Oregon Trail, part 5

If weddings could fit in medicine bottles, the foremost warning on the label would be "Adults will be compelled to dance if ingested with alcohol." They should corral anyone over 40 into a little holding pen once the actual dance music starts instead of letting the dance floor turn into some grotesque tableau of Kafka-esque proportions. Seeing your own parents bumping emphatically to "Baby Got Back" generates an instant repressed memory, like when you see the baby crowning in "Knocked Up." Brother Matt wonders aloud if little brother Greg is going to have to be the one to drive us back to the hotel. Luckily, it doesn't happen, and everyone saves face.

On Sunday morning, I wake up at 7 am as I've done every morning this trip. I must've been on west coast time my entire life, because I've never been on such a regular sleep schedule. I'll file that away under the "Pro" column for working in LA next year.

Is rapid river-rafting one of those after-wedding traditions I haven't heard of? I initially didn't want to go because I thought it would be all Cynthia's family, but Matt signed up, so I have nowhere else to be, and luckily it turns out awesome. My parents bought a bunch of hats and sunglasses at Wal-Mart to protect from the sun; they turn out to all be matching yellow Oakland A's hats which makes us look silly but helps us identify eachother when our kayaks get far apart on the river. Basically, the deal is that they give everyone an inflatable kayak (some people get into larger boats as a group), and we are supposed to make our way 2 miles downstream where they will pick up the people and equipment and drive them back. In between here and there? Rapids!

You cannot help but smile as you go down a section of rapids. They don't involve much of a dropoff, but the water throws waves back at you several feet high, and if you don't have your kayak pointed into it, it's not just going to get into your boat but capsize you. Not many people have trouble with this part, though it is an art to guide yourself around rocks using the oar. The pyromaniac kid apparently has a grab-bag of various death wishes; he throws his boat down the river without due process as his irritated dad yells for him to stay behind. At one point, he gets caught in a whirlpool which makes his boat spin around lazily for a minute while he's trapped there. Later on, he inevitably falls out of his kayak and bruises himself in the upper chest on a rock. He'd do it all over again, I'm sure.

Our party of 25 or so has the river all to ourselves because everyone else got spooked by the thin cloud cover and morning temperature over 80°. Everyone claims that the clouds will "burn off" later in the day, and it takes me a few minutes to figure out what this phrase means. I say that I've never heard anyone use those words to describe clouds disappearing and someone mocking asks me, "where did you grow up?" Not in this hick state, for sure. Um, New Hampshire...

After kayaking, I feel like I should have some newfound extreme upper-body strength, but disappointingly, I'm not sore at all. David treats us all to soft-serve at the boathouse, and before we go, we all congratulate him on his marriage. Cynthia is there, but without her makeup during the rafting, she looks 5-10 years older. She must be in her mid- to late thirties. I try to be a little fun with my goodbye to cousin Rachel by saying, "See you in another 10 years!" She is laughing, but then I say with a straight face, "Yeah... maybe by then you won't be so weird." I rarely get to see someone's smile droop faster than that; I guess my charm is lost on the Minnesotans because cousin Kira also refuses to hug me. Her mom Becky has to force us into a tri-person hug. What gives with your family, Becky?

Matt had all these prognostications of doom about our travel itinerary that began at 6 pm and ended at 9 am. What, me worry? That just means the flight will go by faster because we'll be sleeping the whole time! I'm glad I was stupid enough to believe that over the weekend because otherwise I would've been in as sour a mood as Matt was. The reality is hell on earth - hell 30,000 feet above earth, rather. I spend the final leg of the journey in that nervous limbo where you don't know if you are going to throw up. Triumphantly stumbling into Logan, I realize I still have to drive to the Manchester airport that morning to pick up my mom where she landed. I get a single hour of sleep on the couch in Matt's apartment, and that chases away the dizzying headache from exhaustion. Because I don't know how to get out of Boston in a car, my brother drives in front of me to guide me to I-93 North, and he doesn't seem happy about it. Why can't people just get used to the fact that I'm a retarded driver?

When I get home, the cats are wailing out of hunger because they hadn't been fed in five days. Ha, just kidding; the neighborhood kids came by each day to scoop out their cat kibble. Because I'm now on Zurich time I say goodnight at 1 pm and decide that I probably only have enough stamina for one trip like this per year.