Highlights from our trip to Michigan – Part Two

The wedding is in a Congregationalist church within walking distance of the hotel. Ben and Erin have a formal service, but one that is remarkably short—to me it seems about twenty minutes long. They both look great, are extremely happy, and the whole thing goes perfectly. Outside the church, the guests blow bubbles as the family and bridal party process to an old fashion trolley that will take them to the reception. When Ben and Erin get to the trolley, the crowd lets out this really weak cheer—only because everyone is unsure whether or not it’s appropriate to do. Think Monty Python and the Holy Grail's, “And there was much rejoicing.”

The reception is held in this beautiful building called Castle Farms. We get a remarkable amount of face time with Ben and Erin, which is unlike any wedding reception I’ve been to. The band is amazing—just a brilliant, fun bunch of musicians. Everyone dances; even I get out and perform my truffle shuffle after the requisite eight drinks. The reception ends. Ben demands we all stop by his hotel for a nightcap, which is probably the most ignorant thing a guest can do on the bride and groom’s wedding night, so we say we will but we don’t. Instead, we head back to Whitney’s with Ben’s Guelph and Chicago friends, along with some of the wedding party. We drink beer and sample hot sauces (because they’re there), and the two of us get back to our hotel drunk, but not hammered, because it is American beer after all.

June 3^rd – Sleep in, pack up, check out. We get to the stairs that will take us to the ground floor and there’s a kid blocking the way. They’re tight spiral stairs with no way around and the kid’s just sitting there, looking kind of scared and dumb. I ask the kid three times to move and he only makes an about-to-cry face. I start walking down one step at a time but he’s not giving. I think hateful thoughts and consider punting him, but his dad finally shows up and takes him away. As I watch the kid walk off I realize that he’s maybe—maybe—three years old. I also realize that I’m the devil incarnate when I need to eat. The continental breakfast looks vultured by the time we get to it, but it’s enough to mellow me out and we get back on the road.

Gaylord proves to be a much prettier drive on the way back. In fact, the entire drive south is quick and enjoyable, and the miles just fall behind us. (A note on miles versus kilometers: I know as a fact that a mile is longer than a kilometer, but when I look at US road signs, I can’t help but think in kilometers—at least time-wise. I end up cursing, wondering why driving 30 miles takes so long—which is of course because it’s not 30 kilometers.)

Back in Ann Arbor, we lay low with Katie and Jason, alcohol fatigue having claimed us. They make dinner and then we muster the energy to get coffee and go for a quick hike through the Arb. Then we retreat back to the apartment for some nerdery. They show us the wonders of bittorrent, as well as a crazy cartoon short called ‘Rejected.’ We pass on a very enlightening linquistics quiz, in addition to wonder that is Homestar Runner.

July 4^th – We wake up early-ish and head to Katie’s parents’ cottage in Forestville. Jason rides with me most of the way and I kill the time by pointing out all the Canadian content on American radio until we’re both well past caring. It’s Independence Day, but sadly I don’t see anyone in flag-patterned clothing like I’d hoped. We get to the cottage, have some drinks and food, then avail ourselves of the cottage’s trampoline, which is equal parts fun and scary, and I can’t help but think of the Rod and Tod Flanders (“Each leap brings us closer to God!” “Catch me, Lord, catch me!”)

Katie’s brother and his friends have about seven hundred fire crackers and they blow up oatmeal, eggs, pancake batter, and other non-breakfast foodstuffs that seem explode-worthy. Katie’s other friends trickle in a few at a time and they’re a great bunch, cool and absolutely hysterical. I sit in the sun, unknowingly frying my face and scalp, and listen to dozens of funny stories—the green poo story, the bleached dildo story, and the guy almost dying on their canoe trip story (riding backwards down the river, his neck slid into the V of a tree branch.) A group of us start up a game of volleyball, which turns into eight games of volleyball. Barefoot, I accrue calluses, dirt, and then calluses over top of dirt, getting my summer feet in the space of two hours.

The guests depart one by one because the next day is a workday. Jared and Jim stick around for tea and conversation. The two of them and Sarah have some brilliant discussion about Michigan’s economy, oil shortages, and Canadian versus US politics. Unfortunately beer and the sun have sucked the very life from me, so I watch silently, absorbing some of the talk, but mostly sleeping with my eyes open.

July 5^th – Sarah has us up at a quarter past six so we can clean up and head out. We shut down the cottage, and make it to the border in forty-five minutes. For certain, it’s the shortest border crossing I’ve ever had. Back in Ontario, I’m thinking of the kilometers as miles so the trip to Georgetown is a joke. Sarah’s parents are in process of moving (to our neck of the woods), and we stop by the house to say goodbye to it, and to pick up their cat, who we’ll be babysitting until they’re settled in their new place. It turns out the cat is a lot like Sarah’s mom, because it hates big trucks and doesn’t like crossing Toronto on the 401. He pants and hyperventilates for about forty minutes, then starts to yowl, then he wanders the car a bit before going back to the panting business. We put him in his cage and ten minutes later he makes this crazy strangled noise and barfs—mostly inside the cage.

We pull over wondering what to do, but there aren’t really any options. He has to get to Ottawa and stopping will just make it longer. We steel ourselves for a hellish ride. Once we’re back on the road, he climbs into his litter box and takes a huge, human-sized dump. Then he finds the darkest, quietest place in the car: down near my feet by the peddles. It’s awkward, but he doesn’t move for four hours so it’s fine by me. I’d let him hang off my neck if it meant he wouldn’t have a heart attack. Home again, we let him explore the apartment. He hates it at first, but the elapsed time between his being scared out of his mind and getting into things he shouldn’t is about an hour and forty minutes.

And now, tale told, here’s a map of our travels through Michigan. If case you’ve never met one: Michiganders use The Hand as a representation of their state. You can ask someone there, “Where on The Hand do you live?” and they will immediately and earnestly bust out the back of their hand and show you.