto crowd — he would mention that he lived in San Francisco. They would ask, How are you enjoying your trip? When did you get into the city? How long are you staying? One even asked me, How do you like living in San Francisco?

They seemed confused when either Jack, or I, would inform them that he had come only for the wedding, had arrived yesterday, and was returning tomorrow. He flew across the country. Through O'Hare. Twice.

For me.

Because I asked him to.

It won't be difficult for me to keep that promise.

For twenty four hours the Very Bad Things were held at bay. For the most part. And I felt like Cinderella again, for only the second time in my life. But there were eggshells to be considered. I was conscious of them with every step of my rhinestone-buckled shoes.

* * *
The day after the wedding my hair was still in its Phoebe bun, with little stick-outy bits, but no rhinestones or chopsticks. It was a bit flattened, from having slept on it, but since it cost me $100 U.S. I decided I would never wash my hair again. At the very least, I would go to the Rivoli with it. Sara's hairdresser, who was summoned from the city, did it for me.



She also does hair for Law & Order, and has done Chris Noth, the celebrity man of my dreams. I met him once. Well, not met so much as bumped into on the street — literally — in New York a few years ago. He has great hair, and he's really, really tall.

But he doesn't pick me up and swing me around like the real man of my dreams does.

I asked Janice to take a picture of me and Jack, just in case I didn't see him again for six years. I'm very pleased with how it turned out. I'm sorry I can't show you the look on his face, but I'm glad I have photographic evidence of it. That's something.



* * *
That morning, two weeks ago, I walked Jack to his car. Though Sara's wedding day had been glorious and sunny, today it was dismal and rainy. He loaded his bag into the trunk, clicked it shut, and turned to me.

"Do you believe that stuff the Rabbi said?" he asked.

"Most of it, yes. About the chattel, not so much," I replied. "Which part in particular are you referring to?"

"When she said, in order to understand life, we must go through it with another person."

"Do we have time for one cigarette?" I asked.

Jack pulled out his Zippo.

We walked back to the shelter of the hotel awning and watched the rain in silence for the duration of a smoke. Then we returned to his car.

"To answer your question," I told him, "I don't think we must. But I think it helps."
* * *
Sass could have danced all night, if the band hadn't stopped playing. The morning came too soon, and she turned back into a pumpkin. Will she ever dance with Jack again? Who knows, Gentle Reader. Right now Sass doesn't know if she'll ever even see Jack again.