If the truth be told, my daughter's wedding, which took place five months ago, would more accurately qualify, luring as it did one hundred friends and family members to the remote hamlet of Haverhill, New Hampshire, there to be enchanted by its pastoral, rural beauty and breath-taking mountain vistas, the place where her affianced had spent many a languid summer visiting his grandmother, one of its 5000 residents. The minor problem of how to get there in less than eight hours flying and driving was easily solved by the Schewel contingent of eight indulging in a rare extravagance and chartering a private jet.
In this case, however, the destination -- Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic -- was chosen not for its tropical charm -- a refreshing antidote to winter's early wrath -- nor its tourist appeal but because it was, in fact, the birthplace and home of my son Matthew's fiancee, Patricia Rodriguez, whose parents -- esteemed, genteel professionals -- would consider nothing less than the finest traditional celebration for their oldest daughter and the first to wed.
Like champagne from an uncorked bottle, they erupted impromptu, two weddings in one year, which, while not entirely unexpected -- both Sara 32 and Matthew 28 had been courting their respective significant others for some time -- still retained elements of surprise. After all, despite one's paternal intimacy, which may be more wishful thinking than reality, no one really knows when, if ever, these affairs will be consummated, at least in a legal sense, especially in a family where both parents and five aunts and uncles have bequeathed to their offspring an intimidating and dispiriting legacy of divorce.
Nevertheless, omnia vincit amor, and within three months of Sara's receiving a ring from her beau Nate -- at the finish line of the Philadelphia Marathon, no less, which they crossed in unison, signifying perhaps the arduous nature of the marriage compact -- Matthew boldly produced one of his own, on Valentine's Day. He may have been spurred to action by his Dominican girl friend's admonition that "engagement is the happiest day in a Latino's life" and her resourceful emergency flight to Washington, D. C., ostensibly to nurse his bruised ego and a broken wrist back to health after a nasty bicycle spill.
In defiance of the conventional wisdom that long-distance relationships are doomed to fail, this valiant couple confronted and conquered periods of prolonged separation. When the two met at a conference four years ago, both were teaching in bilingual elementary school programs, he in Durham, N. C., she in Greenville. After Matthew moved to Washington, D. C., to embark on his journalism career, four-hour drives each way became the norm as the two alternated weekend rendezvous. When the renewal of Patricia's visa fell prey to bureaucratic carelessness and she was exiled to the DR, reunions became fewer, farther apart, and more costly. Thank goodness for Skype.
And when the two decided to tie the proverbial knot -- confirming the adage that "absence makes the heart grow fonder," and not of someone else, as a cynical friend of mine was quick to observe (actually she was quoting her grandmother) -- they learned that navigating the murky waters of the State Department is a slow, treacherous, frustrating process, typified by its culmination, a five-hour wait for a ten-minute interview at the Embassy in Santo Domingo. The subsequent issuing of Patricia's fiancee visa was a Pyrrhic victory, however, since the U. S. Government's perverse logic forbade her return to the DR -- should she choose to leave to visit her betrothed -- even for her own wedding unless married in the States in a civil ceremony.
By a stroke of luck, the eleven Lynchburgers (including me, my mother, my friend JSG, my sister, my brother-in-law, their two children, and my brother and his three children) who board their Delta Regional Jet at 6:00 AM on December 28th, bound for Atlanta and the Dominican Republic, manage to avoid such inconveniences. Well, almost.
Upon checking in, I am subjected to another tiresome example of how an ubiquitous Big Brother is watching out for me (and three hundred million other Americans). The agent is required to verify my credit card, and when the numbers don't match -- since I lost my card two months ago and had to get a new one -- she has to cancel and reissue the three tickets purchased with the old one. Says my niece Esther: "Someone used Marc Schewel's credit card to buy a ticket for Marc Schewel. I wonder who it was."
Our return flight, reservations for which were made long before the axe fell, is scheduled for January 2nd, which, while not the last Delta flight into Lynchburg, is only one whisker-thin day shy of the distressing termination of the Atlanta Connection. It's as if an angry god has swooped down from the friendly skies and erased our fair city from the map. (And he even has the audacity to email me a customer satisfaction survey after I am safely home.)
By the time we are in the air at 6:30 AM, it's already been a long day. At 3:30 my stepdaughter Kali called the house (a second alarm, as if I needed one). She and her sister Adrienne had missed their flight from New York due to a blizzard, had driven all night to Lynchburg to pick up their passports and warm-weather clothes, and were halfway to Charlotte to embark from there to the DR -- minus Adrienne's formal dress which she had left at her mother's apartment. Would I go by and pick it up? "Sure," I said, with bleary-eyed exasperation, assuming I can find it in the middle of the night, having never set sight on my ex-wife's residence. Fortunately I was spared the adventure when, just as I was pulling out of the driveway, Kali called back with the gratifying news that Adrienne had another dress she could wear.
Ten minutes underway my mother implored me to go back to her house for her reading glasses. Then, at the airport, how could I, a dutiful son, deny her request to carry her cumbersome overcoat out to the parked car, only to find out, after clearing security, that I had to go back to search the pockets for her boarding passes -- which meant off and on with the shoes again, as if this suspicious character had inseminated them with explosives during his mysterious disappearance.
For an eighty-five-year-old woman my mother travels well; she just occasionally forgets things, like trading her seat next to mine for JSG's, the number of which I wrote clearly on her boarding pass. When she has to reverse course and walk back up the aisle against a swarm of incoming passengers, she looks like a goldfish caught in a tidal wave.
Otherwise our three-hour flight from Atlanta to Santo Domingo and immigration into the DR are uneventful. (Every one has to pay a $10 tourist fee.) Since one never knows when the local currency might be useful or necessary, I decide to convert $100 into Dominican pesos; at thirty-one per dollar, my wallet bulges with over three thousand, and I feel like a rich man. A vast disillusionment sets in, however, when I discover that most Dominicans have no faith in Mr. Bernanke's efforts to devalue the dollar and prefer it to the peso.
With eighteen family members and a dozen other out-of-towners now in unfamiliar territory, Matthew has procured (at a cost of course which Dad is underwriting) a forty-passenger bus, which meets us at the airport and conveys us to our four-star accommodations at the Melia Hotel and Casino, a sprawling complex set amidst similar establishments on a long thoroughfare fronting the harbor.
After four hours in the air, I conclude that our brief bus ride through the crowded streets of Santo Domingo, dodging and muscling past hordes of automobiles, trucks, and motor scooters, the imperturbable drivers of which, swept up in a frenzied game of chicken, are serenely oblivious not only to each other but to the infrequent signs and signals that flash by, is much more harrowing than any takeoff, turbulence, or touchdown -- that is until JSG and I venture out to cross the highway for a leisurely stroll along the waterfront. An impenetrable stampede of motor power thunders by, bunched like Nascar racers on restart, changing lanes with no margin for error, daring foolhardy pedestrians (like us) to risk disaster.
Sadly, the scene is depressing. Noise and exhaust pollute the atmosphere. The late afternoon sun shimmers on the blue-green water and scattered whitecaps, but the beach is narrow, rocky, and littered with paper trash and plastic containers. Ever the critic, I instruct JSG that the city would be better served by dispatching half of the superfluous police officers idly patrolling the premises to clean-up duty.
A few hours later, it's time to Meet the . . . Rodriguezes. Their spacious stucco villa -- about twenty minutes from our hotel -- protected by an iron gate, is tucked into an elite neighborhood that requires our dexterous driver to coax his unwieldy vehicle around tight corners, up steep inclines, and across deep gullies, eliciting groans of protest from the overworked transmission.
My son's imminent in-laws, Julio and Josefina, have graciously opened their home to the entire Schewel clan for a delightful Dominican repast on the eve of the wedding -- substituting their exceptional hospitality for the customary rehearsal dinner sponsored by the groom's parents.
Julio, or more respectfully, Don Julio, according to my older son David, is tall, courtly, and animated; attired in khaki slacks and a casual shirt that matches his Roman crown of white hair (I have chosen stripes and a blue blazer, the proper uniform of a Virginia Don), he and Josefina, equally regal in a full-length patterned dress, greet us at the door and direct us through the living room, where Josefina's elderly mother, confined to a wheelchair, smiles and whispers a few words of welcome.
Don Julio is a Renaissance man. Seventy-five years old, he is the chief medical officer at Santo Domingo's major hospital while continuing to practice and teach pediatrics. He is an amateur historian, having published works on the Trujillo regime, maintains a web site on the subject, and writes a weekly column in a local newspaper. He is an avid baseball fan and an accomplished bridge player. And, as I am about to discover, he knows how to throw a party.
The patio where we congregate is surrounded on three sides by a fifty-foot ivy-covered wall. In the center is a large orchid garden featuring two dozen varieties of the seductive flower; more protrude from the rising greenery. Josefina, says Patricia, is the resident horticulturist, the heritage of her rural origins. Not to be outdone by her husband, she trained as a pharmacist and a physician, but had her career swamped by five children before she could launch it.
In this exquisite setting -- which our host apologizes for, since at 19* C (61* F), it's the coldest night in two years, but not nearly as cold as the two weeks he spent in Wisconsin -- we meet his family of achievers -- dazzling women, handsome men, all friendly, effusive, and charming, fluent in English, current or future doctors, dentists, executives -- sip the Dominican cocktail of choice, rum and coke or whiskey (scotch) and water; and partake of a sumptuous buffet spread out in the dining room: lettuce, tomato, and avocado salad, a hearty stew (sancocho) stocked with chicken, beef, and pork, eggplant lasagna, sweet potatoes, and a fruit custard.
Apparently, the vivacious, black-haired beauty who has won my son's heart is a source of humor for her family. "What do you think of Patricia in the States?" asks one of her brothers, as if there are some things about her I should know. Turning to baseball, a favorite Dominican topic, he lauds the Nationals for signing Jason Werth to replace Adam Dunn, who "strikes out too much." He supplies me with ammunition for a toast when he tells me that Patricia doesn't know that much about baseball and was frantically texting him for information when I took Matthew and her to a game -- the first time I met her, a presumed baseball savant.
Poor Patricia. "She's the worst driver in the family," says Julio, when his turn comes, recalling an accident in North Carolina and one closer to home when she tendered this irrefutable defense: 'That pole wasn't supposed to be there."
The next day JSG and I discover the pleasures of a Dominican coffee as bold as espresso and Presidente beer served ice-cold, sandwiched around a visit to the Colonial City. After pawning off 350 pesos on a cab driver (he wanted dollars, ten of them), we spurn the imprecations of an official guide who thrusts his laminated badge in our faces to verify his credibility and offers us a forty-five minute tour for thirty dollars.
Maybe we shouldn't have been so cavalier -- and penurious. We spot the Cathedral of Santa Marie la Menos, the oldest in the New World, from where we are standing and amble through, but after that we find ourselves on a pedestrian mall lined with small restaurants, souvenir shops, and street vendors. Most enticing are primitive oils of native women and colorful produce, which can be had for $30 to $130, depending on one's negotiating skills, and tantalizing concoctions of "mamajuana," which, when mixed with rum, is guaranteed to cure the common cold, alleviate the pain of gout, and enhance sexual potency. We settle for frozen yogurt.
Matthew's wedding takes place that evening in another church, Regina Angelorum, not far from our afternoon excursion. A crash course in the catechism and a signed oath to raise his children Catholic have been sufficient to neutralize his Jewish roots. We're on Dominican time now, so even though the invitation reads "half past seven," the Wedding Party (in its own Wedding Bus) and the guests don't arrive until 8:00 PM.
I am a little apprehensive about my role in the ceremony since there's been no rehearsal and I won't understand a word that is spoken. Matthew informs me that, after escorting Josefina down the aisle -- in a new tuxedo no less, having finally consigned my thirty-year-old antique to the dustbin of memories, the frayed veteran of innumerable weddings, including at least one, possibly two, of my own -- I am to do what the Rodriguezes do.
Five chairs are arranged on either side of the altar -- the first time I have ever seen that -- and when Josefina takes a seat on the bride's side, I follow suit facing her beside Matthew's mother (my first ex-wife) and her husband. I'd prefer to be next to him since he's Catholic and could coach me at crucial moments.
Matthew -- all 6'2" of his gangling arms, legs, and torso lathered up in black (tux) and white (tie) -- and his older brother, his best man, race down the aisle like thoroughbreds let loose. And then, here comes the bride, escorted by Don Julio, at a more leisurely, practiced pace, and well she should, resplendent in a flowing white dress layered with lace, ruffles, pleats, and crinolines, trailing a six-foot train, which commands the constant attention of her bridesmaid sister. And then the priest -- solemn and smiling, serious and jovial, robust and humble -- begins.
It's in Spanish of course, and there are no interpreters or subtitles; other than a few "Jesu's" which penetrate my language barrier, the prayers, prescriptions, blessings, and sermons soar right over my head -- to heaven -- which they may just as well have done had they been in English. Afterward Matthew tells me that the priest carefully explains to his congregants why this service is different -- a lot different -- from what they are accustomed to: one of the participants is Jewish. As are his parents.
I am guilty of one faux pas and come perilously close to another. Midway through, mirroring the Rodriguezes, I rise to greet my companions on the altar; when I assume they're saying "Congratulations," Matthew corrects me to "Peace be with you." And when the Rodriguezes, padre y madre, step forward to take communion, following instructions, I fall in line, until my ex-wife's husband, the Catholic, waves me off like a hockey goalie protecting his net. Of course, I know better.
If I had tasted the wine and wafer, I could never have denied it, since every minute of action and dialogue is being recorded for posterity -- in triplicate. Like paparazzi stalking British royalty, two videographers and a photographer with a dedicated light-man circle the altar, capturing every nuance of expression of bride, groom, (and parent) from a multitude of angles. Their output may even surpass the six hundred images from the couple's prenuptial photo shoot, so sequential they can be scrolled through like an animated movie.
Twenty family members are summoned to the altar to sign a witness book (a relic of a bygone pre-digital era), including me, who somehow ends up shoulder to shoulder with the priest as he delivers the benediction. As the celebrants parade down the aisle, one mystery is solved; the source of the harmonious hymns we have enjoyed: a four-piece combo seated in the back row and a honey-tongued female vocalist.
By this time it's 9:30. We board the Wedding Bus for quick transport to the Museo de las Casas Reales. Inside the lobby, to the silvery tones of dueling violinists, the bride, groom, and parents form a receiving line, a gauntlet of "felicitaciones" and "gracias," through which all one hundred fifty guests must pass, shaking hands, hugging, and kissing (cheek-to-cheek).
Around 10:00 we adjourn to the lighted courtyard, find a seat at one of the fifteen tables, lift a spot of champagne, and absorb the scene: the tropical foliage, the festive decorations, the large imported dance floor, the fifteen-piece band nestled in the shadows, the bar and buffet peeking from behind a stone portico.
On display at each formal place setting are a chocolate coin wrapped in gold foil inscribed "Matthew and Patricia" and a gift-wrapped doll, each one unique, "a manifestation of Dominican expression," faceless, representing "the union of three races: Native, African, and European, reason thus the Dominicans have no defined phenotypic characteristic."
The band starts up, and, after the newlyweds' first dance, like metal rods drawn to a magnet, the entire entourage rushes to the stage and unleashes a powerful Caribbean rhythm. Bodies are packed in tighter than a Dominican traffic jam.
In the dense crowd I intuit that a basic rock-and-roll step and some vigorous hip-shaking will do as well as anything. My fledgling daughter-in-law pays me the ultimate compliment: "For a gringo, you sure know how to dance." Lights flicker, cameras flash, the pulse quickens, the flesh dampens. The Beat Goes On. It's after 11:00 but still not time to eat.
Taking a break, I strike up a conversation with an unfamiliar American -- his generous girth a telltale sign -- Dr. Robert G. He introduces himself as "the token Jew" ("Not tonight," says my brother), a longtime friend of Don Julio and the DR's Medical Examiner, a position he has held since 1983. Before that, he was the Forensic Pathologist to the Attorney-General of the United States.
"And what does such a person do?" I ask, my exposure to the profession limited to the exploits of Kay Scarpetta, Patricia Cornwell's literary creation. "Well," says Dr. G., "investigate incidents like the explosion of Pan Am 103, the Oklahoma City bombing, and the death of Saddam Hussein's son."
We were warned by Patricia that dinner wouldn't be served until 11:00; actually, it's not until 11:45, but well worth waiting for: strawberry, mushroom, and shrimp salads; tomatoes and mozzarella salad; cheese ravioli; mashed potato casserole; roasted pig; assorted pastries and petit fours for dessert; and a four-foot tall five-layer birthday cake (well, at least it looked like one).
The band starts up again -- but not for us. Six professional dancers, male and female, flaunting bright red and yellow costumes, burst to the stage to demonstrate some authentic and intricate Dominican footwork, much to the delight and appreciation of an enthusiastic, slightly inebriated audience.
Straw hats and glow sticks magically appear; it's Club Rave as the party goers reclaim the floor; bathed in alternating strobe lights, they jerk and twitch in robotic stop-action. A half-full drink glass becomes the center of attention as crazed dancers, including my mother, see how low they can go. In a tribute to the gringos, Rock Around the Clock, YMCA, and Tell Me More blast from the loudspeakers, and then Hava Nagila, the Jewish folk song; two chairs are hustled to the stage and Matthew and Patricia are hoisted to the starry heavens.
A Night to Remember -- and it's not even New Year's Eve -- which comes a scant forty-eight hours later.
By this time, with hardly any sleep -- when we left the party at 2:00 AM, it was still going on -- we have packed our bags and boarded our bus for transport to our second Dominican destination: the Ocean Blue Resort in Punta Cana, where, in a contemporary variation of the traditional practice, the Schewel family and a few of their friends will honeymoon with the bride and groom.
If I had any doubts that driving in the DR is risky business, they were unanimously resolved in the affirmative during this three-and-a-half hour ride (and back three days later). It's every man, vehicle, and horse for himself; fortunately, our six-wheeled beast presents an imposing -- though hardly invincible -- obstacle to its diminutive -- though still fearless -- road rivals. Our impatient driver shakes them off like pesky flies as he bullies past them on blind hills and corners, sometimes running three abreast on a two-lane road.
There are no speed limits in the DR, only speed bumps or speed gullies; they announce with a vengeance the approach, main street, and exit of every town in our path, strain our axles and transmission, but enable me to spot a neighborhood of meubles stores -- the only Spanish word I know, furniture.
Our escort tries to distract us with an on-board movie, the Jeff Bridges comedy-drama, The Fisher King; it's tolerable, but when he switches to an ear-splitting prison revolt abomination in Spanish with subtitles, I ask him to turn the volume down (twice) since only he and the driver can understand it. But just about the time I start to doze off the bus hits a speed bump or blasts its horn at an errant motor scooter.
Our all-inclusive resort boasts the usual amenities: all you can drink; unlimited buffets for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; two swimming pools the size of football fields; a broad beach stocked with canopied chaises; and mediocre entertainment. Our mini-vacation has its share of memorable -- and forgettable -- moments.
Upon my checking in, the concierge whisks me aside, peruses my officious-looking blue blazer, respectfully inquires, "Aren't you with the Embassy?" -- and tries to sell me an upgrade. (I'm already paying $160 per night per person.)
I probably should have acquiesced since it may have garnered me (and a few others) entrance to one of the five seated dining establishments -- Mexican, Caribbean, Italian, American casual, American beef -- which never had any reservations available, no matter what time of day one called. (I suspect all the food came from the same kitchen anyway.)
When I ask my daughter Sara if she and her husband would like to join JSG and me for the Dominican Las Vegas Revue, she references a similar show at the Riu Palace in Playa del Carmen, Mexico, and says, "I'd rather read a book," a good choice, since the recorded music sounds like it's coming from a cave and the choreography doesn't meet high school standards.
With the fitness center barely large enough to accommodate its lone treadmill and stationary bicycle, our exercise regimen is relegated to long walks on the beach; the sight of a few topless fifty-somethings hardly compensates for spraining my foot in the porous sand or soaking my athletic shoes in the incoming tide when I wear them to ease the pain.
Some practical joker pours vodka in a plastic water bottle and leaves it on a dining room table; who should take a swallow but JSG?
One morning at breakfast I am entranced by the dexterity of a grill man cracking eggs one-handed and allowing only the whites to dribble out.
In anticipation of an upcoming resolution, I splurge at the New Year's Eve dessert bar, a huge spread of tables filling the hotel lobby and covered with yule logs the size of tree trunks, white and dark chocolate truffles, mousses in chocolate shells, cookies, dried fruit, nougats, apple pastries, marshmallows, pralines, eclairs, gelatins, meringues, a gingerbread house, and chocolate-carved leaves, castles, turtles, and dogs.
After sampling too many, we join several hundred other revelers in the courtyard behind the lobby for our second extravaganza in three nights, ringing in 2011 with more dancing, more alcohol, a bilingual countdown, an explosion of fireworks, and -- Prince-like -- the release of a flock of doves. May Peace Be With You.
Two days later, it's back to reality. As we board our plane to Atlanta, the flight attendant takes one look at the weary Schewel family and says we are the grumpiest travelers she's ever seen (or at least since her last flight). And why shouldn't we be? We've endured another three-hour bus ride (which left forty minutes late -- unless you're on Dominican time), one-and-a-half hours in line to check-in, and four security screenings (including an x-ray and a hand search of our carry ons and a body frisk), and we're leaving 19*C weather for 19*F.
But there are rewards: no more chauffeurs, a home-cooked meal, workouts at the YMCA, and it's safe to drink the water. Happy New Year.
