Sweetie and I just got back from a whirlwind trip to Oklahoma. Truth be told I think we spent more time in airports or crammed sardine-style in airplanes than in Oklahoma. Father/Brother Georges got married and it was my job as representative of my family (after my father passed away) to give my blessing on the woman he chose to marry. Now I don't know what he would have done if I'd gotten into town, given Maha the once over and said something along the lines of, "no I don't think so." It was kind of a no brainer that I would bless their union. How could I not. F/B Georges has waited for his true love long enough. It's time he got married and starts to practice what he preaches.
Maha is a beautiful lady. She is quiet and demure. But that might just be around people she doesn't know so well. I think she's got some party girl in her! It's kind of hard to imagine that a Syrian priest would find his Jordanian bride in Tulsa, Oklahoma. I mean, seriously, what are the chances? At the pre-wedding dinner, Sweetie and I sat quietly, watched and listened. Most of the guests could switch mid-sentence between English and Arabic. There was Hookah smoking which I did not try, and Oozo drinking which I did. Think black jelly beans - ugh!
Weddings are sweet reminders of love and hope. If only every day could be filled with same. At the risk of sounding like an old married poothead, as much as I love glitter and glam and flowers and Ave Maria played on a violin, and cake followed by champagne toasts, there is much to be said for the couple who has stayed married to the same person for years upon years. The ones who can finish each others' sentences, who know the punchline to every joke, who remember to pack what the other forgets, who don't scream obscenities when one drives in front of a car he couldn't see, but says a quiet prayer instead. Love that has stood the test of time is kind of like wine aged to perfection. (I know that's cliche and my writing coach would have a fit, but it's late and I've just traveled half-way across country so I'm a little slow.)
As we jetted back home this evening I realized how much nicer it is to travel with someone other than yourself. I didn't have to worry about hogging the arm rest, or moving around too much in my seat, or climbing over someone to go potty. It was like be home only 30,000 feet in the air.
The other thing that became real clear to me on this trip is how much I like coming home. In fact I wonder if traveling has lost its allure. The problem with this realization is a) sounds dangerously close to something my father used to say and he was 90 years old when he said it, and b) many of my favorite people live on the opposite side of the country and the only way to visit them is by air.
It's time to crawl into my own bed, next to my tired Sweetie and say a prayer of gratitude that we made it home safely.
Wishing for you a magic carpet ride because that's got to be more fun that American Airlines (or Delta, or Southwest),