Two Thursdays ago I boarded a plane bound for Paris for my dear friend Gina’s wedding the following day in Orleans, France. I’ve been meaning to blog about it, but lacking photos from the event (yes, I know all you art directors stopped right there and are now following the outclick to Perez Hilton or some other gossip site instead) and also being sufficiently preoccupied with two large, important deadlines for school this past week, I’ve held off writing up what was indeed a very grandiose, fabulous event. In any event, let’s proceed with description.
As the flight descended into Charles de Gaulle, it occured to me that the first time I ever landed in Europe, it was at the same airport. It was one of the last Pan Am flights, and I have a very vivid memory of smoking still being allowed on international flights -- people a few rows ahead of us were smoking, the people directly in front of us complained, and a very surly stewardess (I think they were still called stewardesses then, too) snapped that it wasn’t her problem. Her problem, one of my parents joked, was that she was very soon going to be out of a job (or, I realize now, working for United, which may be even worse). The last time I arrived in Charles de Gaulle was on my flight bound for Barcelona in January of 2003, and my vivid memory of that flight was taking off in SFO wondering if I’d ever go home again and wondering where my adventure was going to lead me. And so I thought it fitting that with my graduation date from ad school in the very near and foreseeable future, that I’d come in a circle, back to where I’d begun European adventures when I was only 12, then 14, then 22, then 24 years old.
What I’d forgotten about Charles de Gaulle is that it’s the world’s wackiest, weirdest, worst airport ever created by man (or hateful aliens). On some bizarre architectural level, there is something rather cool about the sensation of being in the innards of an immense, concrete lobster (especially as you ride the criss-crossing plastic escalators from one side of the orb to the other), but that wears off really quickly. I got my bag, encountered the three most vile French girls cleaning the bathroom (OK, one was cleaning -- the other two sat and cackled with her as she moped the floor with the tenacity of a slug), and ventured to find the shuttle to the RER station. Then it was getting on the right train and heading into Paris for a mere 8 euros. Fortunately I’d caught an express train and we didn’t have to make all the stops along the way. I arrived in Notredame only to find the line to Gare d’Austerlitz closed, so I had to shlep all the way to the metro and finally found myself in Gare d’Austerlitz, where I learned that the train information on the internet was completely wrong and that trains to Orleans don’t leave every hour. In fact, the next train was in 2 and a half hours, so after a minute of despair and sadness that I was trapped at the train station, I sat down in a cafe and had a coffee, followed by a glass of white wine, and did some writing for my portfolio. And, admittedly, there is just something inspiring about a Parisian train station in any form -- the combination of language, travellers, noise, and smoke is all a bit of provocation to imagine things about all these other people’s lives. For example, the English man and German girl sitting at the table next to me for a while. The English man was definitely looking like he’d spent far too many holidays tanning and boozing in Benidorm (meaning that he had the obligatory bad tattoos, the leathery brown skin, the vacant look in his eye of someone who’s spent the bulk of his life three sheets to the wind in a pub in Northern England) while the German girl was, as far as I could tell, young, pretty, nice. He was prattling on and on about how he’d see her again and how he could visit Germany, etc., which had me curious as to the nature of their relationship. Had they been myspace admirers who finally met in Paris to see if romantic sparks would fly? Had they met the night before in a bar near the Champs Elysees and she was now desparately trying to escape his dirty, now-sober clutches after a night of regrets?
With all this people watching (and eavesdropping) to attend to, the time flew by and I boarded my train to Orleans. An hour later, I had to switch trains at a nearby station. Finally I arrived in Orleans and found myself in a completely deserted, vacant train station. Meanwhile the directions I had to the hotel didn’t really make sense and I found myself in an empty, unlit bus station with people sleeping on the ground and others lurking in the shadows. So. I very quickly hauled myself back to the train station and jumped into a taxi and set off for the Hotel L’Abeille. Immediately upon entering I heard two girls speaking English, and they turned out to be friends of Gina’s in town for the wedding. I put my bag in my room and joined them for a bottle of wine (which after travelling for nine hours was very much appreciated).
The next day, I had a small breakfast at the hotel, met a bunch of others gathered for the wedding in the lobby, then Thilde (Gina’s friend with whom I was sharing a room) and I set off to walk around Orleans, which I will sum up by saying it’s very pretty and French. We had a nice lunch at a restaurant in the main square, then it was back to the hotel for the madness of Gina’s enormous family and group of friends preparing themselves for the ceremony. Thilde and I walked to the Cathedral, which is like a replica of Notredame hovering over the town. OK, so the ceremony itself was totally beautiful and done in French and English (they even flew their American priest out to oversee the ceremony) and I basically blubbered my way through the entire thing up until the part when they said “I do” and I decided the weeping part was over. And then, it was over and time to head an hour away to the Chateau Villete. I got in a car with friends of Gina’s parents and one of her uncles. I realized as we headed through windy little roads that I really haven’t seen much of France -- just Paris, including the suburb where Gina lives, Nice, and Chamonix. But I haven’t really ever seen the roads and typically tiny French towns -- all of which look like they were designed by Disney to be a part of the “Beauty and the Beast” attraction I’m sure exists at one of their resorts. Which I’m sure is a very American thing to say about France, “It looks just like Disneyland!” Anyway, I kept such thoughts to myself, and if they were said outloud at any point, I made sure that no one around could speak English, lest I damage the advancement in Franco-American relations being done that weekend.
The Chateau Villete is a large, pink mansion surrounded by a large green lawn, on which they’d erected white tents and set out tiny white tables and chairs. A jazz band played. We had glasses of champagne and nibbled tiny little hors d’oerves, of things like puff pastries filled with herb butter. Gina and David made their arrival in a beautiful old car (which all the men knew the make and model of but which I can’t remember beyond ‘beautiful old car’) and after photos galore were taken, we headed inside to eat around 11 pm.
I was seated at what I quickly saw to be the ‘bad kids table’, as on my left was a French guy, Jean-Marc, across from him, Gina’s friend Jeanet, across to me another French guy, on his left, one of Gina’s friends Sandra, and to my right, an English guy named Matt and his girlfriend, Emily. Jean-Marc chainsmoked and Matt saw to it that our table had a never-ending supply of wine, and it was definitely the most fun spot to be at the entire party.
Our first course was a foie gras surrounded by slices of exotic fruits, with a mango sauce drizzled over the slices of star fruit and kiwi. Yum, foie gras. Given that it would be ILLEGAL in California, I ate every bit in full appreciation of the freedom granted to people in France to eat such a delicious food product. Next we had some kind of meat, followed by a cheese-and-salad course. Intermittently, speeches were made and songs were sung, honouring the French-American couple. After the salad-and-cheese course, we all went outside where a large cart was rolled out, with a traditional French wedding cake (picture, like, a pyramid of pastry balls) in the center, along with other various little chocolate and fruit cakes. After photos were snapped, fireworks were set off from the lawn and we were treated to a five minute festival of exploding lights!
Then the deejay began to spin and dancing begun. And from there it’s all kind of a blur, we may have had a coffee course at one point, but I can’t remember. The wine flowed, a table full of alcohol appeared with all the pieces of the cake and dessert, and all the traditional wedding songs were played. Everything was great, except when one person pushed me on to the dancefloor a little overzealously and I fell down. But, no serious bruises. And so after all the wine and food and dancing and chocolate, I crept back to the guest cottage around 4:30 or 5 am and curled up on the sofa bed and slept.
The next morning, there was a small breakfast at the chateau, then the cars were packed up and we all headed to another town, Sury-aux-Bois, for a “dejeuner a la campagne.” We arrived around 2 pm to find tables set out with snacks of chips and pretzels and olives and -- of course -- crates of rose and white wine. I abstained from drinking wine and stuck to water. After an hour, we enjoyed a buffet of couscous, cucumber salad, and lentils and sausage. Us foolish Americans went back for seconds, out plates heaping with food, then discarded our plastic plates ignorant that what we’d been served was to be the first of many courses. So, course two was brought out, a delicious spread of cold chicken and ham, a bean salad, and bread. (And other things that I can’t remember.) And then it was time for a cheese course, of course. After stuffing myself on cheese, we then were told to gather on the picnic benches set up in the backyard. Some of the French people had set up a show that was reminiscent of everyone’s camp favourite, “Peanut Butter and Jelly.” For those of you unfamiliar with this staple in camp life, it’s when you take a sheet and render the drawing of two “little people”, often using real material to indicate the shirt and shorts. Holes are cut for the head, arms and feet, and one person inserts their head into the head hole and their hands into the feet, which are then covered by shoes. Someone stands behind the person and then inserts their arms into the arm holes. Sadly, they didn’t do a French version of “Peanut Butter and Jelly” (maybe because they don’t have peanut butter in France? “Omlettes et Frommage” would be funny though, too), but we watched as the ‘little people’ had to wash themselves, drink water from a glass, have their faces stuffed with marshmallows and countless other silly things. Naturally Gina and David were made to volunteer next, followed by some of Gina’s nieces and nephew. After, dessert was wheeled out (honouring the 3rd birthday David’s nephew, Antoine), followed by coffee. Then Gina’s brother and the American priest pulled out their guitars and sang traditional Latin, Spanish and American songs, alternating with the French who sang their traditional songs in between. At this point, I really did begin to think I was actually at summer camp and was waiting for someone to tell me it was time to go make lanyards or have a rope pull in the lake (and there were two lakes on David’s parents property, so it wouldn’t have surprised me). However, a group of men played petanque in the driveway, the younger kids played around the lake, and everyone else admired David’s mother’s amazing walk-in refridgerator in the garage where the caterers were busy slicing up two enormous pig’s legs into thick slices of jamon serrano. Meaning that we would be having dinner there, too.
So, it was a few more hours of socialising, then the dinner course (the jamon serrano and slices of melon, along with the leftover portions from the earlier courses, including the cheese) were brought out around 10 pm. At this point I finally felt recovered enough to drink wine again, and despite feeling more full than I think I’ve ever been in my entire life, managed to eat my weight in cheese. Then members of Gina’s family learned that there was to be breakfast the next day, which is when jokes began to be made about the wedding becoming something of an endurance contest of how much wine and cheese one could be made to withstand. Sort of like “Survivor: French Wedding.” But, I jest, as it truly was one spectacular two-day party and I was really happy to be there. Plus, there is something really nice about getting to actually meet everyone at the wedding. Not everyone was at the brunch the next day, but it was definitely nice to have the opportunity to talk with people in a more relaxed setting than that of the reception. By contrast, a lot of American weddings are over and done in four hours. So having a couple days of eating and drinking is a really nice nod in the direction of appreciation of family and friends and the reason for celebration -- that two people are uniting their lives together in the name of love.
Which is where I’m going to get kinda cheesy and mushy in this post. Because I realized a lot of things that weekend. Leading up to the wedding, I have been so wrapped up in myself with school that I’ve been something of a nervous/emotional wreck. And while I’ve had my reasons and while a lot of it’s been justified, it was really wonderful to take a huge step back from myself and see what’s important about life and being alive. I’ve been focused on really petty things (like who’s doing what with their book) or on ads (which are pretty shallow) and more specifically, on my ads. I’ve been caught up in this really vicious cycle of staying up all night worrying about everything I have to do, about where on earth I’m going to find work, if I’ll find work, how I’ll ever pay off my enormous loans, and then am groggy and unfocused for most of the following day until I’ve drunk enough coffee to finally snap into functioning around mid-afternoon, wasting a ton of time chatting on the internet with all the other ad school people about all the aforementioned issues, then staying up late working, then not sleeping while worrying and beating myself up for not having done enough during the day. I had expected the “dejeuner” to last about an hour and then I’d be able to run back to the hotel and work all afternoon on things. But when it looked like it was going to last a while, it was the first time in months where I finally had the feeling of actually relaxing and not thinking about work. And also reflecting a little on my work habits and how I could restructuring my life in a way that’s about being productive. It was just really wonderful to be around a family as nice and kind as Gina’s, and I think for most of the day on Saturday I felt really honoured to be allowed the experience to hang out with them for a while. Something between the ceremony and the dejeuner clicked in my brain -- the idea that if we are focused on how we are blessed, it becomes easier to find and see good fortune everywhere. That success is a combination of honest, hard work and of attitude. That prosperity runs far deeper than money alone. I’m not a particularly religious person, but the following quote used in the ceremony made a profound impression on me, and I will use it to conclude what has been one of the longer posts in my blog’s history.
Seeing the multitudes, he went up onto the mountain. When he had sat down, his disciples came to him. He opened his mouth and taught them, saying, “You are the salt of the earth, but if the salt has lost its flavor, with what will it be salted? It is then good for nothing, but to be cast out and trodden under the feet of men.You are the light of the world. A city located on a hill can't be hidden. Neither do you light a lamp, and put it under a measuring basket, but on a stand; and it shines to all who are in the house. Even so, let your light shine before men; that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven.”
