betrothed

(not the same church)

It’s so easy to fall in love in Greece. In fact, that’s just another way of saying that it’s surprisingly easy to fall in love with Greece -- to give up brilliant careers and families and friends abroad and feel you’ve lost nothing in the exchange. The sacrifices sink in later. So it started in the usual way: he sold his house in Scotland and everything in it, left an ascendant career in science to take a job so far beneath him he had to work harder than ever to do it well, turned his back on heaths and fog to get a face full of dust and hot southern winds, relentless sun on his pale pink skin. She was a divorcee with two teenage daughters; before long, a third was on the way. A vague ambition to marry became a matter of some urgency.

The wedding took place last night. It was an intimate affair: a small, white church right on the beach; the waves, rhythmic, insatiably stroking the sand; the sunset spreading its legs in an infinite split across the nether regions of sky, which blushed, deep red, in response. The Scots were kilted, their thick wool socks an itchy contrast to their wives’ bare legs and summery pink dresses. The groom wore a light-colored suit and a fiery red tartan tie. The bride wore a simple, ivory gown, high-waisted and pulled tight at the back, her belly the sole emebellishment.

The priest played the crowd right from the start, making the most of his hands-free mic. “We’re going to make this wedding bilingual. Don’t laugh at my pronunciation,” he said, earning a laugh with that, of course.

He sang the liturgy in Greek, and then again in English -- this old, gray-haired priest you’d never expect to be so accommodating. All the words were right, both spoken and sung; the prayers I’ve heard so many times were made mine at last. The people were quiet; they hung on every English word, eyes wide whenever they caught something they understood, or missed something they didn’t. A ripple went through us only once, when the priest held up the Bible in front of the groom, who didn’t know what to do and didn’t react at all. “Kiss,” the priest said. “Kiss,” we all repeated, as the groom did just that. It was an incantation. It worked its magic.

A little girl came round with her basket of rice. I took a handful and she moved on to the couple standing next to me. “We are tourists,” the man said, politely refusing. The girl moved on, but I shared my rice with them, and my excitement. This wedding was for everyone.

It ended with a mantinada; the priest asked the bride to translate for the groom and all his non-Greek guests. She blushed at its sensual nature; we all did. Your eyes are like the sea, he said and then she said, its waves are my hands and its depth, my body. I give you a soft place to sleep, and when you look at me, I turn to pieces.

At the end, I kissed them all, overwhelmed with romance, confusing my English and Greek. The story may have started as expected, but it ended so much better.