One journalist's musings about the beautiful, bizarre world in which we live
NOV. 27, 2010 – THE BIG DAY
Outside the church, our driver, Luis, parked the SUV beside a mobile tamale stand. I suppose he was hoping to pick up a few bucks at the Saturday night mass and wedding.
What can I say about the service? It was a Catholic wedding. The groom had glad, shining eyes; the bride had abundant beauty and a few tears. The parents sat beside their children.
A particularly wretched Jesus hung on a stick… err, I mean cross… while lilies decorated the pulpit.
The priest wore purple, standing in the centre. I thought it interesting that the mother of the bride wore red and the mother of the groom wore blue.
Speaking of the priest, is it usual that they don’t have the words to the wedding ceremony down pat? This guy read everything out of the Good Book, and had someone else directing his motions, and he still forgot a part of the ceremony involving siblings of the bride and groom.
Interestingly, speaking to the groom earlier, he said there were no rehearsal dinners that are common in the United States and Canada. He noted that the wedding, while formal, wouldn’t have the same pomp and circumstance as those of the “Bridezillas” up north.
* * *
There were no speeches to start off the dinner. There was no clinking of the glasses for kisses, nor was there a wedding party table.
Youth were on one side of the room, set up with couches, comfy chairs and coffee bar tables. No place was assigned. Older adults sat at assigned tables on the other side of the room.
I love the late lunches, a common thing in what I’ve seen in Mexican culture. I’m also fond of the siesta. This day, I had neither, and the late dinner to follow had me eating many nuts and pieces of tamarind. But dinner did come, as did the drink.
Our waiters were liberal with the delicious wine, by the grace of god.
When that ran out, tequila became the drink of choice.
The Canadians – all seven of whom had arrived safely for the wedding – started hard when the party began as Canadians are known to do. But it made us slow by the time the late party hours arrived.
When the party finally finished around 5 a.m., we were all still on the floor standing, dancing to the oddly-mashed “Twist and Shout” and Hard House.
We even walked home afterward, although our driver Luis was a little wary of us walking alone in Saltillo.
Earlier in the evening, I had been warned by one of the door guards of the weather.
“Señorita, esta frio – esta muy frio!” he said kindly, obviously worried for my bare shoulders (excuse my Spanish if grammatically incorrect).
I raised an eyebrow and laughed at the 12-degree Celsius air.
“Estoy bien,” I said. “No esta problema.”