In Seattle, to be a barista is to hold a kind of public office; it is to have "regulars" and to be responsible in no small part for people's experience of the neighborhood, and even thereby for the character of the city. If visitors say they found Seattlites surly and cold, they have probably visited certain coffee bars in Capital Hill; if "the people seemed friendly," they've probably been to Ballard.

These regulars develop a keen sense of attachment to their baristas, whether the figures in question are awarer of it or not, and often despite the fact that they've had no interaction beyond the professional. In some cases though, the morning chit chat elevates, and a kind of relationship develops featuring a deep sense of having been cared for on the part of the customer. Amber was one such figure in a well-loved independent coffee bar in the arts district of the city. Among her regulars were the director of the ballet, the owners of local theater companies, lighting designers, actors by the score, newspaper writers and businessmen--although, lets face it; this is Seattle: businesswomen--of every stripe, and many of them developed attachment to Amber for any number of reasons: her smile, her coffee making, her curiosity, of any number of other fine qualities to tell of which I am the picture of partiality.

The getaway vehicle was going to be a Bentley, but we moved out wedding date over a few days and so he asked would a white Rolls Royce be alright with me? Yes, I assured him, a Rolls Royce would be fine.

In Charles Dickens' Great Expectations, Pip is the beneficiary of a mysterious guarantor on whose largess he lives well in London, with nowhere to put his thankfulness. It's a little how I felt, not having met the owner of Classic British Motorcars who was a regular at the coffeeshop where Amber tended bar and offered, as a wedding gift, to make his fleet available to us for transport from the reception. The tricky bit was that he wanted to surprise her with the gift, but needed certain particulars--time and venue not least--which would have given away the ruse if asked.

We organized the pickup through a third party and I had another transit surprise to store up for the wedding which was already threatening to crumple my reserve. "How are we getting from the reception to the hotel, or wherever," she asked; I hadn't told her where we'd be spending the wedding night either. "Don't worry; I'm on it," I was pleased to report.

On the day of, I placed my transportation minister in charge, himself a racing instructor at a motorway and the most qualified car-guy I know, of coordinating with the driver, the owner, and the reception venue. As with everything that week, the reception seemed to fly right by, and just when things seemed to get going, quests began saying their goodbyes. Amber wanted to stay. So did I. But soon, it became clear that if we hung around with our friends and our wine, we'd be the last people at the party, thus depriving the great majority of our guests of the occasion of seeing us off. They'd miss the lavender we collected and the getaway car and we the shower of blessings and a final farewell.

I tapped my man saying to call the company to get a car down here pronto, moving up the agreed deadline by a good two hours. They didn't have the Rolls available just now.

"Send whatever you've got."

When a vintage London taxi cab pulled up, a smile of deep satisfaction broke across my face and I was immediately glad for everything: that we were early and the Rolls busy. Suddenly that felt like ostentation. He hadn't had the kind of wedding were we pretended to be princelings, but rather a cooler, more local and charming affair. To ride off in a prince's consort would've jarred.

Inside, there were two glasses of champagne, a dish of strawberries, and an oriental rug on the floor. We ran out under a cascade of lavender and popping flashes into that little oasis which conducted us on a tour of the city we know so well. It's being Saturday night, the resellers were out in Belltown, waiting in line behind velvet ropes to enter posh clubs. We stood up through the sunroof waving as they cheered and Amber streamed her veil behind like a banner.

When I thought of Seattle from Germany, where we moved directly afterward, that's the ride I replayed: the city as I know it framed through those windows, the scent of lavender caught in my bride's hair, her tiny weight and the texture of her mod getaway dress, the strawberries, sweet champagne, and the newness the whole world seemed washed in.