And here is the full text of the speech:

Welcome. I’m so glad so many people were able to come together on this cold and snowy day. It’s hard for me to believe I am standing here, as I realized the other day, a little over 12 years since Justin first showed up in my US History class. And science class, and math and English classes. Even, we figured out, lunch period.

I can’t say I have been waiting for this day for 12 years, or even 6 years. Stephanie has been, but not me. [pause] But I wasn’t surprised to hear that Justin finally took the plunge, and headed down this incredible path of marriage. And in typically Justin fashion, I found out by email – In a response to a quick note I sent to say rIAm and I were in town after our year of traveling. I have that email here:

After short pleasantries, he wrote:
Steph and I do have some big news. After five years she finally caught me and we are now engaged. The wedding will be December 6th, 2008 and will be held up here around Naperville. We are using the chapel at the Naper settlement and having the reception at the Abbington in Glen Ellyn. Looks like I will now have the occasion to return the best man book to use, as I believe you will need it. I was hoping you would be back in town soon.

And with that, I knew exactly where I’d be this day, and that I had to give this speech. For the record, he never did return that best man book.

Looking back on it all, I suppose it was inevitable that we would become such good friends. Considering we spent over half our day with each other at school, it was no surprise Justin decided we should start hanging out on the weekend. I think the first exchange went about like this, one Friday morning in Eby’s history class:

Justin asked “do you want to get together later?”
To which I responded, “yeah, we always have lunch together”
“No, tonight” Justin responded, holding back on calling me a moron, regretting that he picked me to ask instead of somebody who actually understood what he was talking about.

But we figured out we could go bowling, which led to a pool table, which led to pretty much a standing date every weekend for the next 6 years. We pushed curfew all through high school, only to come home reeking of smoke, and then we pushed closing time at the pool halls all through college. Which is also how we found the meat lovers skillet at Denny’s, and baffled my dad, who could never understand why we would be out so late. We haven’t closed a pool hall – or had a meat lovers skillet – in quite some time, but we found ourselves racking up some nine ball Thursday night like we’ve done a thousand times before.

The cast of supporting characters changed many times through the years. Friends came and went, others stuck around, but our friendship was constant. Ineed, Justin’s family moved, and then moved again, and then moved some more. Friends scattered around the country, but defying all odds, Justin just bounced back and forth between DeKalb and the Greater Naperville Area, the place he can most call home. In fact, it was me who moved this time, first into Chicago then across Asia and now to Toronto.

But it didn’t – doesn’t – matter. It never did. Justin and I share that rare sort of friendship where we can go months without talking, but we pick right back up where we left off the next time. And although we depend on that perhaps a bit more than we’d like, it always works.

I’m not sure that I have much advice for Justin, I preceded him in marriage two and a half years ago, but I do know a few things.

What I’ll call the Stephanie years started out rocky, as far as I was concerned. They had a roommate who defined the word “slob,” one who managed to blow up their toilet. And admittedly, I wasn’t so sure the pairing would stick. But my instinct wasn’t working back then, it seems, and Justin’s never been one to share his emotions readily, so it took a couple years for me to see why this relationship worked.

But first, let me explain a little something about Justin. He loves to learn, particularly if he can then beat somebody at the thing he learns. It’s the mild OCD, as he puts it, that every genius needs to become the very best. He’s had books on chess, pool, skiing, paintball, guitar, cars and probably guitar hero. But I never saw him with a relationship book, so I wasn’t sure how hard he was working on that part of his life. Steph, you’ll be happy to know, I caught Justin this afternoon with a book that should him him tonight.

Another thing about Justin, despite being a huge geek, he always maintained a pretty good sense of the world around him, and a self-awareness that he was a huge geek. So he overcompensated with cars, and fortunately, understood that quoting from the chess book “knight to c5, queen to d6,” and so on just didn’t hold the same social appeal as “9 ball corner pocket.”

So with as many self-absorbed, expensive and time consuming hobbies as Justin has, he’s also managed to keep a wonderful woman happy, and she has in return been extraordinarily patient and made sure that Justin has had, for a number of years – especially so since they bought their house – a warm and inviting home filled with not just candles and cats, but a whole lot of love.

And this is what makes Steph such a good match for Justin. She is that unique personality that is simultaneously supportive and encouraging, but also practical, understanding, and let me emphasize, patient. I know a little something about having such an amazing partner in life, and Justin’s smartest move is making sure this relationship was his last.

The cliche that two people are better together than on their own rings true in this relationship. Steph brings out the best in Justin, without trying to hold him back. And Justin does the same in return, and I’m confident that neither of them would be as happy or as successful as they are today, if they had spent the last six years without each other.

And so that is what makes me so happy to be here today. Some might be thinking, what has changed today? Yes, these two are now married, but they still live together, they have been functioning as a married couple, and other than perhaps changing beneficiaries on a pension plan, what has changed?

Well that is something I do know something about. Justin, it’s going to feel really good now to introduce Steph to people as your wife, and talk about Rod and Terri as your in-laws. It’s a wonderful new adventure ahead of you, and the beauty of it all is that you have the most solid foundation possible upon which to build the rest of your lives.

And so it is with tremendous pleasure, even pride, that I am standing here today. I wish you both nothing but the best, and nothing but happiness. I know you know that it won’t always be easy, but it’s always worthwhile, and at the end of each day, there is nobody either of you would rather come home to.

Let’s all raise our glasses, in celebration of your marriage and love for each other. Congratulations, and, Cheers.

Since we’d had some misunderstandings in the past about when certain plans were going to happen, I was careful to inquire in advance about what time I should be ready. I figured out 6pm.

Later, it was made clear that I was going by rickshaw with the three boys at 6pm. Hari and Vanita would come by motorbikeat 8 or 9pm. I didn’t really understand, but I knew it was better to go along with their plans.

When the time came, I was ready, and as the rickshaw pulled up, I realized there was a giant thing on the back of it. Then I realized that in addition to the mattress they were giving Barti (the bride), they must have also arranged a bed. So now it made sense, we were going with the bed and mattress and Hari and Vanita were coming later.

Now, this rickshaw was the type that has what looks like a motorcycle in front with a pickup bed in back. The bed didn’t fit inside, so it was up on top, sitting high above the driver. The mattress went into the bed, and then the boys and I went on top of the mattress. Off we went, like some great Maharajas, drawing the attention of locals all along the bumpy roads.

Everything was going along just fine, albeit very bumpy on the terrible roads made worse by the monsoons, and we were enjoying the scenery and seasonal rivers. Until, of course, we heard a very loud crack. The bed had broken. One of the two main support beams on the bottom was very much cracked. After talking to Hari we figured out we were headed back to the farm.

So about 90 minutes after we left the farm, we returned. Hari and Vanita were off with Jayesh to Mandvi to visit another of Hari’s sisters, who also had a child getting married. The rest of us waited on the farm.

But first, I had some washing to do.

Yes, washing. Because, you see, on the way back to the farm we couldn’t sit up in the bed anymore. Dharmendra sat under the bed, but the rest of us sat on the back with our legs hanging down off the rear end. Perfectly normal in India. I even took off my sandals so I wouldn’t lose one on one of the bumps.

As it turns out, that wasn’t such a good idea. As we rolled over an apparently fresh cow pie, it splattered like slime on Nickelodeon’s old show Double Dare. My right foot, mostly on the bottom, was covered. I had splatters on both pants legs. And my youngest traveling companion couldn’t stop yelling “Mendhi! Natural!” The rest couldn’t help but laugh, which was also Vanita and Hari’s response when they found out. And Vijay wasn’t much different. He at least understood why I wanted to wash myself.

And so, quite a bit after anybody planned, we found ourselves piling into Vijay’s car and leaving the farm at 10pm. My feet were clean, my pants clean enough and I couldn’t help but think two things. We might not be coming back that night (and I wasn’t really prepared for that) and that this would be the first – and like probably only – wedding I ever attended with manure on my pants.

By 11pm we arrived and found plenty of people milling about the village street in front of Barti’s house, with plenty more people in and just outside of the house. It was a mostly segregated affair, with the women inside socializing and doing mendhi while the men sat around outside.

I found it to be much like a big backyard barbeque back home. But without the meat. Or any food, for that matter. And without the barbeque. And none of the beer. Although the chai was pretty much free flowing. There was also no grass, but none of these things stopped people from enjoying themselves.

And the women came in their traditional finest, with sarees of seeimingly every color and design. The men, on the other hand, came in whatever happened to be at the top of the pile, often times this was even a clean set of clothes. And since India, while often fashion-minded, is stuck in a fashion that fits the 1980s, the men looked like they came out of the 1980s. Of course, the women looked like they came out of the 1780s.

Slowly I realized that this wasn’t actually the wedding. This was the final celebration before the actual wedding, which would take place the next night. I also found out I had been right, we were spending the night. If I had known that in advance I may have brought a toothbrush, more safe drinking water or contact lens solution and glasses. I was very glad to have packed rewetting drops. I also figured out that this party wasn’t going to stop.

After a while a guy with a drum started banging away while women and children starting dancing around him. This went on for a while, an interesting and impressive display. Then some guys came and would lift up small rupee notes and drop them down, in some sort of traditional offering. Then Barti was brought out and sat in a chair in the middle of the circle. Her brother squatted next to her and collected the fallen bills. More and more people came up to wave money over Barti’s head and let it fall to the ground. This went on and on.

Eventually the drumming stopped and the dancers dispersed and around they came with more tea for us. A little bit later, the drumming started again. Now anybody who wanted to could dance around in a circle. And this cycle was repeated all night, although not typically with the money. At some point I was given a cot and I fell asleep. A few others had done the same. Plenty never even closed their eyes.

But before I slept I really need to pee. I had scouted around the house thinking they may have a spot for this sort of thing, but I had only found a washing area (of course, as I walked back around the house from this discovery, I came across two squatting toddlers). I figured I’d ask Hari where I might find a toilet. I figured it would be very basic, but that there must be a spot for this sort of business. He told me to get water. I explained I didn’t need that much toilet. He figured out “only urinal.” I smiled and said yes, always surprised at which words Hari knows. I was directed around the house. There was a covered area, completely pitch black. I held my breath, stepped in as far as I dared, took aim and hoped for the best. I have no idea what I hit, but I was glad to be done. A few hours of sleep were waiting.

Hari woke me about 6 and we were on the road by 6:30. Vanita and Chetan stayed behind. Hari explained that “India… open toilet” and offered me the chance to use the river and its water. I declined. Later that day Hari and Dharmendra took off, I discovered, for Barti’s actual wedding. Jayesh and I were left behind. For the next day as well.

So, feeling bad that Jayesh was left behind only to take care of me, I made sure we got a special treat of ice cream and a mango drink in the village. Ice cream is his favorite treat (and I sure don’t mind it either!), and mango is both of our favorites. This put a smile on both our faces, as we were both rather disappointed to not be at the wedding, and it was an awfully quiet and rainy day on the farm, leaving us not much to do.

Heavy rains came in the afternoon (it was light all morning), and that brought the family home early, soaked, and we all enjoyed a late dinner. Perhaps secretly Jayesh and I were amused by the completely soaked and premature return of the family.

All this was the start, though, of a great friendship between Jayesh and me. Vijay and I were heading to the Vipassana meditation center to be there for rIAm’s final day – the one where she can talk to people – and then take her home the next day. I was also going to help with some trimming, and it was decided to send Jayesh along for the two nights.

Jayesh makes for a great friend, but let me tell you, he also makes for an excellent roommate. Since there was only one single bed, I got that and Jayesh got a mattress on the floor. He had this arranged nicely, but I pointed out that there were two more thin mattresses he could put under his to make an even more comfortable bed. Maybe this had occured to him, maybe not, but he was very happy I was so insistent, and you could tell he thought the bed got much better. Similarly, he was insistent I take the fairly heavy blanket, but quite happy to be able to use it for himself when I made it clear that even if I took the blanket I wouldn’t use it – I’m hot even with the fan, I said, but he’d be cold. He agreed and was happy to be curled up under the blanket at night.

In any case, from about 4pm on the 2nd until 8am on the 4th Jayesh and I were practically inseprable. We drew the attention of a number of Indians at the center, who were quite impressed. I couldn’t tell what was more impressive to them, though. That I had such a good Indian friend or that an Indian had such a good westerner as a friend. Or, perhaps, that we could easily talk to each other. Everybody agreed that Jayesh needs to come to the U.S. or Canada one day to visit.

Trough all of this, we all had a great time on the farm and in Kutch. We each found something we were looking for, and some other things we weren’t. We look forward to the day we can return to the farm, perhaps with our children, but we also look forward to bringing some elements of Kutch to Canada.

Cooking over a fire, eating with our hands, eating on the ground and making kitcheree all come to mind as occasional excellent reminders of life in India. Not to mention wearing Kutchee handicrafts and sleeping under our beautiful new quilt. We have much to take with us back home, both in materials, memories, photographs and ideas. We are excited!

(Too bad date trees don’t grow in Toronto, though!)

We headed to this city, the major one of the Kutch region of Gujarat, after we parted ways today with our lovely Nu Tech Farm family. We do not know for certain when we will cross paths with any of them again, but we are hopeful we will return one day to renew our friendship, and perhaps introduce our future children to this sometimes dusty, sometimes very wet, wild west and wonderful place we have called home for five weeks of our time in India.

I am a mix of feelings, most of which I am aware of and observing with equanimity (!), as my 10-day Vipassana meditation course has taught me (more about this later in post dedicated to my experience learning this ancient technique.

I feel privileged to have encountered Vijay Shah, the farm owner, and the lovely family we lived with on the farm and the farm workers we worked with, all who seem follow an ebb and flow, which follows the seasons and the slow beat of life in Kutch. I have learned much about organic farming, but even more about the people here, even if there are daily communication conundrums due to the language barrier. But mostly we have taken this in stride, and must simply laugh at what does manage to come out in broken English. I can certainly say people are people — sometimes enthralling, sometimes frustrating — no matter where you are.

I couldn’t help paying hommage to this broken English with the title of this post. Certainly you must have thought this an odd way to express myself in English. I couldn’t resist, after I heard how the word “expire” was used by people we spent so much time with on the farm. And I mean no disrespect; indeed, I appreciate everything everyone did here to communicate with us. Hearing how “expire” and other expressions are used by people who only know a bit of English, reminds me how complex English is, how difficult it can be to learn another language, and in turn, funny I must sound when I try to speak a foreign language, like Kutchie.

jft explained that during my time away in silent meditation, one of the two farm goats died. He at first saw the goat lying down on the ground — an unusual postion for a goat which you can either standing or resting on the ground with its legs tucked under its body, much like the cows here. The goat’s position was clarified when Hari, the farm manager announced, “Goat expire.”

Oh India, this made me laugh when I heard it! But I thought perhaps it was an isolated incident — something simply Hari says. However, yesterday we encountered Vesubah, one of the farm workers in Rayan, the village near the farm. jft explained we would be leaving today, and asked Wasuba if Atul, the worker with which jft seems to share the strongest bond, would be returning to work after several recent holidays in the region. Wasuba explained that Atul had gone to Gandhidham, because as he put it “Atul uncle expire.”

I held it together and did not laugh when I heard this. We of course were quite sorry to hear about Atul’s loss, and jft even sorrier he would not see Atul again before we left the farm today.

It occurred to both jft and me, from a we-are-linguistic-nerds perspective that in Kutchie the word for “died” or “dead” perhaps must literally mean “expire” in English. It’s hard to say for sure without some in depth study, made more difficult by the fact that Kutchie is not a written language, although it does share some portions in common with Gujarati.

Certainly our time in Kutch has not died — it has literally expired, but ah, hearing how our Kutchie friends used it, makes me think twice now about the meaning of each English word I use.

There are so many other linguistic and cultural things to share, including more photos of our latest visit to the farm, all of which will bubble to the surface as we find some moments to take ourselves away from our final eight weeks in breathtaking India.

Then I realized they were the familiar faces of Vanita and Chetan waving. And in true Indian fashion, we piled everybody, including Jayesh, into this broken down Ambassador along with our two big bags, and began the bumpy ride 7 kilometers back to the farm.

It would appear we made an impression on this fine family, and they came to meet us in grand style. The hug rIAm got from Vanita was especially telling.

But now rIAm is meditating and I’m alone on the farm, which, admittedly, suits me fine. Sure it’s a bit lonely without my wife and traveling companion, especially in the evenings, but I’m managing fine. And for me, farm work and relative solitude – with days filled with hard work and friendship with the men workers – beats silent meditation and 4am wake-up calls.

Hari, Vanita and the boys are worried that I’m sad without rIAm and that I’ll overwork myself in the sun. Not altogether bad sentiments, although sometimes it means I’m sent to do a small task in the shade instead of working with the guys in the sun. Perhaps good for preventing a red face, but I enjoy the camraderie of the workers and the feeling of a hard days work.

It’s funny, though, how the second time round there’s a certain veneer that’s been lifted from the farm stay and the resident family. Don’t get me wrong, this is still a most wonderful place, but the quirks and reality that every person has their strengths and weaknesses is a bit more evident. In some ways it’s reassuring; we’re all just regular people.

For example, I’m sent to tie bundles of a root that goes into drinking water. It gives the water an earthy taste and is supposed to be good for your system. In any case, it is nothing more than roots steeping in water – tea, basically – and messing this up isn’t really possible. As I’m left with a pile of root, a roll of string and a cutter, it seems that I’m also left to divine the proper method on my own. Naturally, I do it wrong. Which is pointed out to me freely, although the right way is less obvious (my bundles, to me, look an awful lot like the bundles done previously).

This is one of this things that you can chalk up to cultural and language barrier, and also the result of a much different way of life. Vanita, for example, pointed out that my bundles were not as tidy as the others. Let’s take this example a bit further.

Vanita, by convential American or Canadian standards, would not be considered very smart. She has no formal education, her world view doesn’t extend much beyond her local village and region (with the exception of the WWOOFers who come through) and things are done wrong if they are not done her way (not that this trait is unique to Vanita!). And yet, she is one of the smartest and most capable woman I know. She successfully raises three boys, who are getting a most excellent education. She manages to communicate with foreigner after foreigner. She makes perfect chapatti, excellent subzi and an even better kitch-er-ee. Plus, she knows how to do more things than I dare list here. But alas, the nuances of communication across cultures can escape her or me and it’s like we talk crossways. Like the root bundles, the way I tied them would result in water just as satisfying as always, but for Vanita, they were being done wrong. Fortunately, it’s a small, trivial matter.

Similarly, Hari spends a great deal of time concerned that the sun will make me red color and will assign me a more solitary or “easy work” task to take care of me. A most wonderful sentiment. Perhaps even brought on when he noticed one morning I was often sitting while Imran was working. But what he doesn’t see is that I enjoy working with the guys, and make a point to sit (ideally in the shade) and have water regularly, so I don’t wear myself down. But I understand what Hari’s doing, and by golly I know rIAm is loving him for doing it.

I’m sure it also hasn’t escaped Hari and company that I sweat about as many liters of water per day as I drink (which is, on many days, conservatively, 8 liters – 2 gallons!). All this is good for my system, even if it means laundry everyday! [skip to the next paragraph if you don't want to read bathroom talk] Despite all this drinking, my daily bathroom output is probably no more than a liter. If you take out my first morning bathroom run, at most I’ll have one stop during the day, in which I’ll eliminate probably <500 mLs. If I’m lucky, I’ll go again before bed. So I just keep on drinking and drinking.

In any case, it is impossible to really have any complaints while on the farm. I’m treated exceptionally well and get along with everybody famously. Although I can tell they all wish rIAm were on the farm too, and not 30 kms away in silent meditation.

Even today, Vanita made a point to include me in Raksha Bandan a festival where sisters give brothers (not just the blood-related ones, think of it also as very close friends) bracelets, put a red dot on their forehead, and a super sweet small hockey puck of a treat to eat, and in return the brothers give a small gift, often some rupees. It’s supposed to help ward of evil in the coming year and be good luck, or some such thing. It’s a very good day, anyway, and a much practiced and enjoyed custom. Vanita made sure I got my bracelet, and so this should mean a year of good things for me. And tomorrow the family plans to take me with them to Hari’s niece’s wedding. rIAm is most certainly going to be jealous of these experiences when she returns.

I would also be remiss to not mention that the plants and wildlife on the farm are in much greater quantity now, with the rainy season in full effect. Everything is super green; things are growing just about everywhere. The number of birds, including peacocks, storks and some other things I don’t know the name of is impressive. Some sparrow-sized bright yellow birds are building amazing nests in a tree and made for a dazzling display, with often more nests than you can count in one tree. There are also lizards of seemingly every size, such as the geckos on the wall (from pinky finger size up to probably 8 inches) and “big lizards” which can be 14-36 inches. The number of mosquitoes is much less than we anticipated (yay!), but the number of flies and other bugs has increased dramatically (boo!). And we’re also ever mindful of the possibility of snakes, a precauation made all the more sensible when a farm’s goat apparently got bit by a snake and died an hour later. Yikes! But now I can say I helped bury a goat… a most bizarre experience. The good news is that were only days (or less) away from the other goat on the farm giving birth.

I guess with all things there is a cycle, and as one thing ends another begins. Such is life on the farm, always more to do, always another plant sprouting, always another adventure around the corner. It will be sad in 10 days time to say goodbye again, not knowing when we’ll see these great people and this great land again. And yet exciting to know that as this chapter draws to a close, we begin our south Indian adventures.

I can say this because I am in Toronto. Whoops, did we forget to tell you? We are in North America for a few weeks, the original intention of returning to be here for my dear cugina’s (and maid of honour!) wedding celebration at the beginning of August. But our sojourn home has also turned into a nice excuse to fill our bellies with some home cooking, and of course, reconnect with all our lovely family and friends.

So about Toronto… After over seven months spent immersed in cultures where honking, and masses of people on motorcycles and auto rickshaws following no semblance of traffic rules is the norm; where stray dogs, cows, monkeys and other assorted wild life comb the roads and alleyways; and where roads come in dust-cloud red, pot-holed gray and black, and bumpy brown, Toronto seems like an oasis of (overly) sanitized shiny, happy people with smooth black molasses roads and paper money so clean and brightly hued j. had to ask my mom if the Canadian government had changed the colour of our funny money.

The kicker for me, after visiting countries where pretty much the only hair colour is black, is first, how many different people — every colour, style, size and taste — I have seen, and even more surprisingly, without roaming far from my family’s house in west end Toronto.

The media, schools and everyday people always talk about how multicultural our country, in particular, this city is. We brag about all the different types of food from around the world you can get eat here, which more often than not is an assortment of pretty authentic delights. The Toronto Star reminds me daily of all the festivals and events going on marking all the cultures that live here, from Ukrainian to Sri Lankan. But as much as I know and believe all this, it is particularly striking to come from the south Asian countries I’ve visited and truly SEE and UNDERSTAND how diverse Toronto the Good really is. It’s like finally comprehending that milk doesn’t come from the grocery store, it comes from COWS or that water doesn’t come from the tap, it comes from Lake Ontario.

The politeness and niceness I’ve encountered seems especially poignant after the in-your-faceness of chaotic, contrasting and cow-poop stained India. Every cashier I have encountered, first off, is smiling when I arrive at the register. Then they proceed to make small talk with me that doesn’t include asking me “what country?” And as I turn to go they tell me to have a nice day. I was even more astounded when this happened to me at an adult store where I was shopping for naughty goodies for my cousin’s bachelorette party. The other thing: the cars on the road stay in their lanes and there is parking! between the lines! for handicap people and families!

I think it was my sister who asked what I would do if I came back to Toronto for this relatively short interlude and then decided I didn’t want to return as planned to finish seeing India. I replied that if that was what happened, then there wasn’t much I could do about it, although I am sure the cost of canceling my return ticket would play a factor in my decision. If I did have this sort of reaction though, I would simply see it as giving me some insight into myself and my connection to home, Toronto specifically.

And so far, I love being home. The air smells like fresh cut grass, flowers, trees and not much else. My showers are as hot as the air conditioning is freezing. I am eating homemade peach pie while watching Food Network Canada at any time of day.

But as I look below the surface of these small pleasures (and small mercies!), I am truly looking forward to getting back on the road with j., and continuing to uncover India no matter how dirty or destitute it may seem there sometimes.

For now, though, I’ll happily let Toronto keep whacking me over the head. I can appreciate that it may not be often that I will get to see my home city with fresh eyes and with my Nonna’s homemade gnocchi filling my belly.