CAMPOut: Goin to the chapel, watchin' Straight people get ma-a-a-ried...

Soapbox aside, Bonnie and I recently went to Northern Virginia for my best friend’s daughter’s wedding. (Wasn’t that with Julia Roberts?)

And we think we have traffic. Driving the Washington Beltway was like lapping at Dover Downs with “Winston” scrawled on the car. If I ever need a stress test, the hell with a treadmill, I’ll get my kicks on Route 66 between Dulles and Fairfax. It’s enough to make me go prematurely gray. (Robert Thomas Salon crew, stop laughing).

Arriving surprisingly alive, we did the wedding service thing, gushed over the truly lovely bride and headed for the reception. If Christopher Guest made a movie spoofing weddings (“Mazel Tov!”) like he did with dog shows (Best in Show!) his cast would include the characters at our table. Everybody was pretty talkative until they deduced they were sitting with lesbians. When we got back from the buffet we discovered that everybody else had found seats elsewhere. Eeeewww…..

My friend’s son introduced us to the wedding party as Aunt Fay and Aunt Bonnie. I suddenly pictured myself as a decrepit brandy-nipping spinster with an ear horn. Two actual spinster great aunts, who remembered me from eleventh grade, assumed that Bonnie was my sister from New York. I would have tried to clear up the faux pas but neither could hear well enough to absorb news that complex.

Finally, the mother of the bride stopped by our table. After exchanging hugs, congratulations and lamentations about how we got this old, I laughed and said “This is quite odd for us. We’re the only gay people here.”

“You’re wrong,” she said, pointing to an angelic blond crew cut person in black slacks, a maroon silk shirt and tie, who I’d (wrongly) assumed was a 17 year old nephew.

Nope, it was 20-year-old niece Jennie, here from Germany for the wedding. “Her girlfriend couldn’t come,” said the mother of the bride, matter-of-factly, making me very, very proud.

“Well,” said Bonnie, we need to meet Jennie.”

Jennie lived in the U.S. until age 12, so language wasn’t a problem. Her life back home, however, is a problem. In her small town the only gay bar is for guys and gay life is terribly closeted. She and her girlfriend want to move to the U.S. within a year or so, but for now, life is pretty tough for a Hillary-Swank-Boy’s-Don’t-Cry butch lesbian.

Earlier, on the way to the wedding, Bonnie and I remembered it was D.C. Pride Weekend, but nixed the idea of taking these old bones downtown. “Been there, done that.” All of a sudden, with a youngster in tow it seemed like a fabulous idea.

As the wedding wound down, we asked Jennie about a field trip and her eyes lit up. Offering our goodbyes, we exited to the DJ spinning “I Will Survive.” Yes!

At the Vienna, VA Metro stop, a gaggle of young women, wearing rainbow colored leis around their necks headed back to their car. “Where’s the fun, tonight, girls,” I hollered. “Everywhere!” they shouted back, coming over to the car to hand us a City Paper.

Jennie was in shock. “I can’t believe it. They spoke to you. It’s so open here,” she said, furtively staring at the women.

We hopped the train and headed to Dupont Circle, Bonnie and I stifling yawns and pretending this was normal for us, rather than the hour we usually sleep through LIVE! It’s Saturday Night!

We exited Metro onto one of the world’s longest and tallest escalators - which, judging by the number of gay people on it, must have seemed to Jennie like the stairway to paradise. “Oh, I can look, but not touch,” she said, a nod to her girlfriend back home. “To be in awe” is overused, but Jennie was in gargantuan awe.

At Dupont Circle, it looked like the whole world was gay. Rainbow flags flew on hotel flagpoles and in store windows. Stacks of Pride Guides welcomed triple the number of gay men and lesbians usually found sitting by the fountain. The gorgeous spring night and crowds of gay people made you want to celebrate. I was impressed, so I can imagine what Jennie thought. We took pains to remind her that this was Pride Week, and not always like this, but I don’t think she believed us.

We strolled amid throngs of people to Lambda Rising on Connecticut Avenue for a copy of Letters and then to the Human Rights Campaign store. Jennie didn’t know where to look first. Plopping our butts at an outdoor café, we positioned Jennie facing the street so she could see the zillion gay couples go by holding hands. Her eyes got as big as the saucers under our java.

The entire gamut of gaydom passed by-from crew cuts, tattoos, leather pants, chain belts and pierced eyebrows (boys and girls) to wild summer sun dresses, high heels and lots of perfume (also boys and girls). The real kick was the number of middle-of-the-road every-day same-sex couples, indistinguishable from the middle-of-the-road every-day opposite sex couples loitering with Chai Tea. For Jen, it was an eye-opener. By this time, my lids required double espresso.

Badlands on P Street hosted the official women’s dance. Despite the hour, there was still a huge line to get in. Fearful of missing the last train to Clarksville, we made do with walking the line, gazing at the diversity-which was just fine with Jennie. I think she was on out and proud overload as it was. Just being in the midst of the celebration-without alcohol, pounding music or even talking to anyone seemed to be affirmation enough.

I remember how absolutely medicinal that could be, after conquering the self-loathing and fighting your way out of the closet. Heck, even now there was something really exciting to me about so many young women out for a great time. It was also really exciting still being vertical at 1 a.m.

Heading back to Metro, both men and women tried to catch Jennie’s eye, with many, I’m sure, wondering which team she played on. I would have loved to ask about her transgendered identity and more about her life at home. But such seriousness could wait.

For now we just laughed, talked a little bit about Rehoboth, and retraced our steps to the burbs-where the Father of the Bride was waiting up.

And we’ll never know if he was waiting up to make sure Jennie was home safe from a field trip with those wild and crazy lesbian aunts or if he was worried about the survival of the fuddy-duddy escorts. And that’s a good thing.