Before they had me and divorced, my parents honeymooned at Niagara Falls. As a teenager, I went to the Falls for the first time myself. I rode an elevator down into the rock, and stood in a line in a cave that opened onto the rushing water, to throw a penny into the waterfall from behind. Each person wished, tossed, and advanced; the line moved quickly. Wish, toss, advance. When I got up there, I made a wish, tossed a penny, and then 10 gallons of freezing water flew back into my face, soaking me head to toe. “That’s just how it happens every once in a while,” the guide told my mother. Some tic of the physics.
The Falls has not lived up to its promise for our family. Or maybe, it occurred to me recently, it has, in a perverse way. That was my reaction to the discovery that the word “honeymoon” originally contained the premise that love is sweet, like honey, but wanes, like the moon. Both my parents have remarried, but I don’t think any of these happier pairings have really honeymooned. Honeymooning seems, I don’t know, moony. Maybe fate-testing.
In August, my new husband and I flew to Venice, Italy, for our honeymoon.
