The Wedding

The day has finally arrived. We have traveled over 6000 miles by taxi cab, prop plane, Airbus 340 and car to attend this wedding. 

We befriended The Groom when he was pursuing graduate studies at our local university in San Diego. I was a volunteer tutor/mentor to international students who desired an American friend to help them adjust to the new culture and language. Already fluent in English, The Groom became more like a German son to us, and during his time in California we were also pleased to host his parents and sister on their visits. Years later, when he became engaged, he gave us six month's notice to plan and prepare for a trip to Europe to attend their wedding.

And this is the day. The Groom is all smiles and The Bride radiant in her white gown, a lovely splash of apple-red shawl gracing her shoulders. When I compliment them on this special touch, The Groom confides that it is a last minute sort of thing, a recognition of the chilly day.

And it is chilly. It was raining in Munich when our plane touched down two days ago. The young man at the Hertz counter greeted us with the news that they had run out of the small (i.e. cheap) rentals and he was giving us a complimentary upgrade to a larger station wagon. Ron breathed a sigh of relief and bent to my ear, confiding that he had worried our three large suitcases, two backpacks and a purse wouldn't have fit in the car he had actually reserved.

The drive through Germany to the Italian Alps is delightful, even in our sleep-deprived state. Everything is so green, a color I have been sorely missing in California during three years of severe drought. The mountain road is narrow and twisting, but not heavily traveled. I am doing fine until - to Ron's delight and my dismay - it begins snowing. Within minutes, it seems, everything turns white before our eyes. This little traction warning light on the dash comes on, alternating between yellow and red. I have never seen one of these before.

"What does that light mean?" I ask as I brace myself for impact or something worse, like sliding over the steep edge just outside my window.

"I don't know," National Asset replies.

"How can you not know?"  A ridiculous question, I recognize, even as it slips from my tired brain through my lips. What can I say. Sudden snow storms in unfamiliar mountains on very narrow roads tend to rattle me. 

But the Asset is loving it. I can see it on his face.

Eventually we enter a very long tunnel. The Germans seem to prefer these to roads that follow the contours of the land, winding around and up and down hills and mountains. When we finally exit on the other side, the roads are clearer. My anxiety subsides.

A small group of family and friends, about thirty in all, have gathered at an inn in the Dolomites for four days of eating and talking and hiking and sleeping and eating and talking some more. The wedding day begins crystal clear, the sun rising above the sharp peaks of snow covered alps. We ride with The Groom's parents to the church, a beautiful old cathedral.

"I must warn you, the seats are very uncomfortable," his father warns just before we enter. I think dangerous is more like it as I straddle the old, unmovable wooden kneeling bench running dead center through the pew. I grasp the seat in front of me and the back of the one I am to sit upon and hobble my awkward way to the end where I am grateful to sit down. I am not quite sure what I am supposed to do with my feet. Maybe this ungainly construction is designed to keep parishioners awake.

The liturgy is in German, of course. Music from a pipe organ, trumpets, and a mixed vocal quartet spill from the loft and resonate against the tall, ornate pillars, the painted ceiling and walls. The sheer beauty of sound and setting brings tears to my eyes.

I can follow the service program for the Mass (an actual pamphlet) fairly well. When it was our turn to sing the hymns (all 30 of us in this large, otherwise empty sanctuary) I am thankful for choir teachers who taught me to enjoy singing in other languages.

But... I am cold. So very, very cold. I am wearing two layers, thinking they would be adequate for a car ride and an indoor wedding. The Groom had talked in terms of 'the chapel,' so I hadn't anticipated a large, ancient, unheated church that is at best only 2 degrees above the freezing temperature outside. When something in the liturgy causes everyone to abruptly stand and reach across the aisle and pews to shake hands with everyone else, my fingers are ice picks.  I do my best not to break a leg on the kneeling board while extending my blueish hand.

Pictures are taken outside after the ceremony, in the small courtyard that serves as a cemetery. Elaborate wrought iron crosses adorn closely spaced graves. The Groom's father tells us that since the space is so small and it has been used for so many centuries, the graves are reused. After 70 years the bones are removed, the name and birthdate are engraved in gold on the skull, and it is stored in another place. I marvel at this show of respect for those who have long since passed on.

We return to the hotel to celebrate. I begin to thaw, a round fireplace radiating heat from the center of the room as snacks and drinks are served. A projector screen is set up and some kind of quiz ensues, pitting the bride and groom in a contest of German economics, geography, history. Language flows around and over me, German, Italian, and occasionally a bit of English, an auditory flash, like the rotating beam of a lighthouse at night. 

In the evening we are seated at the parents' end of a long, elegantly set table. The five course meal is served over the course of four hours, nearly every course attended by a specific wine. I am aware of the honor bestowed on me, seated here with the mothers and aunts, but none of them speak much English and they are shy about even trying to communicate with me. I scour my mind for bits of high-school German vocabulary to insert into predominantly English questions. They seem to appreciate the effort, but mostly I sit and observe.

Late at night there are more games and folk dancing in the fireside room. We feel honored to be included in this intimate celebration of The Groom's wedding but we grow tired. Jet lag and the effort of bridging language and culture catch up to us, and we slip quietly up to our room to rest.