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.