'Something's gone wrong here, Ness - we're the ones with the dance training, yet it's old klutzy toes who gets to strut his stuff up there!'

Well, 'strut his stuff' was glorifying the embarrassed little twirl my boyfriend Jay gave the bridesmaid - Bonita, her name was - as he chaperoned her into the wedding breakfast. He said it was the first time he'd held a woman. I hadn't done so myself until I started strictly ballroom lessons with my now dear friend Vanessa here. Actually, 'dance training' is a slight glorification too, for our halting rhumbas and waltzes at the community centre - but we're getting there.

'Escorted by Mr Justin Armstrong - Miss Bonita Lake,' announced the DJ/MC, like Bruce Forsyth on Strictly Come Dancing (which in the USA is called Dancing with the Stars, and hosted by a Tom Bergeron - source: Wikipedia).

Vanessa and I snapped away as Jay trotted his 'date' into the line-up of bridesmaids and groomsmen - that's it, plenty of photographic proof for him to live down.

This is convention at American nuptials: the crew of bridesmaids (five in this case, in fuchsia) are teamed with a corresponding number of groomsmen. They all file before the altar during the ceremony, and are 'coupled' up for the photos. The men escort the girls out of church and, as now, into the reception - the latter to a snatch of appropriate 'theme music.' Jay and Bonita's was Take That, Never Forget - Jay's a massive Gary Barlow fan, and 'Never forget where you've come from' alludes to his schoolboy friendship with the groom, Ashley.

(Unlike most of their UK counterparts, by the way, attendants pay for their own frocks and suits - and hence sometimes turn down requests to partake in weddings, on the grounds they 'can't afford to.' Also, since there must be an even number of bridesmaids and groomsmen, if for example a girl drops out, either a substitute must be recruited or one of the lads made redundant!)

Anyway, the DJ introduced the bride and groom's parents, and then these ten attendants pair by pair - culminating in the best man and matron of honour, and ultimately: 'Laydeeeez and gentlemeeeen - please be upstanding for your bride and groom, Ashley and Lauryn Goodman!'

Their 'tune' was fittingly extrovert: The Darkness's I Believe in a Thing Called Love.

Everything today - from the whistles for their choreographed moves, to the riotous summer colours of their flowers, to their mountainous pink wedding cake - was so scream-it-in-yer-face jubilant.

Zap-zap went the cameras again. There was a sense, throughout the unbelievable fortnight that peaked with this wedding, that if you didn't manically photograph everything it may dissolve like a mirage.

Just to put my involvement into context, my Jay - Justin - and I have been a couple since meeting at a Will Young concert three years ago. He was at school, as I said, with Ash Goodman, and their friendship has endured Ash's emigration to the States - hence Jay's groomsman role.

I'd never met Ash, and neither of us had met lovely Lauryn, until we flew to Philadelphia. She's a teacher, and a whirlwind of a girl; terrific fun and holiday company. It's easy to see why Ash is besotted and proposed after dating for eight months.

They live in Millersville, PA, close to the Amish county, the rural Christian community made famous in films like the Harrison Ford thriller Witness. The Amish - or Pennsylvania Dutch - are confined to this region of the world, and adhere to a Victorian lifestyle, shunning 'modern' amenities like cars (horse-drawn carts are their vehicles) and electricity. Married men grow beards, and the women's clothing must bear no 'adornment' such as buttons. A drive through their farmland community in Lancaster County is a route through a living museum, like the Black Country one in Dudley.

But I'm wandering. Ness/Vanessa is the girl who back in Birmingham is cursed with me as a dance partner. Just four weeks into our friendship, forged at Ivan's ballroom group, it transpired that by an astounding coincidence Ness was Ash's cousin (and was thus going over for the wedding, on our flight no less). She had a brief teenage pash on Jay too, years before he came out. He cringes about that, but she's over it.

I cringe more at her mother Carol's deluded hopes that our ballroom union might evolve miraculously into a bedroom one.

She apparently thinks Jay is 'just a phase,' and all it will take is a few close sambas for me to see the light and fall for her daughter. In America she kept giving Jay and me these 'it's a shame' looks, as though I'm wasting my time there but don't realise it yet.

And three nights into our stay, she confided: 'That last chap of hers - Martin - gave her confidence a proper battering, Conrad, but you've perked her right up.' Carol actually reached across poor Jay so she could squeeze my hand to stress her gratitude. 'And now you lovely young people are off to New York tomorrow!' As though Jay was to play gooseberry and Vanessa would not be the occupant of a single room!

The three of us had booked a two-day break in New York, taking advantage of its proximity (three hours by Amtrak) to Pennsylvania.

I will never forget our ascent of the stairs at Penn Station. That exit on to Eighth Avenue offers your first preview of the Big Apple, and despite your luggage you actually run to reach it. Then you're at the top, you emerge - and that wow of a city view opens up like widescreen.

We were there during a heatwave, so everything shimmered in the humidity, like a soap opera dream sequence - adding to the overall 'pinch me' feel of the trip.

After check-in at the Hotel Pennsylvania, we strolled down Fifth Avenue (our strolling gait - as opposed to the natives' manic dash - coupled with our cricked necks from craning at skyscrapers, must have screamed 'tourist alert') to Central Park for a bite of lunch. This is a haven in the heart of the world's busiest city - canopied from it and from the ruthless noon heat. You can barely hear the frantic traffic; only the skyscraper tips above the trees hint at your location.

Young workers with bagels in their briefcases were taking their breaks - probably taking for granted the portrait painters and sylvan scenery they saw every day.

Our afternoon pilgrimage was to Ground Zero, which really is the most extraordinary tourist 'attraction' - if that isn't a crass choice of words. Certain friends I'd chatted with before thought me faintly ghoulish to contemplate going. Frankly, I couldn't have contemplated not going, and I'm 'glad' (again, the quotation marks denote a word I'm half dubious to use) I did make the effort.

Impassioned and heartbreaking graffiti daubs the walls. Plaques naming all those killed on that monstrous September day encircle the fenced, desolate hole which you can't believe once housed the world's tallest buildings.

To visit that contemporary shrine, to view that redrawn skyline, feels in a tiny way to partake in history.

Cities by night have long been a visual passion of mine - and no city dazzles after dark like New York.

Following dinner in the hotel restaurant, Joe O's, the three of us hit Times Square. It's several blocks away - and remember we were in a heatwave - so there were blisters and wails from Ness. 'I don't do sensible shoes,' she remonstrated.

Were we there longer, we'd have booked for a show - but with just two days at our disposal, theatre risked eating valuable sightseeing time, and anyway we can always see shows at home. Just to be on Broadway was enough, bathed in the blaze of those adverts for Wicked and Spamalot and Mamma Mia.

The brashness, the illumination, the monster scale of the buildings, gave me a sensation of being dwarfed. 'Little me,' was a recurrent thought, 'little me - Conrad Herrington from the West Midlands - how did I get here?'

We crowned the evening at Charley O's, a restaurant and more importantly jazz club, entertained by a Frank Sinatra tribute and pianist. 'He's not as good as you, my darling,' Jay mouthed loyally. But reference to my music reminded me I was to be 'cocktail hour' pianist at the wedding reception. Why did Lauryn's classy guests seem a more daunting audience than a Sunday throng at Birmingham Conservatoire?

Stop shaking, Con. Another large whiskey please, waiter.

A friend, Ros, went to New York three years ago and told me the Empire State Building was a phenomenon best experienced at night. Having experienced it at eight A.M., and despite my aforementioned love of city night lights, I would have to disagree.

For a start, there are no queues pre-breakfast - a boon when your time is scant.

And that eighty-sixth floor view of the now toy-sized metropolis (how breathtaking to look down on skyscrapers) skirted in a translucent mist is truly peerless. All those landmarks sprawl before you like a living geography book: the Chrysler Building, Macy's, the United Nations headquarters, Madison Square Garden, Brooklyn Bridge…

Between the three of us, we notched up another hundred piccies.

Only Liberty remained masked from us that morning, by the haze - though as we were visiting her for the afternoon we weren't disappointed.

The myriad TV channels hollered weather warnings that day, and on the Ellis Island ferry deck we were virtually barbecued (there's not a lot of shade out on that Hudson). Our photos (oh yes, there were dozens) depict three clammy, bedraggled tourists in the foreground of the advancing Statue of Liberty.

'Liberty Enlightening the World,' to give her official title, is another sublime sight. She's 151 feet (the pedestal she's on is another 154 feet) and more than 120 years old now, queening it over the Hudson River and Manhattan. One can imagine what a welcome she'd have presented to an early twentieth century immigrant, chugging into New York Harbour from Ireland or Italy after weeks at sea. Her copper beauty and torch-wielding power stance scream a big 'Yeaaah' of optimism.

We opted not to disembark at Liberty Island to climb inside her, so to speak. We'd heard it wasn't worth it: a congested shuffle up 354 steps, then a meagre view through her crown.

So we alighted instead at Ellis Island, the next islet along and once the main immigration port for those expectant shiploads. It's now a museum telling the engrossing history of US immigration, illustrated with modern visuals like videos and computer archive besides poignant source material such as photographs, roll calls and even items of clothing.

Back at Ash and Lauryn's, we were but days from the wedding.

There was something quite stimulating about being in the hub of last-minute planning. There were daily deliveries of presents from their registries, and Lauryn fielded continual calls from cake-makers, balloon companies and the like.

'This'll be you one day, our Nessie,' Carol crooned, threading ribbon through an order of service (or a 'program' as they'd call it over there). She did a little wrinkly-nosed smile at me, clearly including me in these mythical nuptials. It served only to remind me that Jay and I really ought to start talking civil partnership dates (though I wasn't feeling mischievous enough to say this in front of Carol).

On Friday - The Day Before - the entire family and wedding party travelled to Philadelphia in convoy, where we checked into the Ramada, our hotel for the weekend, and later scrubbed up for the rehearsal dinner.

Carlton and Jackie, Lauryn's delightful parents, had prepared a 'welcome' bag of treats in our rooms, comprising such Philadelphia snack produce as pretzels, Tasty Kakes and Hershey's Kisses.

Anyway, this 'rehearsal dinner' I mentioned. It's custom over the pond, you see, for the groom's parents to host a black-tie dinner following the church run-through. Ash and Lauryn's was at the Union League of Philadelphia, an historic elite club for professional people.

With its sweeping staircases, silver service, acres of marble, rich leather and mahogany, austere paintings of US presidents emblazoning the walls, and even its own vast library, this was by far the swishest place I'd ever been to. Dauntingly swish.

'They've got hairspray in the ladies' loos,' Vanessa returned from her poshest ever pee, 'and hand cream and mouthwash! Bit different to the community centre bogs, eh, Con?' She was whispering now, of course, because this was not quite refined dinnertime chat. 'You're lucky if you get any paper in them!'

There were twenty-five of us around that long banquet table: family, bridal party members and partners.

Each course of the exquisite meal (tossed vinaigrette salad, chicken in sundried tomato and caper sauce, and cinnamon apple tart) was interspersed with a brief speech. Wedding reception speech etiquette applies in reverse: the bride speaks, as opposed to the groom, the groom's father for the bride's (Ash's dad, Ness's Uncle Matt, sobbed through his), and the matron of honour for the best man.

It was not a late night. We dispersed around nine - Lauryn 'home' with her folks, the rest of us back to the hotel for lots of big-day psyching-up.

By Saturday the humidity eased, and the temperatures that had melted Eastern America all week were in the slightly more breathable eighties.

The ceremony was late by our standards, at half-past four (as they lead straight into the evening do over there) so the August day was entering that lovely slow, shadowy glow as we streamed into church.

There was still some fire in that sun, though, and we all armed ourselves with water (it's the only time I've seen wedding guests lug Evian bottles down an aisle as though off to a step aerobics class), and afterwards, during the photos, huddled into available shadows to avoid frying.

But I'm ahead of myself. A trolleybus was our transport from the hotel to the dinky, modern church in Lauryn's family neighbourhood. Ness was my bus-seat mate (across the gangway from dear Carol, tenaciously winking at us), as Jay was already there doing his usher/groomsman bit.

The US wedding dress code is for eveningwear, so our fellow passengers were in black tie and some wonderful dresses. The scope for fashion is wider than at home, where suits tend to predominate for the women. They don't much go for hats there, though - they're more a Brit quirk (in fact few shops even stock hats). Ashley's female relatives were almost celebrities - their hats and fascinators singling them out as English laydeez amongst the 250 Americans.

One of the photographers (there were two - the other was with Lauryn) was lining up Ash's family before the altar for their formal shots, as is their tradition pre-ceremony.

Soon the whole congregation were seated - water bottles discreetly at our feet - and it was time to commence. A friend of the couple's, Milt, took to the lectern and performed (sang and played acoustic guitar) a poignant song he'd written for the occasion.

And then the bridal party began to file serenely in: firstly the five men (my Jay so handsome in his grey waistcoat, or 'vest' as they call them there) who formed a row to our right of the altar, and then the girls in pink, who came down the aisle one by one and similarly stood to the left.

The Trumpet Voluntary heralded the entrance of Lauryn in her glorious dress, on Carlton's arm.

I've truly never seen such a joyous bride. She's a highly vivacious girl anyway, and couldn't wait to become Mrs Ashley Goodman; when she affirmed her 'I do,' nobody could help but grin because she sounded so positive and jubilant. The huge kiss they dealt each other when the pastor pronounced them husband and wife made a change from the usual self-conscious 'you may now kiss the bride' peck - and was welcomed with a euphoric applause.

Following the photos - and the huddling in shade - it was all aboard the trolleybus once more for the reception at a nearby golf and country club.

The evening festivities began with the 'cocktail hour' at which, yes, I was to play. As the bridal crew were photographed in the leafy grounds, guests ate canapés from platters borne by mute waiters, sipped punch, signed a blown-up photo of Ash and Lauryn (in lieu of a guestbook) - and sporadically someone would pause by the piano and listen to my music.

Not that, in saying this, I was expecting An Audience. I was background music, and happy to be so. Honoured, in fact. I was half concealed by a huge vase of lilies on the lid - which helped, though. I wasn't so 'on show.' The cocktail dresses and tuxes evaporated away as I abandoned myself to the music like I always do. A dash of Beethoven, snatch of Frank Sinatra - and the hour was soon up. Back to being 'just' a guest.

Not that I wasn't guaranteed one fan, though. Carol gave my hand a little nip across the table and cooed, 'That was delightful, Conrad!' I clearly scored valuable son-in-law points with my performance.

'Jay's about to come in now,' I liberated my hand to fetch my camera as our dear DJ started his spiel.

Not only were there the parental and bridesmaid/groomsmen twirls, but between courses came the parents' dances - a custom we haven't quite adopted back home. So after the appetiser (green salad) Lauryn and Carlton took a turn - to an old Bobby Helms number, My Special Angel - and the entrée (beef Wellington or sea bass) was followed by a jive, to Queen's Crazy Little Thing Called Love, from Ash and his mother Dot.

The speeches accompanied dessert: wedding cake (sponge) with strawberries dipped in chocolate. By coffee, it was after nine and shortly thereafter disco time.

It's de rigueur in the States to have a free bar all night - in fact, expecting one's guests to purchase their own drinks is considered outrageously stingy. Not wishing to be unpatriotic, but imagine that back home (bodies would litter the dancefloor)! The Americans aren't known for being voracious drinkers, so the perk wasn't abused and behaviour remained civilised.

Festivities wound down relatively early - eleven - and we were bus-bound once more. For our short return trip to the hotel, Lauryn, who's a teacher, had laid on a quirky surprise. An old-style custard yellow school bus - complete with those rattly windows, and passengers with the inclination to moon out of windows. Ooh, it took me back (excuse pun)!

We assembled once more next morning, for a barbecue brunch at Carlton and Jackie's - all somewhat bushed after a hectic but enriching holiday. Indeed most of us had flights to catch that afternoon, so after a gust of hugs there was a convoy to Philly Airport.

During our seven homeward hours, Jay and I reflected - it was the kind of holiday that gave rise to lots of reflection - on what had been an education in more ways than one.

And resolved to book our civil partnership. Ash and Lauryn's stunning wedding had given us a taste for celebration. Perhaps we'll honeymoon in New York.

© Leigh Rowley, 2007

This is Conrad Herrington's travelogue; Conrad, Jay, Vanessa et al are fictitious, as is the dancing class element. This, though, is only a semi-fictionalised piece based on my holiday of a lifetime to the USA in summer 2006. The bride and groom in my case were not Ashley and Lauryn but my brother-in-law Jeremy (who, for the record, has no cousin Vanessa or gay, piano-playing friends) and his lovely wife Julie. Their magnificent wedding was in Swarthmore, Pennsylvania - the particulars of both the event and our excursions in New York and Philly are drawn from fact.

Everything about our two weeks in America had such an amazing, 'You couldn't make it up' feel - hence I wrote this piece in a more factual, travelogue style than my previous stories.

<<Back to Home Page
Next Story>>