“All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware.”
Martin Buber
Last Sunday I attended a country wedding in the village of Parleboscq, at Domaine de Marsan. I was invited by the father of the bride, whom I’d met while waiting in the checkout line at a small grocery in a nearby village. He rolled his eyes, as did I, and grumbled a few words, as did I, when the old woman in front of him opened her purse and emptied all of its contents on the counter, unable to find the right change. When he heard me exclaim, “Oh la, la, merde alors!”, he quizzically asked, “Are you English?” “No”, I replied, “I’m American.” We struck up a conversation that continued outside and I was surprised to discover that he had worked for the Honeywell Corporation and for a few years was based in Redmond, Washington, a short hop across the Evergreen Point Bridge, from my former home in Seattle. We must have spoken for a good half hour exchanging stories. He said he’d loved living in America and was delighted to speak English with an American again. I was equally delighted when he spontaneously invited me to his daughter’s wedding the following week.
On the way to the wedding I stopped on the side of the road to take some photographs of the Wayne Thiebaud landscapes and blond Aquitaine cows. Suddenly, a car that was moving quite quickly down the road, slowed and abruptly stopped in front of me. The driver rolled down his window and asked me who I was and what I was doing. I told him my name and explained I was on my way to a wedding, but couldn’t resist stopping to take a few photographs of the beautiful countryside and curious cows. I asked him who he was and what he was doing. He told me his name and said the surrounding countryside and cows were his. Oh la, la, merde alors, again!
He jumped out of his car, a bundle of nervous energy, joyfully explaining he was on his way to the boulangerie after salsa dancing till 4 in the morning at the Tempo Latino Festival in Vic Fezensac. He said he spends more than 50% of his time dancing, is obsessed with it – especially salsa and tango – then managed a few elegant twirls after very little sleep. As if a lightbulb turned on above his head, he ducked into the open window of his car, grabbed his i-phone from the console and flipped through screen images – left to right, right to left and back, stopping on one in particular. He handed me his phone and I watched a short video of him and his girlfriend dancing the Tango like the masterful Parisian duo of Claudia Miazzo & Jean Paul Padovani. I asked him if he was familiar with the movie by Spanish director Carlos Saura, called Tango, and he was, then he segued into his love of cinema and his dream of going to Hollywood. I told him I was married to an actor and the dream….well, it’s just a dream. He asked who the most famous person was I ever met and I said, Elizabeth Taylor. He instantly dropped to his knees and prayed to the goddess of celluloid for arranging our serendipitous meeting. We laughed and laughed at the absurdity of it all – here in the middle of nowhere. I told him I would be late for the wedding if I didn’t leave now, so we exchanged telephone numbers to continue our conversation at a later date.
I arrived at the wedding at 11 and was greeted affectionately, even though I was a complete stranger to everyone, except the bride’s father. Hors d’oeuvres and spirited drinks flowed out of the kitchen for more than 4 hours. Dogs frolicked and kids played. And, as if my encounter with the dancer wasn’t enough for one day, I met some more fascinating people freely offering their stories. One older man in his 80’s told me about being sent to Algeria during the war. He didn’t want to go. During the night while guarding a village, he heard a noise and shouted, “Arret!” The noise came closer and he shouted again, “Stop, stop or I’ll shoot!” The noise kept coming closer, so he fired his gun over and over, afraid for his life. After a few minutes some people appeared with flaming torches to see who he’d shot. They cried in dismay to see he’d killed the village donkey. Then I met Walter, an Argentinian man, a shepherd with penetrating blue eyes and a quick smile. He was in charge of the méchoui, a traditional north African way to cook lamb which takes 5 hours.
In the southwest it is customary to serve spit roasted wild boar at the wedding party, but the newlyweds chose spit roasted lamb instead. We finally sat down to eat at 3 in the afternoon. There was a veritable cornucopia of gastronomic delights to satisfy everyone’s palette, including mine. Different wines were served with each course and by 5 all 24 guests floated in a digestive stupor. All conversation stopped, all appetites sated. The bride and groom went into the house to change their clothes and came back out wearing bathing suits and coverups for a later dip in the pool. They brought with them the wedding cake – a croquembouche – slowly collapsing from the heat of the day. a pyramid of cream filled pastry puffs drizzled with caramel glaze and decorated with solid chocolate eggs. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t imagine taking another bite of anything.
I watched as the cake was served, followed by coffee and armagnac. Music was turned up and some people began to dance. Soon, almost everyone was up dancing with joyful abandon. I smiled at their generous spirit, their kindness towards me, as they coaxed me to the dance floor. Even the animals were happy. I realized the decision to live in France was one of my proudest moments…Courage had carried me on her waves to new and unexpected destinations. Oh la, la, merde alors!
