This week I finally got to downtown Honolulu to visit some of the attractions.

‘Iolani Palace was interesting, especially when compared to the palaces we’ve visited in Europe.

This palace, the only one in the United States, was influenced by European ones as the Hawaiian monarchy had close ties to England (the Hawaiian flag even incorporates the Union Jack). There were also some features, however, that were distinctly Hawaiian. Probably the most interesting fact about the palace is that it had electric lights before either the White House or Buckingham Palace.

After visiting the palace, I climbed the Aloha Tower. Located on the coast of Honolulu Harbor, it used to be the largest building on Oahu, and it was hit in the attack on Pearl Harbor. Afterwards Margaret and I went to Don Ho’s for some, yes, lava flows. We then went on a self-guided walking tour of Chinatown, which we cut short when some shady characters seemed to be checking out our electronic gear.

The Pro Bowl on Sunday was enjoyable; the related events that occurred during the week, however, were miserable. That’s good—it’s a lot easier to write a funny recap of terrible activities than fun ones.

Jamie K. arrived Saturday, but left Monday morning for the Big Island to camp by himself for a few days. He’s planning to emerge from the volcano and return to Oahu later this week.

Last night Diane and Stan had us over for dinner. It was a little strange going to my seventh grade math teacher’s house, but less so than it would have been if my mother wasn’t a teacher as well, showing me that teachers do in fact have a human side (usually). We had a fantastic time: the food, wine, and conversation were great. It was also the first time we saw the sunset in Hawaii.

Carolyn and Chris are en route for a four-day stay with us, but their three-flight trip from Massachusetts got extended to four flights. Not good times. Chris just sent me a text message; they were on a plane waiting to fly from Seattle to Maui, but had no idea of its flight number.

And finally, I just received this DC weather alert:

National Weather has issued a Winter Weather Advisory until 7AM Wednesday. Cloudy with periods of freezing rain. Temperatures will remain freezing and slowly start rising after midnight. Accumulations of 1 to 2 tenths inches of ice and the AM temperatures around 35 degrees.

We’d appreciate it if our friends in DC would make sure that ice is all cleared up by the time we return in two weeks. Thanks!

In the next few months we’re profiling all of our wedding guests. Check back to see what we write about you.

Mr. and Mrs. Snyder are longtime friends of my parents. Mrs. Snyder played violin in the Reading Symphony Orchestra with my dad and they’ve been gracious enough to get my parents out of town by inviting them to their vacation home in Northfield, MA.

Growing up, my family wasn’t able to have a dog, as we had an alarm system with motion detectors (it’s still there, if you are a potential thief and reading this post). When the Snyders went out of town, however, we’d dogsit their Pekinese, Winthrop (possibly the nicest Pekinese ever).

Mrs. Snyder conducted of the youth orchestra in which I was a second violinist (it didn’t have a third-violin section). And Mr. Snyder was Gerrit’s social-studies teacher one year. They’ve retired, however, and moved to North Carolina to be close to their children and grandchildren.

My first memory of the Snyders is when they were walking out of a Reading Symphony Orchestra concert with us. I was about 8 years old and thought I looked sharp in my blue blazer. Mr. Snyder, however, informed me that one should never fasten the bottom button on a jacket. I took his advice, undid it, and have looked dapper ever since.

If you are talking to the Snyders and the conversation hits a lull, ask them about the beach they took my parents to.

*scheduled to attend

In the next few months we’re profiling all of our wedding guests. Check back to see what we write about you.

I met Sean Br.in high school. Despite him being good friends with Sal too, they are as different as, say, the Italians and the rest of humanity.

If Sal pays his friends not to hang out with them, Sean is the one of us taking the money, already thinking about what he’s going to buy at Lil Peach (Chris, of course, would be the one telling Sal to cough up more cash, calling him a nasty name, and then denying that Sal gave him anything at all).

And Sal, if you remember, is known as “Nice Salvi.” No parent in Reading has bestowed such a title upon Sean. In fact, Sal’s dad banned Sean from their house for a couple of months because of Sean’s late-night shenanigans. And my mom greets Sean with his full name.

Furthermore it’s not just parents who have misgivings about Sean; siblings have them too. During the year that Gerrit and I were in high school together, Gerrit ranked my friends. Sean come in last. It wasn’t close.

Sean, however, does have redeeming features. Most notably he is the creator of Bru’s Brew, a potent punch that we enjoyed while partying at our parents’ houses while home on college breaks. It has one ingredient: whatever is available.

In 1999 my mother made a rum cake for Christmas dinner. Unbeknownst to her, the bottle of rum had been all water for four years (meaning my parents’ guests must have thought Old Man Everson watered down his liquor). Sean had used the rum for Bru’s Brew when I entertained one night while my parents were in absentia.

Needless to say, Sean is a blast to hang out with. As uptight as I was in high school, I can’t fathom how much worse I would’ve been without knowing him.

Emily is the respectable half of this couple. She and I (along with the yet-to-be profiled Dan S.) went to nursery school together back in the day. Sean and Emily married in 2002 and have one lovely, loquacious daughter who clearly inherited her intelligence from her mother.

Anyway, if you are talking to Sean and Emily and the conversation starts to drag, ask Sean if he learned his lesson. Or ask Emily about their wedding pictures that I’m forbidden from posting here.

*scheduled to attend

In the next few months we’re profiling all of our wedding guests. Check back to see what we write about you.

Hearing the mothers in Reading, MA, you’d think Salvi’s first name was “nice,” as in “How’s that Nice Salvi?” Such sentiments were a stark difference from those about my two other friends from high school who’ll be at our wedding, the yet-to-be profiled Sean Br. and Chris.

But Sal is nice. We were going camping one night during a summer in college. Sal didn’t want to go, but he was too kind to share his feelings ahead of time. So we showed up at Sal’s house we tried to coax him into having fun with us. We weren’t making progress, so we started playing soccer in his driveway in an attempt to filibuster him into joining us, and Chris kicked mud all over Sal’s garage door.

Just then Sal’s dad came home, saw mud all over the side of his house, and started yelling in Italian at Sal. We decided it was time to leave. But, even though Sal was catching hell for something Chris did—and Sal didn’t want to hang out with us in the first place—he still ran after our car to give us money for whatever increase in expenses we were going to incur because of his absence.

In addition to being paid off not to hang out with him, Sal’s worth knowing because his mother makes the best Italian food I’ve ever had. While Sal is generous with his money, he’s less so with his mom’s cooking. We knew she was an excellent cook, but Sal had never asked us over for a meal. So, via invitations dropped off in our lockers, Chris requested the pleasure of our company—at Sal’s house—for The Feast. Word got to Sal’s mom that we’d been invited over to their house for dinner. She apparently didn’t care that the invite came from her son’s friend and not her son and prepared one of the best meals I’ve ever had.

Sometimes Chris, Sean, and I get the feeling that Sal wishes he had found higher-quality friends in high school. And, because we like that Nice Salvi, we wish he had had better luck back then too. But we’re also glad that he’s stuck with us.

While Sal could have done better with his friends, the same can’t be said abut his wife, Pam. You know she’s got to be special—she’s not 100 percent Italian, but Sal still married her. They just had a son, Nicholas, whose bountiful locks are the envy of 31-year-olds named Zach everywhere.

We’re hoping Pam and Sal can make it to our wedding, but we understand that Sal’s most comfortable in suburban Boston and suburban Naples, Italy.

Anyway, if you’re talking to Sal and the conversation hits a lull, compliment him on his white-on-white suit or ask him what it was like to dress up as McGruff the Crime Dog. Or ask Pam if Sal ever confided in her why he hates his high school friends.

*scheduled to attend

In the next few months we’re profiling all of our wedding guests. Check back to see what we write about you.

George was a fraternity brother of mine at Wake Forest. His earliest distinguishing moment in my life was when I walked into my dorm sophomore year, saw the message light on my phone flashing, and announced to the suite, “I got a message; must be a lady!” (I was being ironic.) I hit play. Instead of a lady, I got Vin Scully’s call of Bill Buckner’s error in Game 6 of the 1986 World Series on my voice mail. As it was pre-Dave Roberts, my phone hit the wall. George eventually fessed up. I didn’t like George at first.

I first met Judy our sophomore year at Wake. She’d hang out near my suite and I’d pass her without speaking. After several months of such encounters she’d started dating George and she told me she liked my columns in the school paper, evening hanging them in a bathroom stall. So I started talking to her. As most of our friends (including George) graduated a year ahead of us, Judy and I hung out a lot our senior year. Not that she remembers any of it.

Their wedding in 1999 was the first of the 21 I have attended since graduating college. Since then they’ve been kind enough to host me on my frequent trips to New Jersey to see them, which often coincide with my frequent trips to New Jersey to see Bruce Springsteen.

Since college, George and I have continued to throw down. We’ve

• rocked out so hard at a Who show that we fell asleep on the train home and missed our station (thanks for retrieving us, Judy)
• impressed the staff at a bar in Charlotte to the point that we merited complimentary “Be a designated driver” t-shirts
• closed down, with Judy, a Chili’s in Reading, MA

Less hardcore, but fun times nevertheless, with Judy and George include when

• Judy and I went to pick up a prescription for their cat at the vet
• the three of us went to a hardware store to buy Christmas decorations for their townhouse
• I accompanied them to scope out potential pediatricians

One of my favorite post-Wake, non-wedding rendezvous with Judy and George was at Wake Forest’s homecoming a few years ago. The highlight was calling Judy and George’s hotel room at about 10 a.m. on Saturday morning and having Judy ask me, “Can you tell me why my husband’s sick and his pants are ripped?”

Last year Judy and George had a daughter, Elizabeth Claire. While adorable, The EC recently got her whole family sick (including three of four grandparents update: she got the fourth), proving that she’s just like her dad, Typhoid George.

Judy was online whilst I was writing this entry, so I solicited her input. Her response: “It should be all about how great I am.” Just in case that sentiment isn’t clear, let me say, Judy is great.

Anyway, if you find yourself chatting with Judy and George, ask Judy about how she frightened Gerrit when he was in high school or about the time…actually, don’t ask her too many questions, as her memory is gone and you’ll just frustrate her. But you can ask Cheeseball George about dirt farming or his father-in-law’s alternative use for a coffee can.

*scheduled to attend