I DO

On our auspicious wedding day, I woke up in Tuti's rickety bed in what used to be her bedroom at Uncle Matt's.

Tuti and I were both non-denominational (illegal in Indonesia).

But her family was Muslim and frowned that we were living together for over a year out of wedlock. Tuti's parents had passed away and I got a serious marriage sales pitch from her family.

I didn't have an excuse for not marrying her except I felt uncertain about my future and couldn't speak the language. It was a big, scary step into another unknown but not any different from the unknown step I took when I moved to Bali.

She was 36 and I 59.

Going forward, though, the age gap didn't matter. We had figured out that age wasn't as important as language. We were living happily together while booking up my guest house and practicing our vocabulary.

I didn't care that she couldn't read my biography and understand where I came from.

In time, I believed, we would come to understand and embrace each other's worlds. At least, we both showed an eagerness to try.

Meeting a woman who could speak English was few in Indonesia. Most I had met were domestic workers, shop tellers, waitresses, and prostitutes.

Tuti was the first Javanese woman I met. There was a lot I didn't understand about her world.

Marginally educated, she was caring, humble, and malu (shy).

Tuti had never heard of The Occupy Movement, women's liberation, feminism, the #Me Too movement, and Woodstock or 9/11. She knew little about the United States, except for a few pop stars and the name of the President.

I thought if for no other reason the language alone made this relationship a long shot. I concluded the glass was half full not half empty.

The pink cement walls of her Uncle’s house showed their age by the length of wall cracks. A century-old, black-and-white photo hung sideways above the door.

The one low-watt ceiling light cast a pale twilight across the room.

The house vibrated with a dozen Javanese women, young and old. Wearing traditional Javanese headscarves (hijab), the women sat in a circle on the floor.

They chopped chicken and vegetables into assembled gift-wrapped boxes of food.

Others cleared furniture and rugs from the living room.

By the time I drank a cup of coffee, Tuti was off to a salon. During the early hours, my only morning task was to bathe in cold water.

I took a stroll through Tuti's village.

I tiptoed down a busted-up pathway of chicken poop and out to the main road. I also avoided the creek of raw sewage that crisscrossed my path. To my surprise, I saw no wild dogs as seen in Bali.

Here, feral cats, and pet birds seemed to rule.

In stark contrast to the lush botanical garden of Ubud, the Javanese village comprises small houses built side by side called a kampung.

Flower pots, colors of red, blue, pink, and green, helped to brighten up the weather-beaten buildings. Terraces and front yards with laundry lines opened to the neighborhood.

I felt welcomed there.

Having fun, children snapped the ceremonial pecut whip and chased each other.

The power line was full of kites and the air was cloudy with burning rubbish.

Some greeted me in English, "Gerd m-o-o-ning, Miztrrr."

Women held their babies out to me, smiled, and blushed.

I could only imagine what they thought. For the first time, Mr. Bean came out of their TV set and stood in their village. I got a rock star treatment I never took for granted.

The thought of getting married again did not weigh on my mind.

When I turned a corner to circle the village, I ran into a pengamen. This is a type of street performer. He is similar to the street guitar players who sing at car windows at the stoplight. The pengamen goes door to door, hoping for a donation. The young man was dressed in drag, singing with a portable karaoke machine in his hand.

The 3 pm mosque speakers reminded me of the time to head back.

My wedding was in Javanese, Islam. The ceremony is a unique, ancient cultural tradition. It is filled with beautiful music, art, folklore, magic, and mysticism.

In some people's minds-back home, I married the "enemy,"

Hour by hour, Uncle Matt's house filled with family and relatives. They had only one new name to remember-mine.

I could not remember or pronounce theirs. I greeted them in the best way I knew how. They arrived in their best sarongs, peci (Muslim) hats, and colored hijabs. Each smiled and gave a slight bow, then took their place on the living room floor.

Tuti wanted to forego the groom's traditional "Aladdin- looking" attire.

Instead, she asked Uncle Matt to outfit me in one of his business suits.

I would have bought a new suit but it was too late.

I squeezed into a jacket and pants that smelled like Tuti's musty old shoes. Uncle Matt sprinkled me with cologne, which did not enhance the odor. I had a pair of new black shoes and socks and a gold-colored tie.

I wore a traditional peci hat edged with golden leaves.

When I looked in the mirror, I saw a new me. Not a sorrowful man defined by his relationship failures.

I straightened my tie and hat and said to my reflection, "You're a lucky man." Mr. (Pak) Modin, the elderly holy man, arrived and asked me to recite my vow.

When I said it, he shook his head. I memorized the wrong vow, so he wrote a new version.

Tuti's English-speaking cousin said, "You have a few minutes to get the new one right. Or recite it in front of everyone until you do."

I practiced: Saya berjanji, dalam kejujuran dan ketulusan, menjadi bagi anda suami yang setia dan membantu.

Rough translation: "I take you to be my lawful wedded wife."

The mix-up occurred because wedding vows, ceremonies, and rituals vary from region to region. I memorized a vow not customary.

At 4 p.m., Tuti-in a white, lacy wedding gown called the kebaya and made her gala entrance into the living room.

We sat before Pak Modin, and in the presence of her admiring family. Lacking a wedding rehearsal, I must have looked like Mr. Bean going to the Mosque.

I misplaced the ring.

Handed the dowry at the wrong moment, and, to the delight and amusement of her family, reversed our roles. Everyone thought I was funny.

After my first attempt to recite the new vow, Pak Modin smiled in approval.

Tuti's older brother, Kamid, stood in for the ceremonial role of her father. When her turn came, Tuti glowed like a widodari (goddess) and recited her vow.

We could now share Tuti's old bedroom without shaming the family. The ceremony was followed by a prayer and a reception line. I touched each person's hands to my forehead in honor of the almighty, Mohammad.

Part 2 (marriage reprise)

One year and a half later we returned to her uncle's. The village authorities said we were not legally married. Due to improper paperwork, we did not have the social buku nikah (marriage book).

Therefore, we could not live together in Jawa.

Our requisite marriage book traveled through a labyrinth of government offices until it ended up in the Department of Religious Affairs.

There we faced the director, Mohammad Bejo, a stocky, middle-aged man wearing a batik shirt, and a black peci.

The first marriage document lacked an American flag stamp. Permission to marry an Indonesian was denied three times.

My marriage book was green and Tuti's book was red-like a couple's passports to Christmas. The photo looked like me, but the name of my dad, my birthdate, and my birthplace was misspelled.

The American flag was overlooked but the documents claimed that we were Muslim. I did not approve of that. Nor was I asked. I followed no organized religion and neither did Tuti.

I supposed that our previous wedding suggested that we are Muslims. I hoped this squared with the authorities now. Tuti and I signed the buka, shook the director's hand, and thanked him.

We improved on each other's language. I want to point out that in my two first marriages we spoke English. That is still no guarantee you will understand each other!

We celebrated our 10th anniversary.

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