A Rugged Elegance Inspiration Network Exclusive
Episode 1
Whether you believe that gays should be married or not, this is one wedding story out of 3,000 that have taken place over the past two weeks in San Francisco, which we find inspirational because it says something about a couple's desire to have their relationship formally recognized.
This is Monica and Jeannine's story, a couple who has been together for over twelve years.
Cold feet are cliché right before getting married, and our feet were cold; I mean, really, really cold. Rain slanting sideways had soaked our shoes as we wrapped huddled in blankets and plastic garbage bags, couple number 198 out of thousands waiting anxiously on the sidewalks outside San Francisco’s City Hall in the chill dark of night for a once-in-a-lifetime shot at getting married.
The news had come out on Thursday; San Francisco was declaring that equal protection under California law meant that gay couples were being treated illegally and unequally by not being allowed to marry. In a move that shocked even the gay community, the new mayor of San Francisco, Gavin Newsom, opened the doors of City Hall and offered bona fide marriage licenses for gay couples. I didn’t give it much thought initially, but when I saw the news together with Bush’s plan for a constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage, I started to take things personally. By Friday night, Jeannine and I decided that we wanted to get married, and that we were willing to do whatever it took to be a part of this historical moment.
Saturday brought a dilemma. We knew that two injunctions were in the works to stop the issuing of marriage licenses to couples that were not male and female, and that the window of opportunity for us could be closed by Tuesday when the courts opened after the President’s Day weekend. The news had shown long lines snaking around City Hall, and hundreds of people were being turned away at day’s end because the exhausted volunteers inside processing paperwork had to go home. And, each day that the local and national news showed this historical moment, people were jumping onto planes and racing to their cars to drive hundreds of miles for a chance at having their relationships legally recognized. We knew the lines were going to swell each day, and we didn’t want to miss our opportunity, but my family was gathered for my mother’s birthday party. My saying has always been “Family First” when making difficult decisions, but I now had two families’ needs to consider. In the end, my mother’s birthday party was one of the best ever, but through it all we were silently praying that this occasion would not cost us an opportunity of a lifetime.
Sunday morning Jeannine and I raced out of the house and caught the 8:00 a.m. BART into the City to stand in line in the hopes of getting a numbered ticket to let us come back on Monday. Already the lines had been so overwhelming from the day before that people who had waited 12 hours in line on Saturday were given tickets to come back to be given first shot on Sunday. Walking up towards City Hall, we were thrilled to see that the line only went from the front steps to around the corner, but our joy faded as we were informed this was the line with tickets, and the “hopeful” line started on the other side of the building. Looking up the street, we saw a mass of people sitting, standing, rocking baby strollers, walking dogs, all in gaggle of a line measuring two city blocks. Parking Jeannine on a low granite wall on the sidewalk, I scouted up and around the corner, passing smiling couples, listening to cell phone conversations as people called their families to tell them they may not get in, so don’t bother coming, and overhearing rumors of our odds of getting in. I returned to Jeannine with no solid news, but every so often the line would move, and we would shuffle our stuff forward not knowing what had happened ahead of us. After a few hours, a man with a bullhorn announced “You will not be getting married today! Go home and come back tomorrow morning. We will not be giving out tickets and we will process the first 400 people that are in line tomorrow.” Rumors from the front of the line led us to believe that there was a slim chance that the processing speed was increasing so more people could get through than was predicted, and we thought about staying. However, my dear friend, Alyce, who had come in to be our witness, drove by in her car, and we decided to ride back to Walnut Creek with her and her mother instead of taking a gloomy BART ride back home.
That night we agreed: we are going to do this, and we are going to be unreasonable about it. Comfort, convenience and complacency were now out of the question. We would prepare to do whatever it took to be among the first 400 couples in line. Watching the news that evening, we could see that people were already camping out on the sidewalk in sleeping bags and under tarps, but it didn’t look like 400. The rains were already descending, giving us hope that only the truly committed would be crazy enough to brave the night and coming storm. Packing blankets, chairs, umbrellas, gloves, scarves, and plastic bags into the trunk, we prepared for the worst. Laid out for our wedding day were hiking boots, jeans, leather jackets, thick socks, knit caps, turtlenecks, and a bag for dry socks, shoes, and coats, should we be lucky enough to get inside. Tossing in fitful attempts to sleep, we listened to the rain pounding outside. Finally, at 2:30 a.m. we got up and headed for San Francisco. Blinding torrents and howling winds buffeted the car as we drove across the Bay Bridge, and mercifully the roads were empty enough that we could stay away from other vehicles for fear of being blown into them. Once in the city, even with Jeannine’s knowledge of the streets, the whipping windshield wipers couldn’t keep the visibility clear enough to see the painted lanes, and we struggled to remain on what we hoped was the right side of the street. By providence, barely 30 minutes after leaving home, we were parked in one of the few remaining prime metered spaces outside the front door of City Hall, and by 4:00 a.m. we were setting up camp for the six-hour wait for the doors to open.
Snuggled under two umbrellas, Jeannine and I alternately dozed and listened to the world from beneath our little dome. People in line talked quietly, smoked and stamped to keep warm. An occasional outburst of laughter or excited greeting punctuated the air, echoing off the wet pavement. Through the street lights I could see the steady rain falling and swirling, and from under the umbrella I watched hundreds of feet passing by in an endless stream, splashing water hurrying to get a place in line, or strolling to check out the scene or relieve cramping muscles. Garbage trucks and buses roared by, the sheriff’s van circled slowly in a continuous loop around the block, and well-wishers honked and waved. Whiffs of diesel, cigarette smoke, cologne and coffee drifted by on the wind, and we nibbled on cheese sandwiches made hastily the day before. The steady thrumming of rain on the umbrella was familiar and lulling, and Jeannine and I rested our heads together and waited for morning.
Dawn had not yet broken, but as the clock pushed to 6 a.m., the line began to stir. Taking advantage of a brief break in the storm, I ran out to the car to bring a dry towel, and I surveyed the growing line as I passed. Snapping photos of the soaked sleeping bags, talking tents, and flood-lit news reporters followed by cameramen, I leaned in at the front of the line to listen as Mabel Teng, San Francisco’s Assessor, addressed the news crews. “We are all volunteering today,” she said steadily into the glare of camera lights, “to bring equality to gays and lesbians. The Constitution of California requires equal protection of all citizens, and we are proud to be setting a precedent this Valentine’s weekend. It was not too many years ago that inter-racial marriage bans were lifted, and we want equality for everyone.” She then marched past the rows of makeshift dwellings, resolute and determined, one woman embodying the hopes of thousands, if not millions, of gay people. I watched her, a lone figure in the night, striding down a dark driveway to an obscure side door of City Hall where a pool of light spilled out as a security officer let her in. I silently blessed her, knowing she had been up, sleepless with worry about us, and was arriving earlier than scheduled to put out the clarion call for volunteers to come at once so people could get inside and out of the rain. On the way back to our spot on the sidewalk, I heard the first chirpings of a songbird, and I was struck by the odd thought that this bird, probably as wet and bedraggled as we were, didn’t care if we were straight or gay, he was singing for us anyway.
Episode 2 ~ The Doors Open
As the darkness faded from black to leaden gray, our spirits started to lift. Conversations with the people around us went from brief apologies about colliding umbrellas to short introductions and a request for someone to take a picture of us. The water beading off our white garbage bags would have to substitute for the beaded wedding gown, and all we could do was laugh at how ludicrous we must have looked. However, talking and posing meant coming out from under the umbrella and exposure to the gusting wind and rain, and every movement required readjusting blankets, torrents of water accidentally tipped down the back of the chairs, and other nasty consequences. Hours passed, bringing a growing cavalcade of people, cars, buses and a streetsweeper, swishing by with a rhythmic hum. Lit faces from inside idling buses stared out at us, like animals at a zoo, and sometimes I couldn’t help but wave.
Then, without warning, like a giant concertina, the line squeezed forward. Hastily unfurling from our bags and blankets, we folded up our chairs and commenced the procession toward the corner. We listened for news, but none was forthcoming. Slowly inching along, we passed the abandoned detritus left behind by people who were now far up toward the all-important front door. Costco must have made a bundle, because I recognized their camping gear, tents, sleeping bags and folding chairs, many with price tags still attached and whipping in the wind. A Power Puff Girls blanket lay sodden on the sidewalk, egg-crate foam mattresses lay squishing with water, and blue tarps flapped noisily over empty chairs. Cases of water bottles, a can of Red Bull, bags of chips and hard bagels all littered the ground where people had hurriedly left them behind when the line had moved. A young man, running breathlessly back against the line, stopped at an elaborate encampment, extinguished a propane heater, and ran back toward his new position on the sidewalk. A homeless man, shopping cart bulging, was having a field day.
Now off of Van Ness and onto Grove, the full force of the wind came at us unimpeded, and we were unprotected and shaking with cold. Water seeped and squished out of my boots as we stood, suddenly stopped, wondering what was happening ahead. After a few minutes, we reassembled our formation of chairs and umbrellas against the rain, and sat, but not for long. The same man with the bullhorn from Sunday’s line announced the good news. “In five minutes we are going to let in the first 200 people to get you out of the rain. Inside we have volunteers who will be serving you coffee, orange juice, bagels and doughnuts.” He moved down the line, followed by intermittent cheers as each group heard the news. During my earlier walk to the car, I had counted the people in line, and even accounting for people waiting in their cars, I knew we were under 200. “This is it!” I exclaimed, and I took our chairs and blankets and ran for the car, stashing them in the trunk and grabbing the bags with our dry shoes.
An energy like I have never felt before began to race up and down the line. Without the isolation created by our makeshift shelters, we were suddenly just people, and the buzz of conversations soared. People who had been napping in their cars were running down the sidewalk, calling their partner’s names, scanning the hundreds of faces frantically. Chattering excitedly with the couple in front of us, we celebrated every step forward. Then the line slowed. We picked out a big black and white umbrella stationed near the statue of Abraham Lincoln, and used it as a marker to assess the progress of the line at the front. The energy of the crowd was still surging forward, but to our dismay, the line itself had stopped. Five minutes passed, then 10, 20, and still the black and white umbrella stayed. “Would you like a cup of hot coffee?” a white-haired woman asked, laden down with a large metal pump pot and stack of Styrofoam cups. “No, but thank you so much,” we countered, knowing full well the extent of the line for the porta-potties on the street corner. Slowly but surely, a steady stream of volunteers arrived with the afore-promised juice, bagels and boxes of Krispy Kreme, bringing both sustenance and the sinking feeling that we were not going to be going inside anytime soon. By now, though, we knew our time would come. We relaxed, soaked in the scene, and laughed in amazement when, in true San Francisco style, a volunteer pushing a cart offered us our choice of Starbucks, Peets, or Krispy Kreme’s coffee. Drenched but cheerful, their hands too full to hold umbrellas, the volunteers lapped the building with free food and drink, moving me with their generosity and kindness of spirit. My favorite volunteer offered us white garbage bags, saying “You can use them to cover your shoes, or they can make a great wedding veil.”
At last the black and white umbrella reached and then passed the Lincoln statue, and we began to calculate the speed of progress. We figured we had at least two more hours of standing in the rain before we got to the door. Diffused sun through the gray haze offered enough light by now to better see the faces of our new friends, Holly and Christine, who were the couple in front of us. Shifting from giggly chatter to deepening conversation, over the course of hours, we built the kind of friendship only available under shared adversity and permeated with the recognition that we also shared a true moment of history. Agreeing to be each other’s witnesses, we promised to stay together throughout whatever came next. A woman walked by, counting us off in pairs, and we heard her number us 179 as she passed. It was our first true realization that we were in, and we congratulated each other roundly.
Except for a man waving a Bible telling us to repent, and a woman shouting “conspiracy, felony,” and other nonsense at us as she walked rapidly by, we were not besieged or picketed. In fact, except for the possibility of a drive-by shooting, I had never felt so safe. This crowd of people, though there because they were committed to love and the hopes of marriage, would not be smart to tangle with. Even the police cars prowling the streets were there to protect us, an ironic sensation when so many of us have the experience of being harassed by and afraid of the authorities. By the time we reached Polk Street and the front corner of City Hall, we could see the clot of reporters and news vans with tentacles of cables stretched over the ground and skyscraper antennas rocking in the wind. Christine, a photojournalist herself, hid behind an umbrella as a news crew swooped down the line looking for people to tell their story. “I’m supposed to be at work, but I called in sick,” she hissed from behind her protective cover, “and I don’t want my boss to see me if I get on the news.”
As we got to the Lincoln statue, which was now festooned with a placard reading Freedom to Marry, the rain suddenly reduced to scattered drops. Figuring we had a few minutes to go, Jeannine and I raced to the car to change, going separately to not lose our coveted spot in line. Hurriedly removing wet socks and shoes with fumbling fingers numb from cold was a bit of a trick, and drying my feet with a towel was an act of futility. Grabbing my nice coat from the trunk, I tossed in my soggy jacket, cap, scarf, gloves, and umbrella, hoping it wouldn’t rain again before we made it in the door. Heading up the steps of City Hall, I surveyed the line behind me. It stretched around the corner and out of sight, and I hoped everybody there would make it in. A blond woman sitting by the huge doors handed us a ticket stub with the number 198 on it, and we were in. We were getting married!
Episode 3 ~ The Rotunda
Inside City Hall, the mood was dramatically different. Anxiety, apprehension and bone-chilling cold were replaced by relief, euphoria, and warmth. Bustling volunteers herded us into two lines, steering us toward security screeners who checked our bags and scrutinized our passage through metal detectors. Even Disney, the wizards of crowd control, would have been impressed with what would eventually prove to be a massive serpentine maze through the halls and corridors of City Hall. Everywhere the buzz was electric. Blue application forms, altered to say Applicant 1 and Applicant 2 instead of bride and groom, were pressed into our hands with firm admonitions to fill out everything correctly. Instructions for how to make the $82 payment to the County Clerk were spelled out in large letters, and we filled out our forms hastily, alternately pressing them to the wall for a writing surface and scuttling forward to catch up to the end of the line. Checks and cross-checks were made by volunteers reviewing our forms so that nothing would be amiss. At a time like this, technicalities mattered, and no one wanted our licenses revoked for any reason.
Blessed be, a bathroom down a hall was discovered, and those of us who found it marveled like orphans in a Dickens story at how warm and bright and clean it was. Primping in the mirror on a wedding day can take hours (or so I’m told), but all I could manage was to finally untangle a giant snarl in the back of my hair that rivaled an unfortunate childhood episode involving a large wad of gum. Finding Jeannine in line posed a problem as even the short time of being in the bathroom meant the line had moved and split again. I squeezed past strollers and knots of people in the narrow hallways, anxious to rejoin our group. I found them at the bottom of a large stairwell, and we ascended into a giant room ringing with voices and footsteps off the stone floors and walls. The room was very white, almost monochromatic, except for the colorful crowd, many still clad in vibrant foul-weather gear. Despite our numbers, we were dwarfed by the immensity of the space. Velvet ropes cordoned us off to the right, and I found it inspiring and ironic that overhead, suspended from the walls, were huge enlarged black-and-white photographs of civil rights protesters and crowds calling for equality for African-Americans.
An effervescent volunteer bubbled along beside us, telling of his getting married on Saturday, and how excited he was to get to come back and help on this Monday, this President’s Day. Then he turned solemn and told us his predictions for trouble ahead. “You will have to protect your marriage,” he warned, “and you must become proactive. Write your senators and congressional leaders, write to Arnold, write to City Hall, and get your friends to as well. There will be a backlash, and we need to support our leaders who are helping us and let those who are opposed recognize that we are human beings who have the right to marry.” By the time he was done, we had crossed the threshold of the grand room and were heading into another corridor. “Congratulations,” he beamed, his eyes suddenly moist with tears. “I’m so happy for you,” and with that he went back to tending the line behind us.
Imposing and stern, a barrel-chested sheriff bristling under a no-nonsense crew cut greeted us in the corridor. “You are about to go to the County Clerk’s office,” he boomed. “Witnesses need to leave now and exit through this door and wait until your party returns for you.” With excited hugs and backward glances, the few witnesses who had braved it all separated from the line, leaving only the people to be married. It was a moment of recognition at that point that everybody in view, possibly excepting the sheriff, was gay. The odd thing was, we all looked so…so normal. Most people in our line I could have passed on the street and had no idea they were gay. The negative stereotypical images lifted from pride parades and festivals splashed into newspapers to shock and titillate the public were nowhere to be seen. We were just ordinary people, albeit a bit untidy and looking a little shell-shocked, who were committed enough to someone we loved so much that we were willing to do whatever it took to be married and willing to face whatever consequences and responsibilities lay ahead by having our relationships legally recognized. Stepping back to the far wall to address us, the sheriff cleared his throat: “At no time,” he barked, “may you throw rice, beans, or flower petals. The floors are marble and these will cause people to slip.” Then moving in close to the line where we were standing, he projected above the din, “I have been proud to be with the sheriff’s department for the city of San Francisco for many years, but I have never been more proud than these last three days.” Of all the pronouncements and well-wishes and encouragements, this short statement from this man, whom we found out later on the news had volunteered his time gladly for the past three days, moved us to tears.
One last check of our application form and we were at the front of the line. Ahead of us was the County Clerk’s office, crammed to capacity and crackling with activity. Overhead a box with scoreboard-size numbers flashed a neon-red 198, and we joined the joyful chaos. A waving hand at the next open computer called us over to the high counter, and our form was zipped away and handed to one of a raft of manic typists who were keyboarding in an endless parade of data. “When your license is ready, we will call your name,” explained the woman handling our documents. “Please check every detail to make sure your license is accurate.” Then stepping aside, she shouted to the door behind us, “Next!,” and we scrunched back against a wall to wait for our precious piece of paper. “Monica and Jeannine” a voice bellowed to our left, and we pushed through the crowd toward the voice. With raised right hands, we swore that the information on our license was accurate and truthful; it was our first vow of the day. Paper in hand, we exited back down the corridor, past the sheriff and past the line, which cheered us as we lifted our form aloft.
Witnesses looked up expectantly as we stepped through the door into the waiting area. We had had offers from friends and family to be witnesses, but with the uncertainty of timing, the inclement weather, and inability of guests to get in without the wedding party, we had decided to go it alone. Holly and Christine rejoined us, and a new group of volunteers pointed us to the line where we would begin the next stage of the process, the ceremony. Together we entered the breathtaking rotunda room of City Hall to cue up for a deputized commissioner to perform the marriage rites. Looking up, we could see the massive dome of the rotunda, and we soaked in the spectacle, marveling at what we were going through. To our left a harpist and flutist in tuxedos played the wedding march; to our right cameramen surrounded two women carrying a curly-haired, apple-cheeked toddler; and in front of us, up the sweeping staircase, were dozens of couples getting married.
Silver-haired and reposed, a man approached us as we stood, finally, at the front of the line. “My name is Bill,” he announced, “ and I will be conducting your ceremony.” Slowly the din receded and relief swept over us as Bill explained what was going to happen next. “This is your time now. There is no need to rush,” he said calmly. “We will do this exactly as you would like.” After all the anxiousness and waiting and hurrying and being buffeted by crowds and enduring cattle-call instructions, we took a deep breath and released the energetic armoring in which we had unconsciously encased ourselves. “You may pick anywhere in this room for your ceremony,” Bill declared, waving his arm across the expanse. Holly had wanted to be under the dome, and since we were sticking together as witnesses, we followed Bill up to the rotunda. Other people had obviously had the same wish, and as we climbed the stairs, passing Mabel Teng still at work officiating ceremonies, we realized the crowding didn’t quite offer the mood we were looking for. Bill pointed out other options, and we surveyed the balcony area to the back wall, passing hugging couples and more news cameras. A small alcove with a gold-trimmed railing overlooking the scene below looked quiet and beckoning. We set down our bags and coats, combed our still damp hair, and got ready for the ceremony.
Episode 4 ~ The Ceremony
Adrenaline and sheer exhaustion are a potent mixture, but somehow once we were safe and sound and dry and the world stopped spinning around us, a sort of peaceful fatigue settled over us like a warm blanket. Compared to the prior hours, everything suddenly swirled into a surreal slow motion. Holly and Christine, despite being in front of us in line for more than eight hours, wanted us to go first, so we stepped into the alcove as Bill shuffled his official paperwork. Clutching sweet-scented bouquets borrowed from Holly, Jeannine and I faced each other with uncontainable smiles. Bill leaned forward and explained each step of the ceremony, describing what we were supposed to recite after him, and when we were supposed to say “I do.” Behind Bill a camera crew was wrapping a shoot and dismantling lights and gear, distracting us momentarily, but Bill’s presence brought us to focus and he began to read the familiar, though slightly altered, words spoken at traditional weddings. I lost track of the words then, just feeling the moment, hearing bits and pieces …“To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health…” Jeannine’s hand squeezed mine tighter. Then came the words that snapped me to attention. “Do you, Monica, take Jeannine as your spouse,” Bill asked, looking up from his script. “I do,” I responded, watching the tears well in Jeannine’s eyes as her chin shook slightly and the corners of her mouth quivered. It was the moment we had been waiting for. However, having had no time to rehearse, plan ahead, or even imagine what we would be doing past getting in the front door, we were unprepared for the long-awaited moment and bobbled our bouquets fumbling for our rings, laughing at our awkwardness until Holly stepped forward to free our hands for the placing of the rings.
I had never felt so present. Except for the peripheral movements of Holly and Christine taking pictures, my world narrowed to Jeannine, this woman I have loved with all my heart for the last 12 years. All I saw was her smiling face, all I felt was her hand in mine, and all I heard was Bill’s voice. Time and space warped into the most finite yet infinite present, a sensation I have never before experienced. There was nowhere else to be and nothing else to be doing outside this magical moment. Bill’s voice drifted into my reverie. “With this ring,” Bill stated, “With this ring,” I repeated, “I thee wed.” “I thee wed.” I slipped Jeannine’s well-worn ring, which I had first given her when she had spotted it at a Sausalito jeweler's in 1995, back onto her hand. We had said our own vows back then, just the two of us, standing on the cliffs above the Golden Gate Bridge on a bright blue day in May. Little did we imagine then that we would actually get to use this same ring in a real ceremony where history was battering on the door of the last government-sanctioned discrimination left in America. With trembling fingers, Jeannine then slid on my ring, and we clasped each other’s hands. “I now pronounce you,” Bill stated sonorously, “spouses for life!” Flashes of light from the cameras captured our moment, and we hugged everyone around us before shakily signing our ceremonial certificate.
Rapidly switching modes, we took over the two cameras and joyfully photographed Holly and Christine’s ceremony. It was beautiful to watch and somehow involved a great deal of laughter both before and after. Neighboring strangers summoned from a nearby group snapped final photographs of the four of us including Bill and our official witness, Ramona, Bill’s longtime friend. Elegant, poised, and reserved, Ramona, a woman in her seventies, was there as a volunteer witness for those who needed one. We discovered that she was there as a way to show support for her gay son, and once again we were moved in wonder at the countless number of people who were giving of their time, energy and spirit to support total strangers on one of the most important days of their lives.
Gently extricating himself from our giddy group, Bill headed downstairs with Ramona, and as we were finishing taking our last pictures, he returned to our alcove with another couple, readying his papers and infusing the new pair with the majesty of the moment. Down a back hallway and into a marble stairwell we descended, joining other happy couples for the final procedure in the Assessor’s Office. One piece of paper remained, and until it was ours, I didn’t truly believe we would make it. Mercifully, the line was moving swiftly, and we were escorted into the office with one final review of our paperwork. Handing over $13 and our documents for the final license, we knew this was literally the end of the line. What there was left to do was wait while our document was scanned and copied onto an official State of California Certification of Vital Record. You get one vital record when you’re born, one when you marry, and one when you die, and I figured two out of three was a very good thing. Edging out of the milling throng into a tiny oasis between some office equipment, we listened for our names to be called. At last, above the hubbub of voices, we heard our names. A grinning bearded man, florid and damp with perspiration, struggled through the clamoring crowd and handed us our certificate as we clapped our hands in glee. We had done it! We had gotten married! Scanning the form like a map to lost treasure, we read the words City and County of San Francisco – License and Certificate of Marriage. We admired the signatures of assessors, registrars, deputies, clerks, witnesses, the “person solemnizing marriage” and of course, our own. February 16, 2004, we had tied the knot.
Outside on the front steps, a mob of people stood waiting, staring up at the doors. News crews aimed cameras our way, people waved signs, and the woman police officer at the door was aggressively blocking someone trying to enter. I peered through the glass and heavy ornamental metal bars, unsure if the crowd outside was friend or foe. “It’s the final gauntlet,” Jeannine sighed, and we pushed open the huge doors. Cheering filled our ears, and a rain-streaked CONGRATULATIONS sign swayed violently from side to side. Holding our license aloft, I shouted, “We’re married,” bringing more cheers from the crowd. Smiles were everywhere, people radiating happiness and beaming for us, complete strangers. I felt like a rock star.
Crossing the street, we looked back at the steps, clogged with well-wishers, and, to our surprise, a dance troupe kicking merrily to the gray skies. The final gift from the City was left on our car, or rather, wasn’t. We had resigned ourselves to getting a series of parking tickets, one for being parked on the street between 2:00 and 6:00 a.m. when the streetsweepers come through, and another for not feeding the meter, which was enforced every day of the year. Bracing ourselves as we approached the car, we stared in amazement; no sodden tickets poked out from under the windshield wiper. It truly was a miraculous day in San Francisco. For one last hurrah, we circled the building, honking and waving, pressing our certificate against the car window to encourage the hundreds of people still in line waiting to get in. It was 1:30 p.m. We were hungry and tired and rather dazed, but we were too jazzed to go home. We agreed to meet up with Holly and Christine at Skates on the Bay at the Berkeley Marina, and we headed out of San Francisco, ready for whatever married life brought us next.
Copyright 2004 "Wedding Tale" Monica Roseberry
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