Shaadi and The City: Get Married Away

Last week, somewhere between discussing the diameters of dandiya sticks and and determining whether sandwich dhoklas qualify as "garba friendly" appetizers, I confirmed that wedding planning was officially taking over my life. With the first semester of grad school done with and d-day looming, exactly three months away, I am dealing with the fact that the bulk of my summer months won't be spent frolicking around The City, lounging in Central Park and taking a seminar on the Politics of Power at my university. And honestly, I'm okay with that. In fact, just for yucks, I'm letting some of that notoriously liberal New School philosophy permeate my life a little, and trying to look at the build-up to my wedding from the point of view of an--yes, really--ethnographer.

Formally, ethnography is defined as "the fundamental research method of cultural anthropolgy". Yawn. To dissect that a little, it's an anthropological approach that emphasizes the importance of being a part of the community you study, so rather than merely "observing", one (i.e. me) is actually immersed in the daily on-goings of the group.

So excuse me if the next few entries seem series-like, but to paraphrase the adage, you're supposed to write what you know, and what I know right now is the big, fat, syrupy world of Indian weddings: mandaps, malai koftas and mehndi. Whether I choose to look at it as a million-dollar industry, an age-old tradition or something in between, come August 16, I'll be participating in my (gulp) very own one. If you're reading this, consider yourself invited ;)

The Airport Chronicles (II) : Stand By Me

Now, now, before you go thinking this is going to be some slushy tribute to the vocal calisthenics of Ben E. King, let me clarify by saying that this story, like most of the adventures I am involved in, begins in an airport.

Technically I suppose it begins on a rooftop in Brooklyn the previous night, where a group of starry-eyed international affairs majors engaged in a jubilant end-of-the-semester soiree complete with tealights, an impromptu trumpet solo and vino.

Knowing full well that I had an early morning flight to Detroit the next day, in honor of my little sister's college graduation, I kept the Rioja consumption to a minimum--no easy feat, especially when there's a book-swap-dance-a-thon involved--but succeeded, or so I thought as I huffed up my fourth floor walk-up at 2 am.

With my bag packed, alarm set and graduation card sealed (yea, Neesh!) I collapsed into bed, only to wake up five minutes before take-off. A myriad of emphatic four letter words swam through my murky brain and I was confronted with the image of my father, dejectedly shaking his head--after years of carefully constructed pre-travel checklists and religiously getting to the airport at least 80 minutes prior to departure is this what I had to show for myself? As I hauled ass to La Guardia, well aware of the fact that NW flight 542 was now en route--as a matter of fact, according to my calculations, somebody was probably getting snapped at for failing to put their damn tray table up--I tried to take comfort in the fact that for someone who had been flying since she was 40 days old, I had a decent track record : this was the first flight I had ever missed.

So what's protocol, I thought to myself, as I marched over to the Northwest counter, determined to get to Detroit on the next flight available. "Sorry," said Gregg, the agent whom I would get to know super well throughout the course of the day. "It's graduation weekend honey, everyone's going to Detroit. You're on stand by."

I parked myself at Gate #9, eliciting a combination of sympathetic smiles and suspicious glances from gate agents, passengers and airport janitors. "Well, well, well. If it isn't 'Terminal: The Sequel," they must have thought to themselves. I drank overpriced coffee. I made whiny phone calls. I began to wish they would get rid of the "no deodorant on board" rule. I struck up conversation with strangers and tried bartering my dog-eared copy of People magazine for their confirmed seats. No dice.

And then, at approximately 6 pm, exactly 9 hours after my scheduled departure time, (at this point Gregg had offered me a job at the terminal), I was graced with the magic words. "Havier, A-yar-ty?" crackled the gate agent. There's nothing like hearing your--severely butchered--name over the microphone , especially after you've spent an entire day watching really bad CNN, crumpled up on a plastic bench that has stripped your butt of all feeling. As I leapt towards the boarding door, I passed by an applauding Gregg. "You're out of here, finally!" he exclaimed. And that I was.