I sighed. He had once introduced me to his mother as a birthday present, so I guess I could have predicted this conversation, if I’d been facing the truth. Funny, the aspects of a loved one’s personality that you just don’t pay attention to until you realize you won’t be relaxing on a beach in isolated calm after a year of wedding planning.

“But that’s okay,” I said out loud, determinedly. “I may be so exhausted I’d like to spend a week in a coma, but this is my chance. For once I get to share some of my culture with your family, in thanks for all of their culture they’ve shared with me. I’ve got this great place to take them. They’re going to love it.”

By the time we met the French contingent in Savannah, they had been wandering loose in the South for two nights and three whole days, and they had discovered Super Wal-Mart, had their photos taken as curiosities in several small towns, and about gotten their fill of Waffle House.

“You can eat somewhere else, you know,” I said. “It won’t hurt my feelings.”

“Yes, but it’s just like a film. And besides, there aren’t really many other choices in Macon.” Macon, roughly two hours from my parents’ house, is a city south of Atlanta whose primary purpose seems to be to serve as a shopping outlet for a nearby military base. The French had stayed there the first night after the wedding.

“Yes, can you go over the decision to stop in Macon with me again? I mean, I’ve been there myself, several times; but it was under duress. There are giant strip malls closer to my parents’ house, you know.”

“Well, we’d been driving for over two hours; we had to stop somewhere for the night. Plus, it has the same name as a town in Burgundy, so Jean-Charles called it a sister city. Speaking of Jean-Charles . . . have you talked to him yet?”

“No.”

“I believe he wants to speak with you. You might not want to go find him.”

Unfortunately, on a road-trip honeymoon with ten of the groom’s family members, I figured I would have to face my father-in-law sometime. We went ahead and braved his hotel door.

Claudine opened it. Jean-Charles, Titi, and Bruno froze in mid-jump on one of the beds, twisted, and tumbled down on top of each other. Titi, who ended up on top, posed immediately as if he were riding in a rodeo. Jean-Charles, recent victim of a talcum powder dousing, started shaking his hair to share the powder with the other two. Bruno, crushed on the bottom, writhed out from under them enough to lift his head and fix me with a stern stare. “We need to talk.”

Titi tumbled off and stood with his hands on his hips. “Three words. No Beer Sunday.”