Essay: (Nearly) accidentally attending an Italian wedding
And the merits of a soft brush over a tiny hoover
JUNE 2024
I order a pistachio croissant, a black coffee and a cappuccino, add two cold bottles of water, and find a table outside in the sun, on the edge of the square. The cafe in this small Italian town is amusingly called ‘Ladies Bar' for no apparent reason.
Across the way, an arch of fresh greenery is being woven with long-stemmed white roses outside a huge church. The men are focused, occasionally grabbing a leg each and moving the whole arch slightly left or right, awkwardly manoeuvring and losing a flower or two with each shuffle.
A slim woman dressed in a kaftany type thing seems to be in charge. She oozes efficiency. Two women are nearby, both in their twenties and puffy beige sleeves. At first I wonder aloud if they are bridesmaids. But they speak quickly on mobiles, and somehow their exaggerated shoulders give them away. Professional wedding helpers.
Guests start arriving. A woman, who by the size of her waistcoated baby, has given birth two months before, arrives in the tightest sliver of a satin dress imaginable. There is not a spare cm of flesh on her. The dress is laced up the back like an ice skate. I wonder how she's breathing. She sends her thin, chain-smoking husband back to the car to retrieve a narrow scarf in the same colour. As soon as he returns with it, unsmiling, she puts it on for the briefest of seconds, then tosses it in the buggy.
A good looking man arrives, his pristine white shirt buttoned to the top with no tie. He looks admiringly at his wife. Her face has been altered by many procedures, only her hands givenaway her true age. They order a round of luminescent orange Aperol and start a long, enthusiastic video call to family back home, ordering another round mid-call, gesticulating wildly to show people on the line where they are, in this beautiful square.
The woman who can only be mother-of-the-bride glides around, greeting people. It is hot now, edging closer to midday, and she is glistening slightly. She wears a pale blue dress, with a sort of organza dressing gown over the top that just skims the floor. I suddenly realise she looks like the woman from Frozen, but melting under the midday sun.* L smiles at the accuracy of my statement.
A wide beige carpet is rolled out, cascading down the flight of church stairs all the way down to the road. Rose detritus falls on top of it, as the men continue weaving and snipping, big buckets of greenery in front of them. What they need now is a tiny hoover, I say, like the one as have at home for doing the sofa. No, says L, as he bites into the croissant, a soft brush would do better on that.
He lights another cigarette to have with his dark, sweet coffee and says how nice it is that there are so many people smoking. I hold my tongue, unable to think of much worse than a strong cigarette under the midday sun.
A man walks - ever so gently - on the freshly laid carpet, to get to the arch from a different angle, every ounce of his being trying to avoid the kaftaned woman seeing. He reminds me of my dog when she tries to come into the living room, where she isn't often allowed, without you noticing. She walks very slowly, head and tail down, putting each paw on the floor with the lightest of touches, convinced you won't notice her if she is slow enough.
A new guest arrives, alone. Exceptionally handsome, his wavy hair cut and set in place that morning, his dark blue suit obviously expensive. A tattoo covers the entirety of his neck, skimming the edge of his jawline. It's vaguely threatening, I say. And very flattering, says L. There is though, what can only be described as a twinkle in his eye. I study his very pleasing features and unstick my legs from the chair. It's hot.
L follows my gaze. 'he's very handsome' he smiles, 'you like a man with a glint in his eye.' then 'Do all your exes have a twinkle in their eye'?
I snort. 'It's funny isn't it, it can change the whole vibe of a person.'
The groom is just down from us now. He looks very Italian and very dapper. A nipped in, pristine waistcoat, a sprig of something on his lapel. Smiling, no sign of discomfort from his pointed glossy shoes. Mr neck tattoo approaches him, and says something in Italian, though from their body language, it's obvious it was along the lines of 'ohhhhh don't you look really fucking handsome on your wedding day.' The groom throws his head back and laughs easily.
A man dressed in pastel pink suit, with a chic leather sachet of a bag and a striking black Panama hat arrives, with a woman who's skirt looks like it's been through the office shredder, L comments. Her waist is barely wider than her partner’s slim bag. I finish the croissant and consider ordering another. The arch is finished now (the carpet has been brushed with a soft brush) and the couple take it in turns taking photos underneath. She poses so many times it feels a little as though she's updating her Onlyfans page.
The man's suit stands out in a sea of dark blue. He walks the walk of a man who knows everyone is looking. Eventually even he tires of taking photos of the woman, and they seek the shade of the canopy where we sit.
Everyone is coming to the cafe now, for Aperol, coffee, water con gas. The servers are working overtime, with round black plastic trays of tiny bites. There are bright green olives, glistening crisps, tiny round pizza bites.
Eventually, the kaftaned woman says something to her puffy sleeved helpers and hurries across the square into the cafe. The groom catches her eye and nods. His face becomes serious. He has remembered what is about to happen. The church bells begin to chime.
The couple with the Aperols drink deeply from their glasses, the woman treating herself to a last mini pizza bite. The woman with the tiny baby stops breast feeding and adjusts her dress. The pink-suited man dabs at his brow with a napkin. The line of guests shuffles into the church, more people filtering in from across the road.
A beautiful young woman in bright yellow arrives in a hurry, her figure cutting the scene like a boat along a lake. Her husband, alarmingly older, follows close behind. They are last in.
There are more locals now, gathering. Either side of the biscuit coloured carpet. Well wishers craning their necks, waiting for the bride to arrive, eager for a fleeting glimpse. The puffy sleeved women wait by the road edge of the carpet, poised and ready for their duties.
I look at L. His face is brown and happy, he asks whether we should get a beer to take to the beach. I ask if he wants to move closer to the road, see her arrive. I notice, with a flicker of annoyance, that he is rolling another cigarette.
But he removes his sunglasses for a moment, and as we walk nearer the church, there is, undeniably, a glint in his eye.
*L remembers this as his observation. He is wrong.
Good things to click on:
I really enjoyed listening to this on the rise of the trad wife
Alex gave me this book and I cannot believe it took me 34 years to discover this author. Had a horrible pang when I found out she was dead.
People tethered to one particular person, whether they want to be or not
Finished the Bee Sting, written from four different points of view as a family business fails and everyone has their own personal crisis. Yikes it was clever.
We ate this dish everyday in Italy. You should probably eat it too.
Beautifully descriptive. I was transported to that small café. Pasta recipe bookmarked to try sometime in the near future.
I really enjoyed this piece with all its juicy observations. Captivating writing!