What's 5"2, attending my wedding this weekend and bummed that the lunch buffet doesn't offer a fine selection of oats?
That would be our horse. Hailing from Loon Meadow Farms in Norfolk, Connecticut, the vanilla-hued mare that my soon-to-be husband will be perched atop during his procession claims a solid background in Indian weddings, having featured in everything from baraats to vidais. This is reassuring, as it convinces me that the horse was previously exposed to a dhol and won't go ballistic upon hearing the thunderous drum beat, hurtling down I-84 with my groom.
It's all fun and games, of course, until someone has to schlep around for the permit. Because the sleepy little town of Waterbury, CT (once brass capital of the world, it was most recently in the news for being one of the "10 Worst Places To Live in America") is totally unfamiliar with the concept of a "baraat" let alone an Indian ceremony, for paperwork purposes, our wedding is clumped together with the likes of protests and pageants. Which is how my planners and I find ourselves downtown, running around like headless chickens in an attempt to secure a parade permit. Nobody knows what to make of three slightly overdressed brown people requesting permission for a drummer, souped up horse and groom's procession to noisily dance across Main Street next Saturday. As we are ping-ponged across the city's offices, we face an array of reactions, from expressions of utter befuddlement, to intrigue to straight-up rudeness. Eventually it is a disgruntled officer by the name of Sergeant Pepper (yes, that's his real name. yes, he's heard it all before.) who gives us the go ahead with some rudimentary paperwork. Exhausted as ever, we're ready to giddy-up.
