When my wife and I were married, after a lovely ceremony in her parish church in Los Angeles and an all-too-brief honeymoon at the Highlands Inn in Carmel (during which I was hit by a car—but that’s another story), we met her dad at the San Jose airport (he had driven her truck with a few of her belongings—most came by moving van—up from Los Angeles) and drove from there back to Chicago where I had been living.