We are driving to Queens, to have dinner with Tom's family. His parents are Italian, and are cooking a traditional Italian meal. I would be ecstatic about that even if I weren't starving, which I am.
When we arrive, the food isn't ready yet, so Tom's dad does what any self-respecting Italian man would do- pops open a couple bottles of wine and starts telling stories while we wait for dinner. I haven't eaten anything in ages and we're driving from here into Connecticut after dinner to stay at MK's place, so I probably shouldn't be guzzling wine at this point, but hey, when in Rome...
The girls, whether by instinct, social conditioning, or lesser internal resistance to guilt, slowly gravitate to the kitchen to help Tom's mom get everything together while we men do what we do, which is to continue to tell stories and drink. Now, before I say something that may prove a bit controversial, let me preface by saying that I love to cook, and in every relationship I've ever been in I did at least 50% of the cooking, if not more. That said, I confess to finding it irrationally, comfortingly old-fashioned to drink with the men while the women bustle in the kitchen getting the meal together. In a world in which more or less anything goes, and cultural norms change with blinding speed, it is nice every now and again to step back into a world where roles were clear.
IMPORTANT NOTE: I am NOT advocating a return to some mythical 1950's "golden age". I'm just saying it's nice to be a lazy man, hanging out with other lazy men, slowly getting drunk while women cook for you. It should be obvious how one can believe that's nice, even without believing that's the way it ought to be all the time. So lower your feminist hackles already.
Dinner, when it was ready, was predictably spectacular: meatballs, pasta, salad, bread, more wine. By 930 I was stuffed, halfway to wasted, and thoroughly exhausted. Plus, I suffer from a condition whereby immediately after eating food in any non-trivial portion, I get really sleepy. So I quietly excused myself and went to explore the living room. In particular, I found a small loveseat that warranted a very close inspection. In fact, by the time I was done inspecting it, it apparently was 11pm.
Little known trivia fact: the loveseat in Tom's parents' den, in addition to being possibly the most comfortable loveseat on Earth, is some kind of leather time-dilation device, so that you experience only 5 minutes of time on it, but the outside world experiences 90 minutes. Not that I actually fell asleep on it, mind you, but if one actually did fall asleep on it one might become a modern-day Rip Van Winkle.
We ate _very_ well tonight...
I rejoined the group just in time to say thanks, for a dinner that couldn't be beat, and goodbye, since it was time to drive to MK's. Thankfully, my 90-min inspection of the loveseat left me in much better shape to drive. Tom was presumably some number of sheets to the wind, but I guess the good news for him is that drinking apparently has no effect on his ability to drive. Obviously, I use the word "ability" in a very loose sense.
We arrived at MK's parents' house in suburban CT quite late, and had a grand old time turning over every pot in the front yard trying to locate the extra key to the house. That, by the way, is a lot of freakin' pots, this being suburban CT. I think it's a family game they play, where the key is never in the same place twice. It's all a little hazy, given the lateness of the hour, and my exhaustion, but I'm pretty sure we ended up digging the key out of the ground under a hydrangea.
Once inside, we bedded down for the evening. In the morning, we had breakfast with the whole family- MK's brother and sister had also come in to go skydiving with us. The folks in MK's family are, universally, smart, funny, nice, crazy people. After a quick breakfast, we headed out to the skydiving site, just outside Hartford.
For those of you who haven't been skydiving before, you might think that an activity such as this, where most people would probably agree there is at least some small measure of risk involved, would involve extensive safety discussions, clothing and equipment, and training/preparation. If you do think that, as I did, you are hopelessly naive. The "safety discussion" consisted of watching a video of people falling through the sky, screaming, strapped to a professional jumper, with a techno-house soundtrack and some comforting parting words saying that skydiving is really fucking awesome, and that they are in no way liable if you die doing it.
As for special clothing, there is none. I went up in the shorts and wifebeater I showed up in. Basically, as long as your shoes are firmly attached to your feet, you're good. The special equipment is a "harness", most of the material of which is devoted to holding the large warning label, as you can see in this pic of Dan (MK's brother), Ed, and me:
The harness is unnervingly sparse, but we are assured they work, and further advised that the men among us should make sure that the harness is carefully arranged around any biological valuables, so that when you suddenly decelerate as the chute opens, and the harness straps jerk violently upward on your body, your biological valuables don't turn into biological goo. I helpfully advise MK that although this warning is directed to the men among us, he should probably do this also. 'Cause really, that's the kind of guy I am- friendly and helpful. (I don't recall what his response was exactly, but I don't remember it being similarly friendly and helpful.)Aside from the 60 seconds it takes to step into the harness and, if applicable, make an necessary "adjustments," the bulk of the time you spend skydiving you spend doing one of 2 activities: (1) waiting for a plane that has room to take you up and an available professional jumper to strap yourself to, and (2) signing 800,000 pages of legal documentation absolving the skydiving company from liability if you die. I've never had to sign so many things in one day in all my life.
There was some brief drama when the signing-away-your-life part of the process caused Keiko to seriously consider not jumping. Having learned from years of dating Nacole that I can be insensitive, pushy, and overbearing, I made a serious effort to calmly, patiently, and sensitively explain that I in no way thought she was a great big pussy, like Tom, who had spent the entire weekend up to that point basically saying that the only way he was jumping out of a plane was if we hauled his dead body up there and threw it out, an idea which was briefly given serious consideration. And I guess Nacole was right- by focusing more on being patient and sensitive, I was able to convince Keiko not to back out.
So, having signed our lives away, and strapped ourselves in our harnesses, we waited to make our jumps. Our group was too big to all go at once, so Ed and Keiko and I went together on one plane. Here's our jumpgroup, by now several hours into waiting for the plane, and by now all excited to actually go:
The pros jump all day long, and just hand off their used parachutes and pick up newly re-packed ones, and then drag you over to where the plane lands. So we all piled in.As mentioned previously, the "plane" is an empty cabin, just wide enough for two people to sit side-by side. Facing toward the end of the plane, on the left side it was my jumper-dude, me, Ed's jumper-dude, and Ed. On the right side, it was the random dude, the videographer (Ed paid to have his jump filmed), Dan, Dan's jumper-dude, Keiko, and Keiko's jumper-dude. Once you're on the plane, you get officially strapped on to your jumper dude, which involves him winching the small of your back right into his crotch. And then the plane took off.
And that, friends, is how I found myself 13000 feet up, strapped onto some dude's jimmy, staring at an open door through which random dude, videographer, Ed&dude, Dan&dude, and Keiko&dude have already disappeared, suddenly realizing that this is actually happening. Right at this moment, I am gripped by a primal, biological instinct that falling from 13000 feet is not a good strategy for propagating my genes, and I suddenly want to take a minute to review whether I really want to do this. Unfortunately, it's our turn to go, and so my jumper-dude begins scooting on his butt toward the door. And, since I am now basically a hood ornament on this guy's sphincter, I am scooting toward the door also. As we reach the lip of the doorway, and my legs hang over the edge, I have just enough time to think "OMG, one more scoot and we'll fa-(scoot)-AAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAA waitmustrememberarmsoutbackarched AAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAA holyshitthisisawesomeholyshitthisisterrifying AAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
A omggroundcomingupfastitscoldandihavespittleonbothsidesofmymouth A
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAA okthegoddamnparachutebetteropensoon AAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA *****JERK*****
OMGmylegsIcan'tfeelmylegsohwaittheretheyarestoppanickingyoubigsissy OKAY. okay. ok. Not freefalling anymore. Parachute is open. Bodyparts all accounted for. Harness straps have probably left a two lane road rash highway to my crotch, but it beats dying. It's warmer now. I can see Ed and Keiko below and in the distance. I can also see Hartford. A whole city built on insurance. The weather is beautiful. The dude is suggesting I hold the two thingys that steer us. My uncle let me steer once when I was like seven and we ended up in a ditch. I don't want to admit that so I take the handles. I'm going to be mortified if I kill us. I am now holding the handles with a death grip. It is surprisingly peaceful up here. He wants the controls back. He's now explaining that this means I have to let them go. He's going to do a trick. Oh great. We do a whirly thing a couple times. It makes us go faster. I want to go back to going slow but I'll be damned if I'm going to admit that. Now we're apparently about to re-enter the methane layer. The methane layer is from all the cows in the area. Yep, all of sudden I can smell cows. Amazing that the boundary is that sharp. OK, the ground is, while still technically lethally far away, now comfortingly close. He's guiding us toward the landing field. I have to remember to lift my legs, so that the landing gear- my ass cheeks - are available. Landing gear deployed! OK, here we go... incoming... bouncebouncedrag.
Jumper-dude has just successfully landed us from 13000 feet into the grass, on my ass.
He quickly decouples us and gathers up the parachute to clear us from the landing field. He shakes my hand and tells me I did a good job. I am grateful to him for keeping us alive. I go back to the tent to wait/watch for the others, in the last planeload. All of us agree that the experience is an intense rush. Ed loves it, and wants to start jumping regularly, so he can get to the point where he can go by himself.
Me, I am glad I went, but I think it's the kind of thing I'll only do in a situation like this- a group of friends doing it as a bonding experience. I don't think I have the right kind of thrill issues to be doing this all the time.
When everyone has gone, including Alex&Rose, who arrived late in the afternoon after flying into Hartford from Texas, where they attended a wedding, we all pile into the cars and head back to MK's for dinner. MK is half Philippino, and in my experience Philippinos are really serious about eating, so I am excited for dinner.
Dinner in MK's household is a riot. MK's dad has a tradition of always coming to the dinner table every day wearing a funny hat. And when I say a funny hat, I don't mean a baseball cap with a pithy saying on it like "If skydiving were easy, it'd be called 'Your Mom'." I mean, funny hats like I've seen in only one other place, which is on the heads of the dancers in the Tropicana club in Havana, Cuba. THAT kind of funny hat. I'd like to say that this explains a lot about MK, but it's not that there's any actual explanatory value here, it's just more like another piece of data that's consistent with everything else about MK.
So, after another dinner that couldn't be beat, we got back into the cars and headed back to the city. It was an awesome weekend. Great food, great friends, near-death experiences- what else could one ever want, really?
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