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March 25th, 2024 - Ramah Darom, GA
- Shai Weener
- Apr 1, 2024
- 10 min read
Welcome to a day in my life:
I roll over and look at my phone - I notice it says 7:15 am. I went to bed at 1:45 am, this is definitely not enough sleep. Facing me are two windows framing a gorgeous pink and orange sunrise, only disrupted by the early budding of trees two weeks away from full bloom, and shades that I could open more (but that would involve getting out of bed). This view is new - before last night, I shared a suite with my friends from high school and Savyon slept in a bunk with 15 of her friends. I look to the left and see the slightly scrunched face of a sleeping Savyon, head nuzzled underneath her pillow rather than on top of it, wearing an eye mask I gave her that somehow looks more and more like a discolored bralette every time I see it.
Breakfast starts at 8 am, and I assume our guests are going to want food on their way out given the last meal they had was 9 pm pizza the night prior, preceded by hours of high intensity exercise. There was upper body (picking us up in chairs, carrying us on multiple sets of shoulders, and a joyous crowd surf by Savyon), lower body (dancing, a grind train that extended to 7 people, and a classic game of necktie limbo), and some vocal exercises as well (a whole lot of singing, including a stripped down band version of Unwritten and a last-call, yell at the top of your lungs DJ version of Unwritten). So, Savyon and I find our way out of bed, ready to wander down the long and steep hill from our cottage to the dining hall. As I look to put my socks and shoes on, I am reminded that I haphazardly packed for this morning, so though I have three pairs of underwear, I am forced to put back on the same muted rainbow socks and already-no-longer white shoes that supported me through the aforementioned exercises I am starting to notice the ramifications of.
Some people are “day-after sore” people. Generally, I’m a two-day after. So if this is how my calves feel only 8 hours later, I’m going to use this as an excuse to not do actual lower body for at least a month.
We hop in our golf cart labeled “For Staff Only,” only for the ignition to stall; bringing back the image of finding the golf cart at my friend’s hotel the night before, lights still on, no driver to be found, parked at an angle that makes me wonder about the ethical implications of driving golf carts after drinking but not quite to the point where I question the legal implications. So yes, our chariot is dead, we shall now descend to our subjects on foot. Walking through the camp, quiet as can be, Savyon breaks off, going back to her cabin to see if any of her entourage have begun to brave the day, leaving me to walk alone along the path of reminiscence. I walk along the basketball court, imprinted with the image of the couple I said goodnight to at 1 am as they were playing a friendly game of horse. I cross the tent, eyeing the water cooler, hoping people remembered to hydrate as they shoved various flavors of post-wedding pizza into their faces.
I steadily ascend the steps into the dining hall, expecting to be greeted by friends lining the four long tables that centered every meal over the course of the weekend. I imagine multiple groups of people in various clusters across the tables, wanting to debrief with all of them, wishing, as I had throughout the weekend, that I could be in many places at once - my answer to the common superpower icebreaker. Yet, as I walk in, the room is completely empty except for two faces greeting me with smiles of delightful surprise: My grandfather and his partner (or, rather, Lover, as she prefers to be called). At this point, I notice simultaneous relief at having a reprieve from deciding where to sit, and appreciation for this quiet moment with my grandfather at the end of a weekend with very few quiet moments and even fewer moments with him. It’s the first of his grandkids’ weddings he has been able to attend as my Grandmother was sick when my older brother got married.
I grab half a bagel, a blob of cream cheese, and a pile of lox that probably costs $50 in Manhattan. I immediately recognize this empty room will soon host a long and drawn out breakfast; and not wanting to eat five bagels, I need to impose self-control and pace myself - neither of which are my forte. I sit down across from my Grandfather, and take a steady breath; he lightly breaks the silence. “What a wonderful wedding. I’ve never been to one like it, and I won’t ever be again.” A second wave of relief immediately comes over me. I hadn’t noticed the pressure I put on myself to please. I wanted to please every guest, of course, but I now realize a stronger internal desire to please my grandfather. As a man not necessarily drawn to ‘hoopla’ attending a wedding weekend that can only be described as containing lots of ‘hoopla,’ his approval and warmth sets the tone for a beautiful day-after of reflection and connection.
The next many hours are a rush of hugs, laughs, knowing glances amongst friends. Knowing of funny things that happened the night before, and knowing of espresso martini-induced gaps in memory. Hand holds and appreciations. I see people choose to sit next to others they hadn’t known before the weekend, and float seamlessly into conversation as if they’ve been friends for months - witnessing this, a feeling of comfortable contentment creeps over me. Friends of similar age are interspersed with friends my parents’ age, showing cracks in the age cohort barrier I grew up with.
Then, just like that, it’s time for the bus to whisk people away. Many more embraces and affirmations in every direction, I witness numerous number swaps and indications of future plans. Watching friends not just depart this weekend, but depart each other, imagining all of the possibilities their friendships now have. While everyone heads to the bus, I head back to my suite to face what remains from the weekend.
As I enter the suite, my mind immediately constructs an entire photo series using just this room as a proxy for the unfolding of the weekend. Directly on the left, a paper supermarket bag being utilized as a makeshift recycling bin (created to sooth the mind of a bunch of Bay Area folks who hate the idea of throwing out recycling but can’t really control the lack of recycling options in rural Georgia). Three boxes of pizza are stacked awkwardly on top of what appears to be an already full bag - the only indication of its contents being the edge of a White Claw logo peeking out from a little tear on the bottom left corner of the paper bag.
I remember Friday afternoon, only a couple hours before the guests arrive; I’m sitting on one of the two couches across from the door, taking a quiet moment to write one final note in the turquoise journal I bought three years ago that has been housing secret notes to Savyon to be revealed on our wedding day. Abruptly, like a group of high schoolers descending on a refrigerator full of leftovers, a group of helpers pile into the room with an exploding excitement and hunger, all trying to grab a few slices of perfectly average frozen, defrosted, refrigerated, and then undercooked pizza, before jetting off to put final touches on their assignments. Some return to arrange flowers, others to fortify rooming assignment papers from an incoming storm. With a quick group shotgun of White Claw outside right as the rain started, blurring the line between the spraying can and crying sky, the group was off, and I had gone to greet my guests.
Back in the present, in my suite, another photo in the series: a small black table lined with six different bottles of bourbon, all specifically selected by my older brother to celebrate this occasion, and all forced upon my friends at 9:30 am the previous morning. There are four green turquoise ceramic shot glasses, separated from their 11 siblings of similar design but varying size, with differing levels of drink remaining. All had been handmade - not by me - and gifted to my friends after a love-filled pre-wedding toast, followed immediately by the first of many raucous circle dances whose form can only be described as lightly hovering near a group hug or a mosh pit (depending on the amount of jumping).
I begin to pack up my stuff. I pack the shot glass we got for our friend’s Thursday night birthday, whose celebration consisted of a trip to Wal Mart and three reggaton songs that she swore are famous in places I’ve never been. I pack my backup white wedding shirt that my mom vetoed because of the ability to identify individual curls of chest hair through the thin fabric. I pack the sparkly shoes I wore for our Saturday night Taylor Swift-inspired purim costume - the shoes shed sparkles like fairy dust, completing a magical trail of glitter that highlights every step they took. I pack the makeup remover wipes that were whipped out in the fury of congregating friends trying to remove bright tan concealer I accidentally spilled on my green suit pants that couldn’t merely be wiped off with a lick of my thumb and a light rub.
As I am processing the adventures of the weekend, I get a text that the bus has been delayed and everyone wants me to come say goodbye again. Next thing I know, I’m walking into the welcome center and am greeted by the beautiful chaos of what I expected to see at breakfast, except with couches and loveseats rather than tables. Instead of separate clusters, however, this room feels like an amalgam of water currents all swaying, pulling, and colliding in a variety of directions, yet overall acting as one connected being. Friends from various parts of our lives overlap like layers of stained glass, creating a design where before the weekend there were only independent stacks of monochromatic glass.
New friends are sharing photos from the night before that they don’t remember taking. In the field out front, multiple duos are engaging in last minute highly-coveted DMCs (deep meaningful conversations) while being circled by a trio engaging in a more mobile yet equally deep conversation.
Then, all at once, the bus arrives, we say our actual goodbyes, and give our actual final hugs. Almost as fast as they came, the people are gone. Leaving us only with our memories… as well as a soon-to-be-filled google photos album, endless papers from the weekend, and an almost empty Costco-sized container of Hamantaschen opened an hour prior and consumed strictly due to the actions of an angel who systematically approached every individual, placed the box softly in their presence, and asked the gentle question “Want a ‘tosh?” almost as casually as people ask “Want some water? Or wine? Or a beer?” when you first enter their home.
After a series of events consisting of packing the remaining daisies and green poms used for Friday night centerpieces, looking for my brother’s wallet, mourning the loss of my sunglasses, and finding out I had two friends basically still asleep in their rooms long after everyone else had left, we depart from camp. Savyon in a car with three of her friends, me in a car with one of mine, all set to meet at a random Waffle House in the middle of Georgia.
An hour and a half later, after passing at least four other (questionably more convenient) Waffle Houses, completing an initial weekend debrief, and snapping a couple pics of trees freshly in bloom, we pull up to Waffle House. There are nine of us squeezed around one table, all simultaneously reminiscing on the night before, not feeling ready to part from each other, and shedding various toxins from the 24 hours prior. We laugh a lot. We tell Kim, our cheery southern waitress, that we got married - the first person outside of camp - shattering the bubble of the weekend and marking yet another ‘first’ on the journey. I use the virtual jukebox to play three songs that are probably better played in an establishment with more energy and less light. One Jonas Brothers song I wish the band had played the night prior, one Taylor Swift song we heard three times over the weekend, and another I just wanted to hum along to. We part - more hugs, loves, and appreciations.
From there, the journey away from the wedding continues. I unpack the car at my parents house, do a couple lunges to gauge the current inflexibility of my hammies, and then Savyon and I head to my High School friends’ to get fifteen minutes with their children who got a fun weekend away with the grandparents. I watch their two year old go back and forth three times on the deck, from spigot to outdoor plant, overwatering what is clearly an already dead fern. We take a picture with their 7-month old, whose size is already rivaling the elder, and whose middle name is our new last name which has given space for the joke that he is our baby and we are the Lev family. We then say goodbye: hugs, loves, and appreciations.
To close out the day, we head to a family friend for the final wedding celebration before departing Atlanta for San Francisco to celebrate with friends that weren’t at the wedding but who are important to us. There is dinner, there is singing, there is a lot of reminiscing on the weekend. There are many faces from the wedding, and some we haven’t seen in a couple years. Over the course of the evening, four people apologize for making me speak, which makes sense given my voice sounds like a dog toy you punctured after your dog realizes how to make the toy squeak whenever it wants and you’re trying not to go crazy. We head back to my parents house, exhausted, realizing we forgot to book a hotel for us to stay in. So we return to my childhood bed, in my childhood room, in the house also sheltering my family and hers, and crawl under the covers, just like we had only five nights prior, as if nothing was different. Except this time, we are married. Ok, according to the government, we were also married five days ago. But this time, we have new rings, new names (socially), and the promise of a new journey.
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