New York Minutes, Vol. 2: ice ice baby

17 March 2007, New York City

Date Night, a regular occurrence. As it's St. Patrick's Day, we're able to secure a table at Chanterelle, one of Tribeca's most revered restaurants. (I guess fine diners drink green beer elsewhere.) We had a lovely meal, at the end of which we selected the cheese plate, also standard operating procedure. Adrian ordered us some champagne, sensible since we had recently attended a tasting that proclaimed champagne to be the perfect companion to any cheese.

I still had a bit of red wine left over, and deliberated whether to finish that as I started my cheese or cut straight to the bubbly. I picked up the red wine glass, to which Adrian barked, "Park it!" Goodness, he's quite determined about the champagne pairing, I thought, as I put down my wine glass and picked up the champagne flute. I turned to him to clink glasses, at which point he declared his love for me and asked if I would marry him.

Now, I suppose some people see this moment coming in their lives; I, clearly, am not one of those people.

"Are you serious?" I squawked, eyebrows contorted, flute hovering in front of my face.

He fumbled into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small box, which he put on the table in front of me. Then turned it around so that the hinges faced him. Then opened it.

You know how babies look when you put something shiny in front of them?

The champagne remained suspended in the air while my head dipped down towards the table. I stared. And stared. "That's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen!" And stared.

Finally I remembered that I wasn't alone. I looked up at Adrian, who raised an eyebrow. "Oh!" I exclaimed. "Of course I will!"

He smiled, and we looked back at the ring. Now what? It somehow made it onto my finger, at which point all surrounding diners burst into applause.

Needless to say, the rest of the night was a bit of a blur. (We don't even remember what was on the cheese plate, if that tells you something.) We proceeded to celebrate at our favorite wine bar with a bottle of champagne... then at another bar nearby that specializes in champagne... getting up the next day just in time to call Adrian's parents before the sun set on southern England.

So I'm sorry not to have written for awhile. I have had a bit to do, but more critically, I've been unsure how to treat this momentous turn of events in these virtual pages. I don't want this to turn into a wedding blog, although I will certainly be sharing some choice moments from this rather unique process.

To be honest, I've felt a bit awkward writing about it because as much as I'd like to invite every single one of you, and your partners and prospective partners and former partners and children and parents and pets, and everyone we went to school/camp/work/played rugby/golf/frisbee with/against/met in a hostel/bought a beer from/babysat, I can't. Adrian has this strange notion that he wants to know most of the people at his wedding ... and I've come to want a small gathering as well. (And that's not just because the cost of holding such an event in New York City rivals the GDP of some island nations.)

I know that those of you who have been through this understand, and those who haven't are sensible enough to know that we have a lifetime of partying ahead of us anyway. So whether or not you're with us in New York on December 1st, please raise a glass and know that you're in my heart, if not in the room.

And oh, what a fabulous room it is! We'll be in the Prince George, a landmark building that was one of New York's most glorious hotels from its construction in 1904 until it fell into disrepair some seventy years later; it's now a supportive housing facility run by an alum and trustee of my fairest college. The ballroom has been restored to its original neo-Renaissance glory, and the rental fee supports services in the building for its residents. It's quite a special place.

The only other bridezilla tidbit I will inflict upon you in this dispatch is the Dress Ordeal. As you might guess, I am not someone who has nurtured a vision of My Dress since childhood. But I figured this would be my only opportunity to experience firsthand the phenomenon that is Kleinfeld's, so I booked an appointment at their new Chelsea store that Heidie, my matron of honor (or MoH, as the wedding websites call her), points out has managed to maintain the Bay Ridge feel when they moved to Manhattan, with a faux classical aesthetic (if one can call it that) throughout.

The receptionist, without looking up from her computer screen, greeted me with a monotone "Congratulations and welcome have a seat your consultant will be with you in a minute."

My "consultant" eventually popped out from behind a Corinthian column, clad in a black pants suit and white slippers like everyone else in the shop, and escorted me and my entourage back to her dressing room. "So, tell me about your wedding!" she said, smiling until she did a double-take at the clipboard in horror: "December 1st... of THIS year? Oh, honey, ok..."

We tried on a few dresses, most of which were really quite horrible. The session came to an abrupt close when I tried on a dress by Rivini, a designer with some interesting features but an overall effect totalling well over a month's rent (and that's Tribeca rent, mind you), and my consultant and her boss both exclaimed: "OH - MY - GOD, you are TOTALLY a Rivini bride!" Thanks and bye bye!

Heidie's two-year-old son Ellis, a veteran of New York's bridal shops, helped eliminate another dress when upon seeing me in it he shouted a line from his Dora the Explorer books: "Steep and hard to climb!" Again, I have no strong views on what I should look like in a wedding dress, but a mountain is definitely not on the list.

The end of the Ordeal (or at least the selection phase) arrived when I visited one shop during a trunk sale, during which a designer brings in her latest samples. I tried on one of the dresses on offer (and when I say "tried on", I really mean "subjected myself to having the dress clipped onto me like a paper cut-out while I stood there in my underwear, since samples are made for models the size of my forearm") and it seemed to work, as far as one could tell under the circumstances. We invited in the designer, a totally chilled-out older woman from Atlanta, and she suggested a few additional changes we could make (in addition to making sure it fit all the way around my body). I figure if I'm going with the genre at all, "working" directly with the designer could actually be a fun way to do it.

On the way out, we walked by another room with a bride-to-be squealing about how much she LOVED the dress she had on, but how her father was questioning whether she could really know what she'll want in 18 months' time. "A bit harsh on the groom, isn't it?" whispered Heidie. "I think they're talking about the dress," I replied.

...

Moving from Modern Bride to Business Week, some of you may have caught wind of the recent leadership transition at my company. (If you missed it, you can google my company and "gay CEO" on your own.) It's been a rough period; our now-former CEO was a remarkable leader, and I certainly hope he eventually re-emerges proud of who he is and what he's done for the world.

In the meantime, however, I'm quite happily out of the morass of uncertainty that is headquarters and continuing to enjoy my work. The UN mandate on business and human rights to which I am deployed was extended until June 2008 by the Human Rights Council, so I should be set for the time being.

Which suits me just fine, since with a few short words traded over a cheese plate, 2007 suddenly became The Year of the Wedding.

Please send news from your corner of the world.

Much love,
cb