The Wedding Story

Life’s little imperfections

Our four-day honeymoon in Venice was trimmed down to just two full days, thanks to the unreliability of the Italian railway system and pick-pockets. What was supposed to be a leisurely four-hour train journey that would give us time to unwind after the tumultuous events, which had recently shaped our lives, turned into an odyssey that left me shedding bitter tears. When we finally arrived following a long, frustrating day, it was dusk in Venice. We were supposed to have arrived at noon. I was angry and exhausted. But my husband didn’t care and wouldn’t conceal his excitement at first sight of the Serenissima.

We’d booked a junior suite in the most romantic hotel in Venice, a Palazzo. A peace offering from my in-laws. Upon arrival, the concierge informed us we’d been upgraded — a honeymoon bonus. He then escorted us to the suite. In true Venetian fashion, it was decorated with silk wallpaper, velvet settees and a four-poster bed. Best of all, there was a balcony with a view of the lagoon. We were still admiring the blown-glass chandelier, when the maid knocked. She deposited a bottle of Bollinger on ice, and two crystal flutes on the low Rococo table. There was a note from our witnesses who’d organized this last, lovely surprise.

The first night during our honeymoon, I awoke from a dream in which my husband had taken off his wedding ring. He’d put it on the bedside table because, he said, he couldn’t sleep with it. The following morning, I awoke early because the wedding band on my finger was itchy. I felt constricted, like a migratory pigeon that had been tagged. In my sleep, the ring felt twice as thick and hurt my fingers, the discomfort causing me to awaken. I sat up in bed watching my husband asleep next to me and wondered if it would be all right to take the ring off...

Venice was lovely as always. The carnival was in full swing so the area of San Marco was overcrowded and the prices reached the sky. We strolled through the less popular calles of Canareggio and frequented the student cafés around the Accademia. I began to relax... away from the office, away from everything. One afternoon, while taking photos on the Rialto, my purse got stolen. There wasn’t much in it, but we wasted an afternoon calling Australia to cancel the Visa card and file a report at the local police station.

In hindsight everyone has 20:20 vision

A month later, gradually, I began to recover from the happiest day of my life. The task of organizing the wedding in just four weeks, without the help and support of the family and with hardly any money, was grueling. Followed by the train strikes and the theft on our honeymoon. Meanwhile at work, my responsibilities had quadrupled after a promotion in January to Senior Editor. All this left me too exhausted to enjoy my new status. I’d work overtime at the office, without breaks, then drag myself home and collapse after dinner.

In the beginning, married life seemed like one big effort. For a while, I was the sole breadwinner but also took care of the household’s administrative and financial matters. As my husband’s linguistical skills were still rudimentary, I’d assist him in his job search, offering advice and helping him type a C.V. Eventually he found a position on his own merit. Since then, things have slowly started to fall into place. His cooking has improved too, now he even has his own special recipes.

Sometimes happiness is waiting for you at the end of a long and rocky road. It takes courage and perseverance, but if you weather the tough times, you can get there in the end. I’ve learned that, in spite of all my efforts, life isn’t meant to be perfect. Coming to terms with this, has been my biggest challenge.

Now, I look forward to a simpler life. I’m tired of the constant struggle. I want to lay down my fighting stick once and for all and grow comfortably into my new life and my new self. If like me, you’ve always been self-sufficient, if you are headstrong and independent, you may find that surrendering your power is the scariest thing you’ve ever done. It takes time and dedication to open yourself up to the experience of being two. But each morning brings with it the renewed realization that nothing beats waking up to a new day, with that Special Someone at your side. The person whom I have chosen and who, in return, has chosen me — out of the millions and millions of people in this world.

At the very start of our relationship, when we’d just met, I wrote a note to my husband. It said:

“In my wanderings, I followed my heart and the road led to you.”

The Wedding Story

The labors of love

Here it is. It’s the room I’ve seen in the photograph. It’s my favorite color, jade. High ceilings and frescoed walls. The composition depicts scenes of domestic life and work in the fields. The celebrant explains the bucolic settings and the representations of labor throughout the changing seasons — an allegory of married life.

The room is dense with the scent of flowers. Roses and lilies everywhere: in the centerpiece on the oak table at the center of the room, and the bouquets in the guest’s arms. On both sides of the long, polished table, two rows of high-back chairs covered in green velvet are perfectly aligned. At end of each row, one chair is embroidered with two entwined wedding bands. These are our chairs. We’re asked to take a seat with a testimony each at our side. The best man is carrying the silk box that contains the wedding bands. He blushes violently as he sits next to my soon-to-be husband and his witness.

Here we go. The ceremony begins. With flushed cheeks, I grip my bouquet of roses and smile idiotically, looking around me. The room is filled with benevolent faces all smiling idiotically, like me. The best man has turned the color of a red chilli pepper. He fidgets and turns the box with the rings, around and around between his trembling hands.

I’m smiling energetically to conquer the butterflies in my stomach. Whenever I feel the adrenaline turn to panic, I look at my lover. He sits opposite me and smiles back at me mildly, perfectly at ease with the situation. While I’m burning up, he’s cool, calm and collected. This is it.

Now the celebrant asks the fateful question. “Sì,” my husband says and nods. I take a deep breath, “Lo voglio!” I declare. The witnesses sign the register and now, the best man is standing, with shiny eyes and a face as red as a traffic light, next to the celebrant. He unties the ribbon of the precious parcel. We exchange rings, we kiss, and the room bursts into applause.

The reception

It’s just like after a rock concert. Everyone has gathered around us, offering roses and gifts wrapped in colorful foil. Back in the courtyard, we pose at the center of the 1850 colonnade. While the photographer snaps the pictures, instead of throwing confetti our guests blow clouds of soap bubbles. In them, the sun reflects hundreds of rainbows.

I embrace my husband and hold on tightly to his arm — not only because I’m not used to walking in these vertiginous heels. My other arm is laden with flowers. I feel like I’ve just won a beauty contest. For the first time in my life, I gladly pose before the camera. Triumphant. I don’t recall having ever experienced such a deep sense of contentment and achievement at the same time. It’s all new to me, but it feels divine.

People later told us what fun it was. Short and sweet. They said it was the most original wedding they’d ever seen. Home-grown. Original. But why? Because I wore an orange velvet coat and fishnet stockings instead of a white gown? Because our wedding rings aren’t a set? Because I designed a chocolate wedding cake with edible flowers on top? Because of the soap bubbles? Because we had the hens’ and buck’s night together? Because we walked across Piazza Riforma to the reception, instead of taking off in a limousine?

In any case as the cliché goes: it was the happiest day of my life! Not only did everything run smoothly, for once. But also, I was impeccably groomed and managed to stay that way all day long. My hand in my husband’s hand — I couldn’t stop admiring the new diamond-studded ring on my finger. And as if it couldn’t get any better, I got to have my cake and eat it too — while drinking Champagne. Life doesn’t get any better!

After all the anxiety of the preparations, the effort and determination paid off. My prize was to sit back, relax and enjoy the limelight. But without the loving support of our dear friends, our wedding would never have turned into such a happy celebration. From the very start, they pitched in and lent a helping hand. From the best man to the witnesses, the chauffeur, the photographer, the one who organized the hen’s night, the friend who took me shopping, the makeup artist and all the others who, against our wishes, showered us in flowers and gifts.

There were flowers, flowers, flowers. Even the banquet table had a centerpiece of blooming roses and lilies. More flowers were delivered in baskets, to our home. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to keep any. The following morning we were leaving on our honeymoon, so I gave them away. Except for my bouquet, which I took home for safe-keeping.

In the end, M. the high school friend, showed up for the civil ceremony but stood next to the exit and left immediately, while everyone was blowing strings of perfect bubbles in the courtyard. “Who was that older woman standing by the door. Your mother?” I laughed. “No. Someone I went to school with.”

Our friends who, throughout our romantic quest had been supportive and generous, once more gave proof or their big hearts. Once the cheery assembly had toasted one more time to our happiness, we were treated to one more gift. Between them all, they’d collected a total amount, in travel vouchers, which added up to an airfare to Australia. “You guys are incredible, how can we ever thank you!” My husband was elated, “Wow, we can go to Melbourne!”

The Wedding Story

Smile, you’re on camera!

A small crew of photographers recorded all the special moments leading up to the happiest event of our lives. The maid of honour photographed me drinking Tequila with the Rock-star and in the V.I.P. lounge, while we boogied through a drunken haze. My childhood friend took photos at my place, during the dressing and makeup preparations that preceded the wedding ceremony. And there was a professional photographer. A friend of ours, whom my husband-to-be had worked for as an assistant — gratis. Afterwards, he had the black and white shots bound in a hand-made album. It was covered in red fabric and had our initials embodied on it.

Last-minute best man

The news came as a wonderful surprise only days before the wedding. My husband-to-be’s best mate, from Australia, was working in Amsterdam. He’d decided to come to Lugano and be best man at the wedding. Since all of my husband-to-be’s closest fiends and family were in Melbourne, the presence of his friend at the wedding, was an unexpected bonus that filled him with pleasure and confidence.

The best man arrived by train, the night before the wedding and stayed until the morning following the ceremony. That morning, the three of us left the house early and walked to the train station. On the platform, suitcases in hand, we said our goodbyes. The newly-weds heading south for our honeymoon in Venice. The best man traveling in the opposite direction, to Amsterdam, the Venice of the north. The trains arrived simultaneously. We hugged. “See you back in Melbourne, hey?”

Like a fifties chick but with an edge

“I need a trim and please, don’t make me look elegant. It makes me old!” Pippo nods approvingly. In the 80s he used to do women’s hair in L.A. Since then, he’s no longer a mere hairdresser. He’s an artist, a hair technician. While he fiddles with strands of my hair, he tells me he wants to link the salon’s website to cosmetic and accessories' retailers. “Sort of a beauty portal, you know?”

The manicurist arrives. While Pippo cuts my hair, she rubs lotion into my hands and massages them. Then she makes my fingers rest in a bowl filled with some secret potion. It’s my first professional manicure and I blush at myself in the mirror. One hand rests in the finger bowl, the other is in the manicurist’s lap. She’s filing my nails. Meanwhile, Pippo blow-dries my hair and styles it into a bob with an outward flip. The manicurist giggles. “You look so 50s. Oh, but with an edge!” Yes, it makes me look like a real homemaker. “Are you thinking of having children?” According to my gynaecologist, by the time my husband gets around to wanting kids, my window will be well and truly shut. We could always adopt of course, but I’m not sure I’m keen on the joys of motherhood...

“This parenthood thing is a lot of baloney,” Pippo snaps. “It’s a big conspiracy. Like nurturing is supposed to be instinctive. It’s not, let me tell you. Most men don’t actually enjoy fatherhood. And I haven’t met one who enjoys changing nappies! If you ask me, you’re doing the right thing, marrying a younger man.” He points a threatening brush at the manicurist. “This one’s always after the young ones too.” She smiles coyly. “Young men are polite and attentive.” I roll my eyes. “Yeah, they don’t have all the hang-ups and prejudices of men my generation!” I fan myself with chocolate-coated fingernails.

It was a sunny spring day in the middle of winter

I leave the hairdresser’s immaculately coifed. It’s a clear morning, mild and sunny. I walk up the hill to the Cathedral and drop by the florist’s to pick up the bouquet and boutonniere. The flesh-coloured roses are beautiful, two sculptures of scented blooms. I carry them home with care. I smile. Today’s Valentine’s Day and, it’s the day of my wedding.

Back at the flat, four of my girlfriends are waiting. They’ve gathered to keep me company while I dress for the ceremony. My maid of honour, offers me a herbal remedy against last-minute jitters. My best friend has brought Champagne. The third is a makeup artist; she’s brought her paint box and sable brushes. My childhood friend is here to drive me to the ceremony.

My beloved and his best man, who’s in charge of the wedding rings, are getting dressed nearby, at our witnesses’ house. We’ll meet at City Hall at 4:30 p.m., in the courtyard. I gulp down two herbal tablets with a glass of Champagne.

At quarter past four, my chauffeur drives her Mercedes 320 SL, up to my doorstep. A huge arrangement of cascading red tulips and orange gerberas is spread over the bonnet. “Gee, it looks like a bird’s smashed into your car.” She laughs, “It’s supposed to match your colours.”

Three doughnuts in Piazza Riforma

To avoid arriving early, we drive the long way. Past the park, through the suburb of Paradise and down to the lakefront. The water shimmers under the bright sky. We’re wearing dark sunglasses inside the black Mercedes. We drive along the tree-lined esplanade, past the Sequoia tree, past the large fountain and into the pedestrian zone in the shopping district. We drive across Piazza Riforma, past City Hall. Instead of turning into the courtyard, my driver decides to do a round of the piazza. A friendly crowd has gathered at the entrance of the building; before the incredulous smiles of the assembled guests, the car does a large tour of Piazza Riforma. Past the sidewalk cafés with the waiters carrying glasses of aperitivo on their silver trays. Past the groups of tourists photographing the historical facades. Past the shocked pensioners in tailored suits, who grab their dogs and scurry off shaking their heads.

“I’ve always wanted to do this!” My friend screams and winds down all the windows, turning up the stereo. She squeezes the accelerator. Our friends stand on the curb and follow us with wide-open eyes. I wave, throwing back my head and laughing uncontrollably.

The Wedding Story

What, no wedding list?

“Good for you for keeping it simple,” our guests said after we’d informed them we didn’t have a wedding list. I explained. “Following the ceremony we’ll offer Champagne and cake but those who’ll join us for dinner later on, will pay their own way.” “Good idea,” a D.J. friend commented. “That way only those who are genuinely interested will come.” My neighbour stuck his fists in his pockets. “I hate wedding lists anyway,” he said. “You feel your friendship is measured by how much money you spend.”

“Oh, but I really, really want to get you guys something special!” My Milanese friend protested. She wasn’t alone. “Some of us want to give you a present, Christine.” I scratched my head. “Well then, just get us a gift voucher.”

The magnificent seven

The buck’s and hen’s night would consist of separate dinners, followed by Disco Inferno. The two parties would merge at midnight in the V.I.P. lounge of Lugano’s leading disco. My friend the film editor, organized the table, the names on the door and a bottle of Vodka at the bar. We were all set to party. I wore sparkles, a low-cut dress and strappy high-heels. At 7:00 p.m., the weekend before the wedding, seven of my girlfriends drove me to dinner in the country. The restaurant was outrageous. Seventies disco blaring through the P.A. system and waiters who sat on your lap while they took the order. The place was filled to the brim. We had to shout at each other across the table, but the food was delicious. We ordered giant skewers of filet steak grilled on the fire. At the table next to ours, a famous heavy-metal group and their entourage, celebrated the release of their latest album.

Between the first and second course, the maid of honour forced me to wear a sign on my back. It read, “This is your last chance to buy me a drink before I get married! “To my friend’s delight the sign was a man-magnet. Immediately, the lead singer of the band and three of his mates rocked over to our table, bringing their chairs with them. The waiter served our dessert, which consisted of a giant strawberry tart in the shape of male genitalia, topped by a mound of whipped cream. My girlfriends screeched and clapped their hands. “So you’re really getting married then?” The singer asked. I nodded. He looked at me compassionately, then put his arm around my shoulders and said, “Let me buy you ladies a round of tequila!”

The rockers stood back and watched, as we slammed the glasses in unison on the table and swallowed the shots in a split-second. More rounds were ordered. We kept up the pace, downing the Tequilas with consistent vigour. Before long, our table the loudest in the room, became the main attraction. We were surrounded by men who’d deserted their dinners to buy us drinks. After the seventh round, the tequila set in. By the ninth we were dancing on the tables. The waiters turned the music up to eleven, jumped up on the tables, and danced with us.

I don’t recall getting to the discotheque. What I can remember is finding my sweetheart on the dance floor, holding a stubby and with a vacuous look in his eye. He wore a sign that looked just like mine, it said: “This is your last chance to give me a kiss before I get married!”

At 3:00 a.m. I stared at my unfinished Vodka and realized it was time to go. We spent Sunday in bed.

The Wedding Story

Who’s got the wedding rings?

The day we set the date of the wedding at City Hall, the marriage celebrant asked us if we wanted to exchange rings during the ceremony. This surprised me. I’d assumed the exchange of rings was obligatory. Call me old-fashioned, but in my mind, a wedding without the exchange of rings is not a real wedding. I can do without the church, the expensive gifts and the sumptuous reception, and I’ll gladly show up wearing any old thing if I have to. But the rings, the rings are non-negotiable. The food at the reception gets eaten, the wedding dress gets doused in mothballs, but the rings last forever. That’s what makes them such a powerful symbol. The rings are for Love In All Eternity. As we wear them, they become part of our body, we carry them on us everywhere, at all times, for the rest of our lives. No. Even if we didn’t have much money, we simply had to have the rings!

Turning left at City Hall we took a casual stroll down Via Nassa, the sparkling shopping street in Lugano where all the famous Swiss watch-makers and jewelers line both sides of the pedestrian zone. We agreed if money wasn’t an issue, we’d like two beautiful wedding bands. “Let’s just look, shall we?” I squeezed my lover’s arm. “Maybe we’ll see something and well, there’s no harm in looking. Right?” If I could have any ring, I’d choose one that looked modern, in white gold and studded with diamonds. I came to a full stop. Right there, sparkling in the shop window, was the jewel I’d just described. “Oh, can I try it on, p-p-please?” I jumped up and down shaking my lover’s hand.

The ring fitted perfectly. I felt like Cinderella trying on the crystal shoe. The sales assistant congratulated me on the excellent choice. “It looks very smart.” She then showed us some wedding bands for my partner, who soon found one he liked very much. A wide band of white gold. We also had the rings engraved with our names and the wedding date: 14.02.01. The price? Half of what we’d expected to pay! So that’s how, in less than twenty minutes, we resolved the issue of the wedding bands.

The bouquet

In the first shop, they looked me up and down, then ignored me. I was wearing old jeans and a faded raincoat, so when I walked up to the counter and said I wanted a bouquet for my wedding, the woman just gave me a blank look. Civil ceremony, she must have guessed. Since I wouldn’t require any expensive flower arrangements, I was immediately dismissed. She pretended to be busy, rolling up some important sheets of cellophane. When I enquired about narcissus, I couldn’t help but register her contempt. I felt anger flood every cell in my body. Still, I persevered. This was the most expensive shop in town and I demanded service. I asked her advice, she retorted it was up to me. I looked at the buckets of pale tulips and snowdrops, trying to defuse my rage. I stared at the apprentice’s obtuse face behind the counter. “I am unimpressed,” I hissed at the woman, then promptly quit the shop.

I felt bitter-sweet, but remembered a small flower shop, situated along the cobbled path on the way to the Cathedral. I’d often admired the flower arrangements displayed in their window. I entered and announced I needed a scented bouquet for my wedding. This caught the florist’s imagination, as brides don’t usually request scented flowers. In this shop, I was served with the kind and deferent attention a bride-to-be deserves. They showed me their catalogues and discussed the various possibilities, shapes and sizes of the bouquet, what types of flowers would match my outfit and which ones would be in season.

In the end, I decided on a Nosegay, a round, compact bouquet of large salmon roses bound in ribbon and ivy. Simple and elegant. I also requested a matching boutonnière, a little gift to my beloved.

The cake

I’ve always regarded the three tier fruit-cake of the wedding variety, with distaste. It’s frightfully reminiscent of Australian suburbia — where the second and third tier must last till the first wedding anniversary and the arrival of the first progeny. There’s something infinitely depressing about knowing you’re going to be chomping on the same sultanas for years to come – a metaphor for married life perhaps? Besides, I’m suspicious of any food that lasts that long. It’s all in the icing, that hard sugar frosting designed to seal the cake from adverse atmospheric conditions and roaches. Like a time capsule.

But for me, a cake is a statement about sensual pleasure and culinary delights. An artistic experience, a cake. Made for special occasions. It speaks of joyful celebrations and the indulgence of the senses. Like an exclamation mark, a cake symbolizes the intense pleasure of now. Something I can hardly imagine a two-year old cake can do. And apart from the bland visual effect of white frosting, what can be less stimulating than sultanas and candied fruit? Sorry, my juices just don’t happen over something that banal: ordinary, dressed up, Christmas cake.

I wanted a cake that would make my guest’s mouths water just by looking at it. And years later, their taste buds would recall with delight. It was going to be luscious. I wanted everyone to taste it with their eyes and feast on it, using their hands and spoons and sighing ecstatically with each new mouthful. Afterwards, we’d lick the chocolate mousse off our fingertips and sip Champagne. Oh, the contrast between the rich, dark chocolate and the refreshing tingle of the wine!

So I designed a superb chocolate gateau. Of all the wedding preparations, the cake became the single, most elaborate element. It was round, it had two levels, it was the color of bitter cocoa and decorated with large shavings of white chocolate. It was custom-made by the best pastry chef in town. The summit of the wedding cake was crowned — not by a machine made, plastic figurine of newlyweds — but with a bouquet of fresh violets. The edible flowers had been dipped in sugar and arranged neatly, inside a chocolate casing, like flowers in a delicious vase. The violets had been imported especially from San Remo, on the Italian Riviera.

The Wedding Story

Oh, so you’re not getting married in a white dress, in a church?

“Isn’t that what every woman wants, a white wedding?” Asked my neighbor, an intellectual and professor of philosophy. It was raining and his elbow was sticking out of the wound-down window of his car. I stood on the street, shielding him as best as I could with an umbrella. He said he loved his live-in partner of six years but he‘d never propose. “All that hullabaloo with the rellies puts me off, ” he snorted. “It’s a waste of money, I’d rather spend three months in Jamaica and get stoned on the beach every day.”

During a dinner party my childhood friend, now a forensic doctor, reminisced about her own civil ceremony. “I’m an atheist anyway,” she said. “I wore a suit from a sale. It was a real bargain!” She laughed out loud and raised her glass of wine.

Personally, I believe it’s in bad taste for a woman in her thirties to parade a virginal white gown. As for the church, why would anyone assume we’re Catholic anyway? We’re not. Nor are we both Christian. People think so narrow. They assume everyone wants to be like everyone else.

One sunny January morning, a Milanese girlfriend and I drove to Milan. The mission: to find an outfit for the wedding. We got to the city center early and started sifting through the boutique-lined streets near Piazza San Babila and Via della Spiga. We went everywhere. From MIU MIU to Dolce & Gabbana. I tried on everything, from flimsy cocktail dresses to gold stretch-jeans. Everything was overpriced and undersized. It was late, my feet were sore and my girlfriend had another appointment. Nothing I’d tried on during the course of the day fitted the bill. Except for a pair of mules I’d seen downstairs at Fiorucci. They were outrageous, candy-apple patent leather, heels up to there and a fuchsia ribbon. Three times we returned to the store so I could try them on. Each time, it became harder to take them off. I could hardly walk in them, but they made me feel like a Sex Goddess.

The following weekend the winter sales started. I carried my new mules to a shopping mall of designer boutiques. I didn’t find any dresses I liked — too formal, too boring, too small. Finally a 3/4 length coat by Romeo Gigli caught my eye. The velvet fabric was the color of tangerine and had a print of twirling lines all over it. Unbelievable, it matched the shoes!

All I needed now was something to wear under the coat; anything that would coordinate the red mules and tangerine coat. Days later, on my lunch break I walked past Kookaï. The store had 75% sales. Inside, against the wall, was a rack of evening dresses. I tried on a velvet empire-line dress. It was amethyst. It was only a size two, but it fitted perfectly.

The suit

A year earlier, when my husband-to-be was in Australia packing his suitcase, he asked me what sort of clothes he should bring to Switzerland. Since he was only coming on an extended holiday, “Something casual and warm,” I said. “And depending on how long you plan to stay, some summer clothes as well.” He asked me if he should bring a suit. “Unnecessary,” I said. But he packed it anyway and it’s been hanging in his closet ever since. “You never can tell what you might need a suit for,” he reasoned...

The Wedding Story

A fine pair

The most touching and truly positive experience throughout the entire announcements, was the trip to see my grandfather. We hired a car and brought home-made sandwiches for the three-hour journey. My husband-to-be demonstrated boundless patience and good humor, trying to communicate with a ninety-two year old he’d never met. This is not an easy thing to do, especially if you don’t speak Schwitzerduetsch. But Grandfather was charming. He greeted us warmly, declaring his happiness in having acquired a new grandson. Then he took us to lunch.

The afternoon went quickly but we had to leave before dark, as it might snow on the way home. We stood up from Grandfather’s sofa and gathered out coats. “You two make a fine pair,” Grandfather said, pleased. He squeezed a small package into my hand. “They’re pearls,” he said. “To wear on your wedding day.”

His first wedding

Suddenly it was the middle of January and there were only four weeks left till the wedding day. The huge responsibility of the preparations was left to me, alone. Due to his inability to speak the language and ignorance regarding the logistics of such an event, my husband-to-be was exonerated from the entire preparations. Besides, he’d never even attended a wedding, so could not be counted on offering any useful advice or insight. He was put on kitchen duty and briefed to exert unshakeable patience and tolerance, come what may, during the following weeks.

Wedding preparations are a great filter to sort your true friends from the people who don’t really care about you. At such an emotional time, when you rely on the good-will of others, the difficult, self-centered people who put their needs before yours, rise to the surface like rotten eggs.

My high school friend M. was an example. As soon as I sent out the hand-written invitations, she confirmed her presence at the reception. But a week later, following a bad break-up with the cheating boyfriend, she changed her mind and cancelled. I understood. A few days later, she called again: would it be all right if she brought the unfaithful one? “This is not a birthday party, M., it’s my wedding. Intimate friends only!” I awaited her final decision before finalizing the seating arrangements, which had changed as often as she’d changed her mind. Still, she couldn’t give me a definite answer. “Think about it and call me in two days,” I said. In the end she withdrew, having decided Valentine’s Day was better spent at dinner with the cheating ex.

Fortunately, some of the planning proved rewarding. First of all, since none of our family and Australian friends were going to attend, we wanted a simple, inexpensive wedding. And, as it was going to be a civil ceremony, we decided to stick to the basics. Simple but tasteful was our motto. Besides, we had no money.

The Wedding Story

Cold feet

We spent Christmas ice-skating, walking through the snow fields in Zermatt and soaking in the hotel’s Jacuzzi. At night we ate steaming cheese-dishes in small restaurants with clumsy wooden furniture. On the way to the hotel, we’d stop for a last vin brulé then walk back slowly, careful not to slip on the ice.

On Christmas morning, my husband-to-be called his family from the hotel room. His parents asked when he was coming home. To this question, he did not offer a reply, also failing to inform them of our plans. After he hung up the receiver he stared at his feet for a long while. He then said it might be a good idea if he returned home for a bit. “To touch base.” I said if he was having second thoughts, to say it out loud.

Someone’s worst nightmare

The first week in January my-husband-to-be’s parents called to offer him a one-way ticket to Melbourne. They must have reasoned that if their son was still in Switzerland — living with a strange woman and not giving any indication of wanting to leave, a year after abandoning the family nest — he must be in some kind of trouble.

It was six weeks before the wedding and we were supposed to go see the jeweller’s that day, to pay for the wedding bands. After my husband-to-be hung up the receiver, I felt my heart galloping like a wild horse beneath my ribcage. “It’s time to tell them,” I said. My lover turned the colour of Feta cheese. The blood rushed to my temples. “If you don’t tell them by the end of this week, we’re not getting married!” I realized I was screaming.

When the news finally broke, it was a fully-blown scandal. “Young heir to clothing empire held captive by older woman in Europe.” The headlines trumpeted throughout Brighton society. Clearly, I didn’t fit the family’s expectations. I felt the judgement of these absent strangers weigh down on me; my entire life and work, shrinking to insignificance under the scrutiny. “What about kids?” It was their duty to look the gift horse in the mouth. “What if I couldn’t have any?” Said my lover.

To screen ourselves from the verbal hailstorm, we unplugged the phone. Eventually the fierce opposition dwindled into subdued resignation. “Whatever makes you happy makes us happy,” his parents admitted at last — in spite of their confusion.

My side of the family did not prove more gracious. After I sent out the invitations, my uncle called to say he and my aunt couldn’t manage the two hour journey from Zurich for the ceremony. “Would you like a wedding gift?” He apologized. “No thanks. We’ll catch up another time.” My uncle had been cajoled into this by my aunt. She hasn’t yet forgiven me for an off-color remark I made back in 1994 (I said she was a sourpuss).

Though my siblings were cool about the whole affair, my parents were not. My father broke a comfortable silence, which had reigned between us for almost fifteen years, spamming my mailbox with electronic postcards and virtual bouquets of roses. My mother’s reaction on the other hand, was more exotic. At first she went into denial. “What kind of a joke is this?” she kept repeating. Then she sent us an email that said: “I wish you both happiness, whether it’s for real or not. Whatever...” Eventually, remorse must have kicked in because a strange gift followed. She sent an old-fashioned ring, made of glass, which had belonged to a distant relative. It arrived by ordinary mail, without a card, wrapped in toilet paper.

The Wedding Story

Beating the system

We decided to ask a friendly couple, a printer and his German wife, to be our witnesses. I couldn’t think of two people better qualified. They’d gone through a similar experience a year earlier, after she left Germany to come and live with him in Switzerland. Unfortunately, in spite of having an editorial job lined up, her application for a work permit was declined. This meant that to live and work in Switzerland, legally, the couple had no other choice. They had to get married.

It seems like an easy enough thing to do, getting married. Under the circumstances, it’s the only rational solution to a bureaucracy that’s unequipped to handle a modern-day relationship. I mean, these days we’re not just upwardly mobile, we have money and travel for work, as well as for leisure. We get out and about, we are educated, we meet people from different cultures, we are multilingual, we are part of the global village. This is not a recent phenomenon. Most of us have parents whose nationalities differ and who come from countries other than the one we were born in. Obviously, there’s a great deal of moving and mixing in the world. Bonds are formed between lovers from very different cultures and societies all the time. But the law remains oblivious, refusing to acknowledge reality. It persists in forcing defacto couples to make a choice between lifelong commitment and separation.

Only those who have shared such an experience can fully understand how taxing it is, for a couple, to put one’s love through such a test. To face redundant procedures, which require proof that our wish to be together is genuine. Meanwhile, we re treated with suspicion, as outlaws wanting to sham the system of social benefits, or rob the good citizens of their employment opportunities. We’re just two people in love, but here, our most intimate feelings are publicly scrutinised. And while the government officials work their antiquated system and digest the application forms, the couple must endure months of uncertainty about their future together.

Our friends gathered their paperwork and flew to New York for a week. There, they got married without fuss. They bought their wedding bands from a market stall in Chinatown.

The Wedding Story

A conflict of interest

The week before Christmas, we had to finalize the paperwork at the council office and announce the date of the wedding. At the time, only an architect friend of ours knew of our plans. I’d asked him to translate the documents that my husband-to-be had to sign. Although I am highly qualified, the law prohibited me to translate the papers myself since this would have constituted a conflict of interest.

Our friend had trouble finding a car park and arrived late, to find me pale, clutching our passports and close to tears. “Are you crazy!” I screamed. “The office is closing. If we miss this appointment, we’ll have to start the whole paper-chase from scratch!”

We were ushered into the office and it was all very ceremonious. The government official referred to us as the betrothed and treated us with exemplary formality. He asked us to sit side by side in two high-backed chairs and made us fill out the papers using a special fountain pen, reserved exclusively for such occasions. The eyes of the clerk who collected our completed forms were misty. In front of us on the desk, a photograph of a green room was displayed inside a gilded frame. The official pointed at it and raised his chin. “This is the room in which the ceremony will take place.” My husband-to-be and I, mimicked grimaces of fear and giggled.

By the time it was all over, it was midday. The three of us walked into the nearest café and ordered a litre of wine.

That weekend I held my annual Christmas party, which this time, doubled as our engagement party. We were quite shy about making the announcement and whispered the news, one by one, into of our friends’ ears. The reaction was raucous. There was screaming and laughter and lots of vigorous hugging and kissing. Champagne corks popped, the music was turned up and we danced until the neighbours complained about the noise. Before the party drew to a close, our guests made us promise to have a big wedding celebration.

A few days later, I emailed my mother in Queensland to tell her what I was up to. But she wouldn’t believe me. “Is this a joke?’ she asked incredulous. That’s what you get for being a feminist. One night at the local, I ran into M., my old high school friend. I told her the news. “I’ve never heard anything more ridiculous!” She spat. I forgave her. She’d just discovered her new lover, whom she was priming as the future father-of-her-children, was cheating on her. A victim of her ticking Biological Clock.

The Wedding Story

Finally, it hit home

At the beginning of December, I called the council office to enquire about the procedure for a marriage licence. The clerk explained what paperwork was required, the costs involved, and how long it would take to get everything finalized. Once we’d assembled all the documents, we made an appointment to fill out the marriage application. The following day, the clerk rang me. He’d forgotten to ask me an important question. What surname did I choose as a married woman? I wished to keep the name I’d had all my life, the name everybody new me by, the name under which I’d been published. That wasn’t possible he said. What did he mean, I said. The law gave me two choices: either I took the surname of my husband or I added his surname to mine. “How can this be? I don’t want two surnames, I want to keep my own, I already have a surname I don’t need another,” I shrieked in disbelief.

That night after work I went home, climbed under the doona and sulked. “Not fair,” I grumbled. “Sexual discrimination...” I had tears in my eyes.

The Wedding Story

A practical solution

We’d gone form a whirlwind romance that lasted two weeks — it started at my going away party and ended a sunny morning at Tullamarine airport — to a six-month separation period. This was followed by a live-in situation at my flat in Switzerland. During the first year, we were together day and night. At the beginning, my lover didn’t have any friends of his own, and as he didn’t speak the language, I spent all my spare time with him.

We’d been through many changes and our relationship had evolved with us. While I pursued my career, he looked after the home. Soon he learned the difference between a cucumber and a zucchini, how long to cook soft and hard-boiled eggs, and not to wash woollen jumpers at 60 degrees in the washing machine. Whenever we discussed the future, I said I couldn’t go back to Melbourne. “I have a career now and I’m paying off the furniture... I’ll go back with you, but now is impossible.”

Our first year together was drawing to a close. If we were to stay together, there was only one option. Marriage was the solution to a problem imposed upon our romance by the laws of visas, immigration and work permits. In spite of our harmonious domestic existence, it wasn’t an easy decision. My biggest concern was our age difference. His biggest concern was telling his parents.

You think marriage is just a piece of paper, like getting a driver’s license, but it isn’t. It involves a lot of soul-searching. On top of everything else, everyone you know has an opinion about it. All of a sudden, you realize just how cynical people become whenever you say the word. Including yourself. I’d said, “Sure I’ll marry you so you can get the permit. No problem.” He remained hesitant. This puzzled me. I asked a friend of mine, a catholic priest, what greater proof of my commitment was required? My friend shook his head: hadn’t it occurred to me that what I needed to say was that I’ll marry for LOVE: because I wanted to spend the rest of my life with this man? “Oh, I hadn’t thought of it like that...”

Indeed marriage is something intimate and mysterious between two people. You have to be careful or you’ll fall into the trap of justifying yourself to everybody. Ultimately, when you’re in love, that’s nobody’s business but your own — and if people can’t be happy for you, that’s their problem.

The Wedding Story

So what happened?

One day I fell in love. I found happiness. I found bliss. Somewhere in my mid-thirties, I fell in love with a younger man who showed me that life doesn’t always have to be a lonely struggle. So I lay down my fighting stick, deciding it was time to stop surviving and start living. I peeled back the tough exoskeleton of a self-made woman and opened up my heart. Perhaps it was luck, we found each other and instantly recognized one another. For me, it’s been a long and windy journey to learn and understand Love. For my man, the experience has been more linear.

Two years ago, I completed a university degree in Melbourne and was about to return to Europe, where I’d been living and working for the past years. During the preparation for the big move, one March afternoon, I found myself in the accessories department at David Jones. In all the years I’d lived in Melbourne, I had never shopped at David Jones. But that day, in the accessories section on the ground floor, dazzled by all the lights reflecting off the brass fixtures and mirrors, l had an epiphany. I looked at the rows of designer perfumes, the cosmetic counters, the pyramids of velvet makeup cases stacked on tables covered in cloth, the sable makeup brushes and leather clutch bags and fashion jewellery glinting in the glass showcases. Suddenly I felt dizzy and then I knew: it was time to allow myself to give in to all this glitz. My days of second-hand clothing stores and discount moisturizers were over. No more sensible underwear or politically correct blush for me. Here, in David Jones, I was experiencing the dawn of a new era. Goodbye aromatherapy oils, hello French perfume! It was time to experience the luxury of the superfluous, to enjoy abundance and to allow myself a leg wax. I was going to be a new woman and from now on, I was never dating a guy again who wouldn’t hold a door open for me. After all, I’d done my fair share of keeping doors open for men, and nothing good ever came of that.

We met two weeks later at my going away party and it was love at first sight. When the young, handsome man showed up at my formal going-away dinner at Morgan’s on the beach, my friends all thought I’d lost my mind. But six months later he came to Europe, and we’ve been together ever since.

The Wedding Story

Life was an adventure and I enjoyed my freedom

I never thought I’d get married. For real, you know, like parents or any of those grown-up friends you have. You know, the ones who are secure with each other, who know they have a future together.

I never harboured secret dreams of a long white dress, which underneath the layers of virginal fabric, concealed sartorial devices designed to occult one’s physical imperfection from the photographer’s lens. Not even as a child did I dream of becoming someone’s wife, cooking and cleaning for a man, making the home pretty with arrangements of fresh flowers. My dreams were of going to dark Africa to help Doctor Schweitzer with his patients. At one point I even wanted to become a catholic nun, even though I’m not catholic. My childhood role models were Pippi Long Stockings, at age six. At eight Mary Poppins, and at nine Mary Quant. At age eleven I dreamed of being an interior decorator and running my own business.

Maybe my anomaly, or reluctance to fulfil my female role in accordance to society’s standard, was acquired through my own observations. When I was five, my older half-sister declared she’d never marry. I spent primary school in a single-sex class, but after school, I played exclusively with the boys in my neighbourhood. While girls were constricted by frills, lace and ribbons, my hair was short and I wore sneakers and jeans. I had a bicycle and enjoyed as much freedom as the boys and played adventure games. One day at school, when I was seven, a group of girls in my class started talking about the wedding dress their mothers were saving for them, to wear on their wedding day.

It occurred to me then and there; I’d never seen such a dress in my mother’s closet. What she did have, was a fuchsia negligee I liked to dress up in, pretending to be a seductress from a thousand Arabian nights. When I enquired about her wedding dress my mother’s green eyes narrowed. She didn’t have one, she snapped. She wore a little black dress to the civil ceremony after all, it was the sixties and my father’s second marriage.

As for me, later in life I was proposed to, by three different men. The first was a Muslim diamond dealer in Bangkok. He approached me in the cocktail bar of the Hilton, while I was on a stopover to Australia. The second proposal was more romantic, as the young man got on his knees and spoke quite passionately. Unfortunately, a week later we discovered our friend in common was pregnant with his child. We never discussed marriage after that. But while our friend eventually had the baby and never spoke to him again, we remained good friends. The third time a man asked if I wanted to be his wife, was in my kitchen. I was preparing an avocado vinaigrette for a convalescing Acquired Brain Injury patient. He had a way with words: “How many camels do your parents want in exchange for your hand in marriage?”

In hindsight the Muslim diamond dealer seemed like the best bet. Though, as I drifted through my twenties, I didn’t concern myself too much with such thoughts. Life is too exciting a place to be in, with so much to do and experiment, a lifetime is hardly enough to do it all. I did think of getting married once, when I turned thirty. I asked the musician, my live-in partner of five years, how about it? He said he wasn’t ready to commit. Two weeks later, I was on a plane to Europe. We never broke up, I simply never went back. I stayed in Switzerland, where I’d grown up, through most of the nineties. We wrote friendly letters to each other and bit by bit, he packed my belongings into boxes and sent them overseas.

Life was an adventure and I enjoyed my freedom. I wasn’t hurt or disappointed. I was relieved, because deep inside, I knew the musician wasn’t capable of the love I deserved. I also thought if I ever got married, it would be later in life. Once I became wiser and more accomplished. Unlike my high school friend, M., I didn’t feel the urge to validate myself as a woman through the experience of procreation. This gave me the freedom to concentrate on my career, pursue my interests and nurture a rewarding social life. I fell in and out of lust without the added pressure of trying out each male specimen as a potential breeder, or going out on dates with a hidden agenda.