Our three-day wedding trip to Des Moines could not have gone more smoothly or been a lovelier experience.  Reducing the chemo dosage made, I think, all this possible.  My stomach cooperated for the entire trip (that was my biggest worry), and although I still crashed each day, it was only once a day, and I woke up generally feeling energetic.  Mohamed did do all the driving, since I still have a tendency to fall asleep with very little warning.  And the weather was gorgeous: temperatures around 80 during the day with cooling breezes.

We left Topeka at about ten on Tuesday, dropping Kimber off for boarding.  The trip to Des Moines was about four hours plus one stop for lunch.  We stayed at the Hotel Fort Des Moines, which was clearly once a gem of a hotel where visiting VIPs stayed.  The lobby is still grand, but the rooms, while comfortable enough, are badly in need of some TLC.  The day we arrived, Des Moines was the daily stop for RAGBRAI, the Register's [newspaper] Annual Great Bicycle Race Across Iowa.  This was the 41st edition of the oldest, longest, and largest bicycle rally in the world.  The streets were full of thousands of bicyclists; they made us feel definitely unfit.  I was pleased to see that although Lance Armstrong was making his first public participation in a cycling event since his admission of doping, he received absolutely no coverage on the local news.  That evening, we walked a block to Centro, an upscale (white table cloths, a decked-out waitstaff) pizza restaurant.  And then we both collapsed.

Wednesday morning we went to the Polk County recorder's office to pick up our marriage license.  I was still envisioning something going wrong, but we found on-street parking right in front of the building, a worker with whom we were sharing the elevator asked us whether we knew where we were going and pointed us in the right direction, the forms were ready, and the clerk gave them to us and wished us a hearty "congratulations."  Since the entire bureaucracy of Shawnee County, where we live, is known for surly inefficiency, I was surprised and touched by the good cheer.  We drove the forty minutes north to Story City, entering on the two-block main street.  Then we turned right, and I turned to point out the house where I spent my first thirteen years.  And there was nothing there but a vacant lot.  I suppose it's normal--the house wasn't new when I lived there--that after 50 years, it had fulfilled its life span, but it was still a shock.  We toured the rest of the town and then stopped at the cemetery, where I visited the graves of my parents and of an aunt and uncle.

At noon, we met my old classmate Patsy Jensen, whom I hadn't seen in fifty years, in one of Story City's restaurants.  When I grew up, there were no restaurants in the town that lasted more than a year or two.  Soon after I left, I-35 was completed a mile east of town and several chain restaurants sprung up there.  But now it seems as if the town can support a few decent restaurant in the town itself.  Patsy married her high school sweetheart 48 years ago, worked as a nurse at the local hospital, and, like all her family, has spent her whole life in Story City.  It was great to see her, and she knew the fates of every single one of our classmates.

We drove back to the hotel, and I fell asleep for exactly one hour--a perfect break.  And then my friends Carol and Terry arrived after their nine-hour (with a one-night stopover) drive from northern Minnesota.  Carol has made me laugh since we first met in graduate school at the University of Oklahoma in 1968.  We met in the lobby and chattered non-stop for about an hour before Laura and Scotty, who had driven up together from KC, arrived.  Laura had had a hip replacement two weeks before, and I was worried about her spending so much time in the car, and Scotty and his wife were leaving the next morning at 6:30 from KC to San Diego, so both of them were making the return trip after the ceremony and dinner.

We gussied ourselves up (more less than more) and drove to the rose garden in Greenwood Park, where we met what Iowa calls our "officiant," though spell check won't recognize the word.  Carol and Terry had brought boutonnières, a poem ("Brown Penny") by Yeats, and soap bubbles to fill the air.  The weather and the setting were both beautiful, and the ceremony was a perfect length.  Mohamed and I almost teared up once each, but we kept ourselves together, exchanged rings, said "I do," and then, now officially spouses, sealed our marriage with a kiss, for Mohamed momentous since it was his first public kiss with a man.  After all the signatures, the officiant would normally mail the completed license to the recorder's office, which then would mail the marriage certificate to us.  But the officant told us that if we took everything to the recorder's office the next day, they would print and stamp the certificate while we waited, so we decided to do that.

Then the six of us went back to the hotel, which has a French restaurant called Django, the name of Carol's German shepherd when we were in graduate school and whose best friend was my mutt (but an incredibly smart one) named Caleb.  Although what was important was presence, not presents, there were a few surprise gifts.  My generous friend Jill had tried to get me to tell her the name of the restaurant; I told her we had chosen IHOP.  She didn't fall for that, and somehow she had discovered where we were dining and sent two bottles of champagne.  Laura gave us a Waterford silver picture frame, and Scott had had the chef prepare a spectacular croque-en-bouche for dessert.  A croque-en-bouche is made with profiterole-like pâte à choux, this time filled with strawberry cream, piled into a high pyramid, and then drizzled with strands of spun sugar or caramel.  He had ordered for six people; there was enough for 16.  No one complained about the excess.

We said goodbye to Scott and Laura, who faced the ride back to Kansas City, and then Mohamed and I crashed.  Thursday morning, we met Carol and Terry for breakfast at Panera's which was just across the street and then said goodbye to them as they faced the nine-hour drive back to Grand Marais.  We stopped at the recorder's office, where it took ten minutes for them to print the official marriage certificate and again congratulate us.  The trip back to Topeka seemed much shorter, since we weren't anticipating anything; we picked up Kimber, and then crashed again.  We thought Kimber might enjoy chasing bubbles, but just as with sticks, balls, and Frisbees, she had no interest whatsoever.  She does seem to be happy, though, to be back on her own bed.  I had the same sensation.  Although the marriage couldn't have gone more smoothly, although I felt strong and energetic, and although I did none of the driving, I was still absolutely exhausted.  Our bed looked as welcoming to me as Kimber's did to her.

And so now we are officially spouses federally and in Iowa and twelve other states, though of course not in Kansas.   We'd felt married for the last six years, but somehow it feels different to have a certificate to validate it.  Thanks, Iowa.  And Justice Kennedy.  And all of the many of you who have sent us messages of congratulations and support and celebration.  We felt the warmth of your presence, even if it was long distance--from Hawaii to Paris with many stops in between.