wedding crashers

a few fridays ago, i found myself in boston, the city of brotherly love the windy city home of the boston tea party [some lame baseball joke] as featured in the feature-length family film good will hunting. i was in town for a wedding [which i'll discuss tomorrow if you're lucky], but friday was all about hanging out with nick and polly—two mates from london who [very conveniently] happened to be in town at the same time. this would be the first connection to my distant, distant london past life… from six weeks ago.

met the kids at the very funky charlesmark hotel, which, turns out, is home to some of the campest bellmen i’ve ever seen. after a quickie, the three of us sat down to a nice long italian dinner, out-of-doors in the humid boston summer dusk.

sweating over our gigantic american portions, we [perhaps too loudly] dissected all of the craziness that i’ve been up to, they’ve been up to, and how much london misses me. at least, that’s what i heard. sitting with these two very-english londoners, i felt very much like i was dining at a restaurant on kings road, and i impulsively started knocking back the white wine as if i were out with marky or atif or .gregiño. i even found myself making fun of the quote-unquote american waiter. shame on me.

we decided to go even more towards kitschy americana, by grabbing some silly cocktails and the ridiculously loungey kingpins bowling alley / nightclub / bar. nick is a darling, and i really adore his very sharp wit, his way of remembering awful details about me, and for being a sleazy, well-paid consultant with an expense account. we needed a few cocktails to not just pass the time, but for me to get psychologically prepared to head to a big pre-wedding dinner my other friends were having at the sheraton across the street. these other friends would be my long-lost san francisco friends, some of whom i hadn’t seen in four years.

years ago, i would cry at the thought of worlds colliding. parents meeting the friends. coworkers meeting the boyfriend. foreigners meeting the locals. one of the benefits of maintaining this blog, is that by putting the innermost workings of my life and my persona online, for friends/enemies/strangers to judge, to call my bluffs, to put me in my place, well, it keeps me real. it keeps me honest. sometimes it validates me, sometimes it crushes me.

for me, banging out these rambling entires helps me to establish my own identity, document my trials and tribulations… it allows my innermost voice to speak out, even if i don’t really know who’s listing. get a therapist, already! i hear you saying. bite me.

stood in the hallway outside the penthouse suite, with my imported guests and imported liquor clanking in plastic bags, music is booming inside, so i gave the door a good knock. there’s movement behind the peephole, followed by someone shouting, it’s bogs!

i’m suddenly surrounded by smiling faces, many more than i imagined, many of which i haven’t seen in 1, 2, even 4 years. always sprightly allison, bubbly angela, flirty marc, darling .jason, smack-talkin’ baratunde, long-lost kyle, burningman jason and even my jewish doctor husband greg, fresh outta harvard med school. schmuck.

particularly emotional for me was to see bride-to-be stacy, whom i’ve progressively missed more and more since departing san fran all those years ago. we’ve grown apart, sure, but actions speak louder than words. i flew across the country for her wedding, she jumped off the bed to give me a huge hug. sorted.

5 bars later, and it’s just nick and i—the london lads—on a mission. not exactly sure what our mission is… i think it’s to determine whether or not boston boys taste like baked beans. we use our english accents [aherm] to jump past several queues, and even to blag our way into a members only bar. but we’re not happy. my colleagues in london [already enjoying breakfast the next day] are texting afterhours club addresses and hours to us, and nick and i are foolishly jumping in taxi after taxi trying to find the party.

i realize it’s time to call it a night when i look into the front of the taxi, see a $26 fare on the meter, and nick asleep in the front seat [for no particular reason], dangerously close to snuggling up to the homicidal/felonious-looking driver.

the story continues tomorrow with 1) one of the stars of desperate housewives, 2) a naked boy in the lobby of my hotel, and 3) a wedding.