October 4, 1998 was a cool, foggy morning with a hint of drizzle. Carrie and I woke up early and took a quiet walk together from our West Village neighborhood down to the Hudson River, strolling through a yet-to-be gentrified and decidedly unhip Meatpacking District to get there.
We had a pretty crazy, overscheduled day ahead of us, and wanted a little time to ourselves. With cups of deli coffee in our hands, we stood on the bank of the Hudson and watched the sun rise over New Jersey. And shortly thereafter, we saw a rainbow, an actual rainbow.
A good omen.
A little later that morning, we schlepped downtown, signed the ketubah, and then, in front of about seventy-five of our closest friends and loved ones and a pretty good jazz combo, we got hitched. The jazz players, whom we had hired for their facility with Cole Porter and Jimmy Van Heusen standards, actually managed an entirely credible (and unasked-for) "Hava Nagila" in a style that can only be described as Cocktail Lounge Klezmer.
After we did a little drinking and dancing, fed everybody brunch, and sent them off to their respective homes, we went back to our tiny little apartment. A few hours later, having sent our youthful Chows to sleepaway camp and packed our bags for our honeymoon flight to Paris, we were sitting in the living room in our pajamas, eating takeout Chinese and giggling over The Simpsons on cable.
(Yes, I know, I'm the last of the red-hot lovers. But believe me, just being in the same room with Carrie is pretty blissful, and I'd give just about anything if I could hang out with her and watch stupid cartoons tonight.)
A situation with my parents (I'm in North Carolina at the moment) means we're apart on our anniversary today. But I'm thinking of you, dearest one, and this has been the best seven years of my life, without a shadow of a doubt. I do love you so. And I'll be home Sunday.