Alan Ilagan

The hotel has changed their flower display in the lobby. On the morning of our wedding, big, beautiful double pink peonies burst forth in bloom, filling the air with their gorgeous fragrance. Grounded by green hydrangeas and backed by soaring pink cherry blossoms, it is the perfect backdrop to a sunny spring day.

Back up in the room, I have changed into my wedding outfit and take one last look at the Garden to see if I can glimpse our families assembling.

As decreed many moons ago, I am wearing an old pair of ripped jeans. They are the same pair of jeans I was wearing when I met Andy in the summer of 2000. Now, almost exactly ten years later, I somehow still fit into them.

I have on something old (a pair of lime-green moccasins circa 1995), something new (a striped Burberry shirt), something borrowed (a stone necklace from Denmark, courtesy of Suzie, that I have tied around a belt loop), and something blue (the jeans). Andy wears a lime-green shirt that matches mine, and a pair of new jeans.

Suzie has brought an unexpectedly-perfect bouquet of white peonies for me to carry, and they smell sweetly of summer. (Of all things, and of all people, I did not think of having flowers, but Suzie saves the day.)

It is time.

We make our way to the Boston Public Garden, where we meet up with our families.

Our friend and officiant Chris crafted the ceremony we had always envisioned – simple, sweet, meaningful, and with just a few touches of humor to keep our families smiling.

There were a few tears of happiness as well, and I finally understood what all the fuss was about. I always wondered if people really meant it when they said that their wedding day was the happiest of their lives. For me, it certainly was.

After the final vows and the first official kiss, I just had this overwhelming wish to hug Andy because I was so happy. It wasn’t planned, but that’s what love does.

{To be continued…}

Andy and I in front of our home, just prior to departing for Boston.

This was our suite at the Taj Hotel. Originally, the Taj was the Ritz Carlton, and it looks over the Boston Public Garden, the site of our ceremony. We selected it because our wedding was somewhat inspired by E. B. White’s The Trumpet of the Swan.

It was the perfect place – understated elegance, classical style, and impeccable service. There was a handwritten-note wishing us well during our special stay, and a tray of fruit and cheeses arrived along with a bottle of red wine.

This is the bedroom, with its king-size bed and windows looking out onto Newbury Street (actually, right across our floor was the Men’s floor of Burberry, but for once I had other things on my mind.) Each night there was a turn-down service, including a couple of chocolates. (I think Andy’s going to have to provide this when we return home.)

One of the things I notice most about a hotel is its use of flowers. A minor thing, I know, but one that has a major impact on me. Out of all the hotels we searched, the Taj always had an outstanding floral display in the lobby.

Peonies, hydrangeas and roses – two of my favorites and one of Andy’s.

Single peonies don’t always get all the glory their double cousins do, but they have more interesting colors, like this coral beauty, which glows perfectly beside an amber lamp.

More peonies were in store for us, but before that it was time to dress for The Rehearsal Dinner.

{T0 be continued…}

Andy and I returned from our wedding weekend yesterday, and the tale will be told over the next few days of posts. For now, here’s an early photo, taken shortly after the ceremony on the bridge in the middle of the Boston Public Garden. (In a fun postscript, our wedding announcement made it into the Styles section of the New York Times – check it out here, or pick up a copy today.)

Andy and I get married in seven days.

Last year at this time Andy and I were in Boston for the ‘Grey Gardens’ movie premiere. This weekend we are returning for one more round of wedding preparation – the final selection of a restaurant for dinner, the confirmation of hotels, and perhaps the choosing of Andy’s wedding ring.

The wedding is one month away! (Please note the exceptional use of an exclamation point. You won’t find many on these pages, so you know it’s serious.)

Being that I don’t bring a computer to Boston with me, I am without access to update this site, so I program a few entries (such as this one) prior to my departure. In an effort to organize my trip, I’m making this post about the plan for the weekend, so anyone can see the warped, anal, fastidious way my mind sometimes works.

Here’s the loose itinerary for the first day: pick up wedding license at City Hall. Next, head up to Beacon Hill and check out this amazing fabric store on Charles Street that I’ve only window-shopped (it’s always been closed on the weekends that I’ve visited, but they have the most beautiful fabrics in the window, along with the heftiest price tags attached to them. However, for a special event I might break the bank for a yard or two of such beauty). I may also poke my head into a few of the Beacon Hill restaurants as a possible wedding dinner location (though we’re leaning toward a North End Italian feast to end the festivities). Finally, I’ll attempt a quick tour of the fabric stores in Chinatown to find more reasonable threads for the wedding outfit.

As with all of my best-laid plans, this day is ripe for reconstruction, and I’m guessing it may go something more like this: pick up wedding license at City Hall. Next, head over to Downtown Crossing and buy a bunch of clothes and cologne that I don’t need. Then, stop at Filene’s Basement and buy some more stuff I don’t need, probably new ties and a pair of shoes. Finally, finish off the day at Urban Outfitters, buying only what’s on sale but still managing to fill two shopping bags of trendy jeans, colorful socks, and yet another tie I don’t need. Hop in the car and head home before I can do more financial damage to myself.

The most important part of the weekend is the wedding license – the rest doesn’t really matter. And that makes all the difference.

Andy and I spent a long weekend in Boston, MA, where we applied for our wedding license. En route to the paperwork, we passed by this auspicious sign:

Neither of us was quite sure what to expect as far as obtaining a wedding license went, particularly as we approached the monolithic cement structure of City Hall. I’ve passed it a zillion times but never entered.

We made our way to the Marriage counter, where we stood in line behind a friendly lesbian couple from New York City. (The state of New York ended up losing out on $100. in paperwork during the brief five minutes of our application process, which we were all too happy to give to a neighboring state that supports our right to marry.)

After the quick and painless procedure, we made our way to Quincy Market for lunch.

The snowdrops were just beginning to bloom, and we managed to avoid rain for the entire day and night.

To celebrate, we had dinner at the Top of the Hub. Neither of us had ever been to this Boston mainstay, but it was well worth the unintentional wait, and after sampling what they had to offer, we agreed that it would be  ideal location for our wedding rehearsal dinner. I started off with the Level 52 (a martini named for the restaurant’s location on the 52nd floor of the Prudential Building, and its use of Level vodka).

Shortly after we were seated, a couple sat down at the table next to us. The girl was nicely turned out in a simple black dress, and a silver peace-sign ring on one hand betraying her age. Her companion was in a rumpled dress shirt one size too big for him, and hair in need of a little more product. I looked at Andy and asked, “Are these two people…”

“Twelve?” he finished.

Okay, they weren’t twelve, but they were not a day over eighteen years old. However, they were very well behaved, and I found it reassuring when the girl unabashedly ate three pieces of bread slathered in butter – date be damned.

On the other side of our table was a couple from Austria, who began with champagne and then had their red wine decanted by candlelight. (Among the three tables, there were three distinct levels of sophistication – and we were right smack dib in the middle.) As we finished up our dinner (swordfish for me, seared tuna for Andy), the waiter asked if we were celebrating any special event and we explained that we had just registered for our wedding license. He congratulated us both and returned with our dessert menus.

In what may have been the sweetest and most hopeful moment of the evening, the young woman next to us looked our way and offered her congratulations.

“Well, we’ve been together for nine years, so it’s really just a formality,” I said. “But thank you.”

“Even so, that’s great,” her companion said. Andy and I thanked them again.

High above Boston, the future sounded bright and simple in the eyes of a couple of kids half my age, whose poise and grace and unquestioning acceptance moved me immensely, and whose silly jewelry and wrinkled shirt would be ironed out in the next few years.

On the way out, one of my favorite flowers – the gloriosa lily – stood in a tall vase before the elevators as Andy got our coats. A glorious ending to a perfect weekend.