The Rhode Island wedding: The end...or rather, the beginning.

Allison puts a ring on Patrick at their May 29th wedding in East Greenwich, Rhode Island.

I had never been to a destination wedding before my daughter's. Actually, I don't even consider this a destination wedding, because half the people involved already live in Rhode Island. There was talk of going to Ireland, which would have been great.

But since most of the out-of-town people were staying at the Hampton Inn, I could see how great it would be for everyone to fly to some great resort place to celebrate a wedding. Like a Scottish castle, for example. The way we sat in the lobby and could meet and greet other wedding guests was very cool.

The gown had a simple look,
yet exquisite beading and detail.

But I have a word of advice if you fly to a wedding: rent your own car. With a GPS system. My poor daughter was trying to save us some money after we spent roughly $2,500 getting to Rhode Island, and she insisting on giving us one of her cars to use.

She meant well, but getting people from the airport, to the rehearsal dinner, to the church, and then to the country club reception was the bane of her weekend. When I said I needed to ask her something while she was getting her makeup airbrushed on, she asked wearily if it had anything to do with transportation, and if so, she didn't want to hear about it. Poor lamb.

Sprint must have lousy coverage in that part of the country, because the GPS on my phone that normally I rely on couldn't connect to the satellite. The night of the rehearsal dinner, I was driving to the airport to pick up my mother, and made a fatal wrong turn in the first 5 minutes. I kept thinking I could fix it, and by the time I called my daughter, I was crying in frustration and cursing every road in Rhode Island.

We ended up screaming at each other, and she suggested that next time, I call as soon as I get lost. Sadly, there was a next time. And a time after that.

My poor mother had to wait almost an hour for me, sitting patiently curbside in one of Southwest's wheelchairs. I felt terrible, but not as bad as I did when I proceeded to get us both lost on the way to dinner with the bridal party girls.

We got lost going to restaurants, train stations, and stores. The only reason we didn't get lost sightseeing was that there was no time for it. The groom is inordinately fond of Newport, R.I.; in fact he proposed there, at the Tennis Hall of Fame. I don't care about tennis, but I did want to see author Edith Wharton's summer home, Land's End. All I know about Newport, I learned from "Age of Innocence." Patrick was upset that we came all that way and didn't see anything, but we'll just have to make a trip back.

The day of the wedding was a blur. My daughter had hired make-up artists and hair professionals, who invaded her hotel suite like a army bivouac. They set up director's chairs in front of the window "where the light is better," and a folding table which became littered with hairpins, hairspray, combs and brushes. It looked like backstage at a beauty pageant, which these ladies frequent.

The pros regaled us with funny stories about Mrs. Rhode Island contestants, while they ratted our hair, airbrushed on makeup, and kicked up clouds of Aqua-Net.

The organ and stained-glass window of the church.

The twin nieces of the groom were doing death-defying jumps from the top of the room divider to the bed, where Charlotte was using the king-sized mattress as a trampoline, just to add to the chaos of eight adult women getting ready in two small rooms.

In the middle of all this, the fire alarm went off in the hotel. We had ladies in the middle of being coiffed, and frankly, needed every second before the wedding. No one seemed to know what was going on, and the elevators wouldn't work, but we kept on. The klaxon was so loud, I could feel myself losing hearing.

We carried on until I heard and saw the fire truck, then I started moving everyone out of the suite. We were in the hall, getting ready to walk down five flights of stairs, when a hotel employee said it was just a drill, and we needn't evacuate. So I got to look like a jerk for panicking and giving in to the peer pressure of the herds of people I saw in the parking lot.

It seemed like the tumult went on forever, until suddenly, it was time to go. We piled into the limos and went to Our Lady of Mercy Parish Church, where the groom's family worship. It is a lovely church, founded in 1853, although like many lovely old ladies, it has had some work done.

Our party seemed dwarfed by the big room, but we huddled together in the front pews. Looking back to the door was lovely, and you could see the choir loft, with afternoon sunlight pouring through its stained-glass window, and the organ filling the room.

What can I say about how my daughter looked that day? All brides are beautiful, but Allison was stunning. The dress was elegant with clean simple lines, but exquisite beading and a row of buttons going all the way down into the train.

The groom was handsome, the children well-behaved, except Charlotte, who demanded in her two-year-old way to be near her mother at the altar, and had to be taken out by her dad, Chris. My older daughter Megan was the matron of honor, and I guess in Catholic weddings, they stay at the altar the whole time.

Allison, Megan and Charlotte.

The young priest told jokes, was engaging and the couple quickly went on their way with blessings, rings, and huge smiles.

We bombarded them with bubbles on the way to the limousines, and we moved on to the country club for the reception. The venue was beautiful, and they had a high minimum for the food service which translated for our small wedding into steak and lobster for dinner, and a cocktail hour with passed hor d'oeuvres and a buffet overloaded with shrimp and raw oysters.

Dancing at the reception.

Instead of a head table, the bride and groom had a table all to themselves, which made it nice for people to approach them, get individual pictures taken, and just wish them well. The table was in front of a picture window with a fabulous view of the water.

We all danced at one time or another, although the disc jockey didn't seem to have anything past 1979 in his repertoire. Megan asked me to keep Charlotte occupied for one dance because she had requested Jim Croce's "Time in a Bottle." She knows I hate that guy, and said, "Don't judge me!"

Jim and I danced too, just not to Jim Croce.

We had to distract Charlotte while her parents danced because she hadn't seen her dad for the week Megan was at her sister's preparing for the wedding, and the tot was determined to monopolize his time. She demanded every dance, and even when she fell asleep in his arms, the sleepy toddler woke up and protested.

The evening wound down and we were faced with the transportation problem again. The hotel shuttle that the hotel advertised had only six seats and it was 40 minutes for it to make a round trip.

The ring-bearer Kaitlyn, flower girl Mia, and the ever-charming Lotte.

We called three cab companies, who refused to come get us because they had been burned before with people who called them, then hopped on a shuttle before the cab arrived. We begged, pleaded and offered credit card numbers in advance, but they were resolute. They were actually not very nice about it, with their "Cheers"-like accents. Welcome to R.I.—now go home.

In the midst of all this turmoil, my daughters' godfather Joaquin leaned up against the wall, took in the warm spring air and sighed, "Life is beautiful." I guess when you have escaped war-ravaged El Salvador, it puts the travails of getting from a beautiful country club to a nice warm bed after consuming expensive seafood, in its rightful perspective.

In the end, we were saving by Megan's in-laws, who had rented a van to drive down from Connecticut, and made another trip to come back and get us. It was really very nice of them. It's good to have family.

The new couple is at home on Long Island, where they face all the same obstacles everyone else does in today's society, only now they are facing them together.

The recessional.