Me: I want to marry this city.
Bryan: I want to make out with it and tell it I’ll call it later.
1. Sample unpasteurized cheese at the Wegewijs Cheese Shoppe (Rozengracht 32).
2. Visit the Looier antiques market.
3. See what it’s like to smoke pot legally at The Greenhouse.
4. Try raw herring in season.
5. Choose flowers for the apartment at the floating Bloemenmarkt.
6. Buy some Dutch chocolate at Puccini Bomboni.
7. See van Gogh’s self portrait in real life.
8. Take a boat ride on the canal with the baby.
I first met Alli in seventh grade, which was easily the most cringeworthy year of my life. In college, I happened to answer an ad her housemate placed. We ended up becoming roommates, then best buddies, then workmates. She comes from a family of artists, and is the only lawyer I know who is deeply into decoupage.
You know those people who you can ask anything? Like you say, “I need a twelve single men, an armadillo, and a Danish-modern credenza in this room within the next three hours,” and they can make it happen? Alli’s one of those.
Me: What’s their room number?
Bryan: I. Just. Told. You.
Me: Hey. You better watch it.
Bryan: You better check yourself before you wreck yourself.
Me: Foiled again by your rhetorical rapier.
Why is it that things hum along quietly for years, and then suddenly a dozen of your closest friends get married at once? Does everyone go out drinking and decide it’s high time they acquired flatware with matching service pieces?
The last two months have been a blur of inflatable penises (Penni? Penne?), polite small talk with cousins from Memphis, and champagne hangovers. Between all the celebrating and our regular-old lives, we haven’t had much time for things like “preparing balanced meals” and “maintaining our household in a manner the Health Department would find acceptable.”
In June, we flew to L.A. for a wedding, traveled to Amsterdam for business, and I flew to Las Vegas for a bachelorette. We returned home to an elopement a few hours up the coast, and just helped host a wedding shower last weekend. By the end of July we’ll have attended another wedding, had four different sets of house guests, and flown to Colorado for Bryan’s twenty-year high school reunion. Bryan recently pointed out that the only thing we’ve given up since Hank was born is sleep. Sleep and basic hygiene.
This may be unsustainable. I have trouble remembering whether I’ve eaten in the last few hours, and I’ve begun to drool when there’s a lull in conversation. After July, the next time I lose sleep over love, I’d better be getting laid.
Note from SxSW, 2005:
Say you go to bed drunk. What are the odds you’ll be woken by real, live jackhammers?