Home is Where the Fun Is
Kurt Vonnegut used to say he could only think one thing when he went back to visit his home town as an adult. Every time he went back to Indianapolis the phrase “Where’s my bed? Where’s my bed?“ kept running through his mind was that thought.
I didn’t feel that way being off by myself for that wedding in St. Louis this past weekend. Not after I decided to befriend my surroundings instead of missing my man and wishing he were beside me.
Anyway the hotel was fun in that they provided popcorn all day long: I ate box after candy-striped box of the stuff, all shoveled by hand out of the hot little machine in the lobby.
And the room was fun in that it was right across the Forest Park Avenue from an apartment building. I began feeling like Richard Dreyfuss and Emilio Estevez in those two Stakeout movies from the 80s. I could see who was watching TV and who wasn’t at just about all times.
I also got to go to a beautiful wedding ceremony complete with communion in two species, the flat little disc of bread and then the wine that you could take by gulp or by tincture. I sat by myself in the church and so was free to leak like a faucet all through the especially touching parts. I took one intentional picture of the high vaulting ceiling of the place. Then I took an unintentional one of that same ceiling along with somebody’s nose in the upper right-hand corner.
I got to hug two newlyweds, hold a baby, drink a Pinot Grigio and a glass of sangria. I got to devour quantities of baby shrimp and a big slithery plate of fresh tomato and mozzarella slices.
I got to wear a pair of new shoes with heels so high the bride noticed them from her throne on the altar and mentioned them to my directly after the service They made me feel talker than Popeye’s girl Olive Oyl.
