J and G: An Italian Wedding

An Italian wedding: those three words may have you imagining a tanned bride in a traditional white fluffy gown, breasts spilling over, long hair elaborately styled with multiple bobby pins and as much gel and hair spray as it can possibly endure. She will be escorted up the aisle by her portly father, grinning with pleasure while simultaneously eyeing his future son-in-law with doubt and sighing with the financial burden of the event. The groom, his dark, curly hair slicked back, is looking uncomfortable in a tuxedo, cravat, and shiny shoes reflecting his mother’s attention to detail. They are joined in matrimony in a tedious, sombre service in a Catholic church dripping in marble and mosaics followed by a grand, boisterous reception where hundreds of immaculately dressed guests are on hand to celebrate. These include countless relatives and friends, and at least two dozen strangers the bride and groom have never met. There are hyperbolic speeches, an outpouring of tears, grandiose gestures often involving the gifting of cash and the emotional ping of apron strings being cut as two children embark on their conjugal journey. Oh, and mountains of good food that remain in the memory of the guests long after the photos have faded and the grandchildren have been conceived.

The wedding we attended on Saturday 1st September was nothing like that. The marriage of Gi’s cousin Caterina to her live-in boyfriend Daniele was a peep into a cultural event that occasionally reminded me of our wedding. However, as the day progressed, the differences continued to mount. Weddings are incredibly personal, and unique. Personalities, culture, family circumstance, budgets and location all play a part in the celebration. This was most certainly the case for this young couple.
Caterina grew up in the small village of Lavariano just south of Udine, a quiet city in Italy’s northeast. Gigi remembers spending holidays in Lavariano as a boy, and despite their age difference, the two bonded and are loving cousins to this day. Not long after finishing high school Caterina made the unusual decision to leave home. She moved to Trieste, a city on the Adriatic coast near the Slovenian border, about an hours drive from her family home. She has asserted her independence by moving away, working, and cohabitating with her boyfriend. Fiercely dedicated to her right to be her own person she is the lead singer in a rock band, due to release its first album in November. Unlike many of her peers, she manages to combine a youthful innocence and mature wisdom with great intelligence and insight, a delicate touch and tolerance that can turn quickly to a firm hand and control when required. It’s an inspiration in a country where many 20-somethings are still living under their parents’ roof and rules, resulting in the development of a relationship of convenience, lies, evasiveness and suffocating, fastidious parenting.

Caterina and fiancée Daniele, both 25, had an unusual wedding.

We left the house at 7.30am primped and preened in ‘casual’ outfits (as per Caterina’s instructions). Caterina’s mother (Gi’s aunt) Marina, was in accordance with mother-of-the-bride tradition, stressed and edgy. Gi’s mother (Marina’s sister) Rosaria, who instantaneously evolved into the abovementioned suffocating, fastidious parent the moment we flew out of Naples together seemed intent on pursuing that mode of behaviour. Marina’s youngest daughter, Marianna, 14 years old, left earlier having been collected by her father in a dream of teenage distraction. With the two sisters in the front seats, Gi and I practiced some deep breathing as we hurtled along country lanes before following the coast highway with the distracted Marina behind the wheel.

We arrived in Trieste just after 8.30am. Marina threw the keys at Gigi, asked him to take care of the parking ticket and strode off, presumably in the direction of the bride. It was then that I noticed that she had parked in a temporary tow away zone. After finding a legal parking space, we three strolled back in the direction of the main piazza. Gi and I later reflected on the potential disaster of the bride’s mother having parked her car in a tow away zone, in a northern Italian city where cars do get towed away. Imagine the drama of a missing car on a quiet Saturday afternoon with the reception across the border in Slovenia.

The Piazza dell’Unità d’Italia is home to the Office of Marriages where civil services are performed. The square itself is beautiful. With majestic white buildings on three sides, one side exposes a view of the esplanade and sparkling Adriatic Sea. A stunning statue punctuates the square, and the open blue sky above filled me with a feeling of calm. It is a regal space that clearly represents the Austrian town-planning influence of the 18th century.

Wedding guests milled about greeting familiar faces with the effusive double kiss. The groom came rushing towards the crowd to a flurry of cheers and hoots. Elegantly dressed in a black tuxedo with tails, a formal white shirt, purple cummerbund and top hat, his distinct lack of neckwear was a cheeky statement, as were the sneakers and sexy stubble.

At 9am, the bride arrived striding through the piazza on her father’s arm, a vision in violet. Any nerves where concealed by her beaming smile. Caterina’s favourite colour is purple, and accordingly she had chosen a svelte strapless gown in lilac edged with black velvet. Her long brown hair was pinned up in simple curls, and her makeup was beautifully subtle. A simple bouquet of cream roses rested in the crook of one arm. She entered the front doors of the city hall and glided to the front where the groom and their two witnesses waited. The crowd surged indoors, suddenly realising that the formalities were indeed commencing on time. The room was quite small, and very apricot. Five rows of chairs covered in apricot velour provided seating for the family but the entourage of friends had to press into the back of the room, spilling into the entrance room. The obligatory European and Italian flags hang limply at the front beside the civic representative presiding over the proceedings. He looked tubby and uncomfortable in dark suit and tie, his cropped hair accentuating his jowls. To my great delight, he was wearing the formal green, white and red sash clearly portraying his bureaucratic position. In the corner was a reed thin woman, oddly dressed in an apricot pantsuit. She was seated behind a large mahogany desk, falsely smiling out at the gathering.

The civil ceremony was short and sweet. Daniele responded with the traditional ‘Lo voglio’ (the Italian equivalent of ‘I do’) while Caterina pulled a note from her cleavage and read her personalised response, her voice quavering with emotion. They exchanged rings, kissed briefly and before Caterina’s paternal grandfather realised the ceremony had started, it was all over. As I watched him haul himself up from the bench in the entrance room, it struck me as ironic that he’d missed the wedding of his eldest grandchild. They signed the paperwork, overseen by the apricot woman, while the crowd spilled out into the square, lighting up cigarettes and commenting on the bridal outfits.

The carved wooden doors soon opened and the happy couple emerged arm in arm. I was astonished by the general uproar that greeted them. They stood in the doorway, unable to step forward as they were pelted, literally pelted, with rice and dried pasta. Daniele gallantly handed his top hat to Caterina to help shield her from the barrage. They stood there grinning, obviously prepared for this traditional greeting of a newly married couple, shaking the rice from hair and other crevices only to receive a second and third onslaught.

For the next hour, the couple greeted family and friends. Just before 10am, another bride and groom arrived. The two groups blended into one. The air held a strange mix of relief, anticipation and excitement as one couple relaxed and the other couple’s nerves tingled. Caterina finally finished receiving congratulations from uninvited friends and stepped towards Gigi and I. I felt a wave of warmth as I watched the two cousins kiss each other. With a twinkle in her eye she then hugged me, greeting me in English. She then found herself enfolded in the arms of her grandfather. It was then that she began to cry.

Eventually the group walked the short distance to the Caffetteria del Borgo. Prosecco, white wine, juice and canapés were served. The bride and groom had originally planned two separate receptions. The initial café refreshments were organised for their large group of friends who were intent on being part of the wedding. A more private, intimate lunch at a favoured restaurant just across the border in Slovenia had been planned for the families. Unfortunately, the friends assumed that they were excluded from the lunch due to budget constraints, and consequently invited themselves to the Slovenian celebrations, offering to pay for themselves. Faced with a group of 20-something friends caught up in their own sense of self-importance and mischievousness, Caterina and Daniele reluctantly agreed. It was a decision they would later regret.

The café was in a quiet laneway, wedged between a restaurant and a quaint bookshop. The perfect weather complimented the beauty of the surroundings. A pale lilac building with white shutters bumped up against a building that reminded me of pistachio sorbet. White curves and simple solid lines highlighted a Fascist building constructed during the Mussolini era. Mustard yellows and lemon facades look like candy against the blue sky. A crumbling brick wall edged up against an external steel staircase.

As lunchtime approached the bonboniere, traditional gifts for the guests including sugarcoated almonds, were distributed and the last of the prosecco consumed. Then it was time to drive to Slovenia. What should have taken 30 minutes, took nearly two hours as the friend riff raff insisted on everyone driving in one long procession, pausing so the official photographer could capture it, creating havoc at a major intersection and then stopping again in the no-mans-land between Italy and Slovenia to buy tax free cigarettes. They had already festooned the bridal car in silver gift bows, hundreds of them stuck onto the shiny blue paintwork of the hire car. The drive itself was accompanied by a constant blaring of horns, quieted only for the brief slowing down at the border checkpoints where we flashed passports and ID cards at the uninterested, bored guards.

Slovenia is known, amongst Italians, for its good quality meat. Fresh produce and other goods are also generally cheaper on that side of the border, although Slovenians tend to shop in Italy for the greater variety of products available. With this in mind, I was looking forward to lunch, although it was already 3pm.

The restaurant was uninspiring, although I was charmed by the apple orchard next door. Despite good reviews from the bridal couple, the food was disappointing. The attendance of the friends meant that what should have been a small, affectionate gathering with the bride and groom seated in the centre turned into the family group awkwardly crammed into one corner, while the riff raff where seated at one long table up the centre of the room. To accommodate the rent-a-group Caterina found herself across the table from her least favourite sister-in-law, and wedged in beside her new mother-in-law. What a way to start married life.

The meal started with a waiter endeavouring to be heard above the riff raff. After several aborted attempts, the raucous tinging of glasses resulted in a momentary hush giving him enough time to run through the menu. We started with antipasto, although by Italian standards it was rather ordinary. Plates of thinly sliced prosciutto arrived along with small dishes of pickled olives and vegetables "straight out of a tin" according to Gigi. The highlight was a plate with a mound of red brown in the centre surrounded by wedges of butter, half a dozen grapes and two chunks of rockmelon. Assuming that the mound was some sort of dip or dried tomato paste I spread some on bread and was surprised to find it was rather tasteless. Only as I swallowed did someone tell us that it was a northern speciality of raw meat mixed with herbs. God, I thought, I’ve just eaten raw meat, and now that you mention it, it really does look like a big glob of uncooked minced meat. This stuff is not like eating raw fish Japanese style, or cured hams, or rare steak. Unfortunately, I failed to discover why the locals choose to enjoy this little delicacy without first waving it over a grill or flame. It was with some distaste that I watched a woman seated across from us slap butter and then generously smear the concoction onto tiny morsels of bread. She paused only briefly to discus the complementing flavours with Gi’s aunt before shovelling in more.

This taste test was followed by pasta, not just one, but three types of pasta with three different sauces all on the one flat plate. It was a mix of gnocchi in meat gravy, dark fettuccine in a cream sauce and spinach lasagne. In between courses, Gigi and I strolled around the village, discovering a steam train proudly restored and displayed at the front of the station. Nearby was an enormous front garden, segmented into vegetable and flower plots being tended by an elderly couple, bent over with their labours. The main course eventually arrived, accompanied by salads and large platters of over cooked vegetables and fried chips. A large white plate was plonked in front of me and I was faced with an unappealing arrangement of skewered chicken, sausages, pork chop and steak. It was an overwhelming amount of meat, and for my vegan husband it was the ultimate test to be surrounded by a veritable butcher’s shop.

Of course, some things are universal about weddings. The father of the groom soon turned red faced and obnoxious with alcohol consumption. The smokers disappeared outside at regular intervals. The bridal car was draped in toilet paper. The children grew bored and looked around for entertainment. Women approached the bride to study her rings and seek an explanation for the mouse tattoo that was on shown above her left breast. The groom was the only person able to control one particularly energetic guest who enjoyed the beer to the point of removing his trousers. The cake appeared, adorned with glazed strawberries in the shape of a heart, topped by a figurine of a bride dragging her new husband by the scruff of the neck. The cake was cut, the groom made an uneasy speech in the local Friulian dialect (which none of the Neapolitan relatives understood) and the crowd cheered ‘ip, ip, urra’’ (instead of Hip, hip, horray).

I felt it was a shame that Caterina and Daniele didn’t insist on the intimate family luncheon that they had originally planned. Their friends ran riot, at times inappropriately taking over the casual event with their practical jokes and boisterous behaviour. Caterina told us later that they also managed to get into their flat, locked the cat in the bathroom, and filled the place with plastic drinking cups and swap around things in the kitchen and bathroom like sugar, salt, shampoo and dishwashing detergent. They will no doubt continue to ‘enjoy’ their friends’ sense of humour for weeks to come. To their credit, though they tolerated it all with a smile, enjoying the celebration despite the insensitivities of a hand full of people. Caterina spent most of the luncheon talking to Gigi and her family, enjoying the opportunity to catch up.

It was a relief when a waitress finally offered us coffee. The hit of sweet espresso was good. Having started the day at 6am I was starting to feel the effects of the lack of sleep, drawing on reserves of patience and communicating in Italian when the dialect and accent are so different to that spoken in Naples. Gigi’s mother was regretting the decision to make the journey and attend the wedding, and she looked increasingly uncomfortable and out of place. It was close to 8pm that we finally climbed into the car, having spent an hour with farewells and began the journey back to the village of Pozzuolo del Friuli where Marina now lives.

Just as I was looking forward to a quiet trip home, assuming everyone was just as drained as I was from the day, Gigi and his aunt got into a deep conversation about health, depression and personal responsibility. I’ve had uncountable experiences with Italians who tell me they are ‘just discussing’ something although the raised voices, swearing, gesticulating and rising tension suggests to my cultural sensitivities that it is something more like an argument. However, to be locked in a small car travelling at high speed after a long, long day with such a ‘discussion’ building and reaching at least three climaxes for an hour was culture shock disaster for me. At one stage I quietly dissolved into tears when Gigi’s mother joined in the yelling, talking over the others, straining to make her point. Three times during the trip Gigi fell back in his seat and whispered "ma che bello, Jenny" (something like ‘wow, it’s fucking brilliant, Jenny’) before excitedly leaning forward to rejoin the ‘conversation’. He was genuinely delighted to be engaged in such a discussion with his aunt who is in denial about the personal issues she is (not) dealing with.

Personally, I would have preferred some soothing classical music, or even a root canal.

Weddings bring out the best and the worst in people. Caterina was a delight to watch and be around. She literally glowed with beauty. Her purple gown and simple accessories highlighted her figure. They looked genuinely happily in love. Gigi’s face was lit up with pleasure every time I spied them huddled together talking like long lost friends. Daniele wandered around placating the riff raff and tolerating the foreigners (Gigi, his mother and I) who had taken it upon themselves to travel from the depths of the peninsular to celebrate the nuptials. The moaning, anxiety and disapproving judgements suffered by others at the wedding all fell by the wayside, because at the end of the day I’m sure that Caterina and Daniele will remember the day warmly with flashes of purple, at their favourite restaurant, with as little pomp and pretence as possible, embracing their individuality and love for each other.

At least that’s how I’ll remember it for them (except for the delightful drive home).