Fear and Loathing at the Big Apple Greek Wedding - Part 2

My body still unadjusted to Eastern Time, I awoke quite early on the morning of the wedding. The wedding was at 1630, and the car was collecting us around 1530, as it was the same car the girls were using, so we had an hour to kill.

Another wedding had been scheduled before ours, so we quietly slipped downstairs to the reception area, and chatted as best we could. The Groom brought us to some photos on the wall to show us samples of the quality of Greek women living in the area, and the conversation quickly moved to the Goombada’s brother, a successful running back in a college in Pennsylvania.

G: Oh man, you should hear some of the stories he’s told me about college.
YHN: Yeah, you mentioned last night that he was gonna miss out on all the groupies that hang around outside the locker rooms after the games.
G1: Did the Goombada play any football?
YHN: Yeah, he was telling me last night. He played nosetackle on the defense and fullback in front of the brother in school.
G: Oh man, High School would be class to go to over here. Can you imagine the time we’d’ve had?
YHN: It all depends on the person, lads. Let’s face it, I’d’ve got the shite hammered out of me in high school… there’s five tiers it seems, and I’d’ve been at the very, very bottom. Youse are all laughing cos you know it’s true.

The Groom was very nervous prior to the wedding. He was anxious and impatient. He had as bad a case of the jitters as anyone I’d ever seen. It started to spread amongst all of us. Our sole role on the day was to escort people to their seats, and try to keep the congregation balanced to the left and right. Usually, guests of the Bride go to the left, Groom to the right. Naturally, none of the other lads were eager to perform this task, so it was left to me to perform the few tasks a number of times.

About ten minutes before the start, the Priest arrived down to see how we were, and told some story about his son having soccer practise that morning. It again struck me how normal the man seemed. I generally find Priests at home to be quite forbidding people, with an air of superiority that I instantly dislike. I will admit not all Priests at home are like that, but many of them are, at least in my experience.

This Priest, on the other hand, went through all the same problems we do, and I could instantly see myself reaching out to him were I Greek Orthodox and in need of spiritual guidance.

If nothing else, this week in the US has convinced me even more that celibacy is a very bad restraint to force upon our Catholic Priests. It is not natural.

His soothing tone did little to relax our Groom, who was getting more and more restless as the time approached.

Compounding the issue, the entire train of Irish guests, ourselves notwithstanding, were late. The Bride was waiting outside the church patiently, but her mother started to get stressed. Suddenly, outside the window, we spotted the convoy arriving and could relax. I gallantly escorted the Mother of the Groom to her seat, and returned for the entrance procession.

Only to discover that one of the Groomsmen was missing. Making the snap judgement that an hour was too long to ignore nature’s call, he had dashed down the stairs to the toilets below. Now I got worried.

Suddenly, like that episode of Mr. Bean where his zipper gets caught as the Queen approaches but all is fixed just in time, it all came right, the Groomsman appeared just before the Bride came through the door, and we quickly lined up behind the church door.

Just in case you are wondering, no-one headbutted anyone either.

Without any further fanfare, the church was open, the entire congregation had turned to look at us, the first of the couples were on their way, and “Canon in D Major” was playing on the organ.

Like a jockey steering a horse, Partner I put some pressure on my arm, and I was walking very deliberately towards the altar, the largest smile I had ever had on my face. It was not a fake.

I remember very little about that short trip down the aisle, other than I did not forget to smile, I looked straight ahead, and I tried to look very serious about what I was doing.

The one thing I do remember is how honoured I felt.

The wedding ceremony comprised of two parts, the betrothal and the wedding. Sometimes the betrothal is performed in the Bride’s home a few weeks prior to the wedding, but usually the two are done together.

Greek Orthodox ceremonies are done in both Greek and English, and the entire wedding was sang and chanted. The Priest has a member of the congregation who responds in chant to everything he says.

Everything is done in threes, to symbolise the Holy Trinity. The Goombada was absolutely petrified. Normally confident and assertive, I was shocked to see him shaking like a leaf. His role in the ceremony is very active, placing the rings, and holding over the two halo-like bands, attached with a ribbon, that are placed on their heads as they are married.

The funniest part of the ceremony was when the priest takes the halos, switches them between the two and back again, and then plonked it down on the Groom’s head. The Groom is completely clean-shaved up top, and it is my shame to admit that the sight of the halo sitting on his head immediately provoked images of Spider Jerusalem from the comic series Transmetropolitan.

Fortunately, it was comical looking, and the Priest had not told us it would happen. I looked around in guilt, trying to swallow the laughter, to see almost everyone on the Groom’s side of the church laughing. I felt a little bit better, but not much.

Two more parts of the ceremony are worthy of mention.

Once the wedding is complete, the two couples walk anti-clockwise around the table three times. The Goombada’s job is to ensure that the halos do not fall off, as this is a fatally bad omen for the marriage. Again, we had not been told this, so the Groomsmen and I stood staring.

Once that had been done, the priest emerged from behind the screen to let us know what had just happened. He briefly explained the different rites and rituals just performed, and explained their significance. Again, I had never seen anything like that before, and all the Irish mentioned it after the wedding. It was such a novel concept for us, but welcome all the same.

Bubbles were blown, rice was thrown, and pictures were taken. A LOT of pictures were taken. Piling back into the limousine with the Bridesmaids, all the talk was of Cocktail Hour, what time it was, and whether or not they had missed it

Once again, we Groomsmen were staring at each other, all thinking the same thing:

“Fucking hell, these Greek girls are MAD for drink!”

Alas, it was a simple culture clash once again. Cocktail Hour, it seems, is a very common tradition with American weddings (and one that was almost as welcome to us as that other little chestnut of these events, the free bar). While the wedding photos and whatnot are being taken, loads and loads and loads of entries are laid out to keep the other guests occupied while they await the bride and groom and the dinner.

In Ireland, everyone just hugs the bar, tries to buy drink for everyone, almost assaults three people who try to buy the round ahead of him or her, and then either starts to talk shite or scan the crowd for the hot women or men.

While the Irish weddings are great, and would not change them, Cocktail Hour kicks ass.

Quite simply, the food was incredible. Being perfectly honest, I would not have cared a jot if the chef had accidentally used my medium-rare rib-eye steak as an improvised Frisbee, once I knew that during Cocktail Hour. Barbecued ribs, prime cuts of turkey, lamb and pork, sautéed mushrooms stuffed with melted cheese, salads, fruit salads, it was absolutely amazing. Partner II later informed me that the Zeris Inn was known for its good food and relaxed manner, and hosted most of the Greek weddings in the area.

So, what they were actually telling us was that they had not eaten in a long time, and were hoping they did not miss the quality entrees.

And so to the Reception. In Ireland, about twenty minutes after the dinner was due to begin, the hotel staff whip out the cattle prods and, through judicious use of these and pure, unsullied ignorance, herd all the people into the reception hall. Should these tactics seem brutal to you, the reason is immediately obvious. You have never been to a wedding in Ireland.

Once this is done, the bride and groom enter the hall to the sounds of Cliff Richard’s “Congratulations” or some other, similar, tune, and the dinner is served. One that has happened we have the speeches, along with the inevitable gambling pool where every at each table throws in a EUR2 coin or EUR5 note and guesses the total times for all the speeches.

What exactly is the starting and end point has been a source of controversy at tables. In truth, so long as everyone agrees, the two are arbitrary. The standard method, however, is from when the Best Man first picks up the microphone until the Priest first starts saying Grace After Meals.

It should surprise to no-one that it works a little differently across the Atlantic.

The Zeris Inn had a special room called the Bridal Room, set aside especially for the Bride and her Bridesmaids. The entire wedding party was summoned in, and the procedure was explained.

Once all the guests were sitting down, we lined up outside the door. At this point, Partner I morphed into Partner II, though I am not sure why. Disappointingly, a cat fight over the right to hold my arm never developed. Again, Partner II told me to smile, I just asked her to tell me what the hell I was supposed to do.

Lining up outside the reception hall, I could be utterly dishonest and win multiple brownie points with all my female readers by saying that I was once again overcome with that sense of honour at being asked, but my thought processes went something along the lines of this.

Mick, you are lining up here, and you are being individually introduced to the entire wedding. This is ridiculous; it is like being in a Super Bowl! Of course, I should say a Super Bowl before January 2002, since the New England Patriots changed that custom by insisting that they all run out and get introduced as a team. Hey, I wonder if we could do that?

So, to my increasing shame, as I started walking out to the dance floor with Partner II, it was NFL football that was on my mind.

My guilt drained away about three seconds later.

I, like the Best Man and the other Groomsman, walked out with a straight-back and a smile, striding out to our position with all the grace we could muster.

The girls came out pumping up the crowd like the cheerleaders of the New York Knicks right after an impossible three-pointer had been scored.

YHN: Fucking hell, BM, I feel like we’ve just walked out into the Super Bowl!
BM: Jaysus, Mick, I thought it was bad at home, but that was a horrid dose of shite altogether.

Laughing, the Bride and Groom had their first dance, followed by the rest of the Wedding Party, and finishing with us all taking our seats for dinner.

Unlike at home, the speeches are very short. The Goombada and the Best Man spent about two minutes each, sat down and the dinner began.

The music started up almost immediately, and people wander around as the food is being served. The soup was very strange, Chicken and Lemon, with the lemon very strong. It was unusual, but very refreshing. My rib-eye steak was excellent, and I had a good laugh giving grief to Partner II, who had practically incinerated hers.

Almost immediately, the Bride and Groom got up and wandered off to talk to family and friends. It seems the dinner is much less formal, with dancing and talking and wandering happening as the staff serve the food.

Once the dancing began, in accordance with tradition, the entire Wedding Party started first. We were hopeless, but I was slowly picking it up. Once I had, however, the line had grown overlong, and was split in two. Naturally, I ended up in a group of chancers similar to myself, and immediately lost it.

Of course, the music was not exclusively Greek. Interspersed was a Greek DJ playing chart and Irish music (the Irish music was terrible, such as “When Irish Eyes are Smiling” and other such hits, but as Partner II chided me, what would he know what the Irish like, he was Greek).

Approximately two seconds after spotting me, the Crazy Croat was pulling me out to dance. I was raging that the music was terrible, and hated to refuse, but I cannot dance to music I hate. I promised to hit the floor later.

I had more pressing concerns in the short term, like the fact that my glass was empty. I had promised to drink at the wedding, and it was time to hit the bar with a vengeance. Of course, I was naively hoping to have a laugh with the Groom, but I realised very early on that this was never likely to happen.

In later conversations, the Groom informed me that you spend much of your time talking to people you do not really know. You need to thank everyone and there are many chances to thank the people close to you at other times. Looking at the Groom that day, getting married seems to be hard work.

Of course, the music improved, and began to alternate between chart music and the traditional Greek band. I think the band spotted me early on. Every time I would take to the floor, their set would finish about thirty seconds later.

The first few times, I put it down to ill timing, but then it happened for a third and fourth, and I smelled conspiracy. Unsuccessfully, I tried to glower at the clarinet player as I stalked off the floor to my drink, but I have to be honest, he did not seem to notice.

As the night began to wind down, I was hammered. I pulled out all the stops. The stupid dances, the silly poses for the camera, you name it, I was on it. Filling up a large bus, all the Irish guests, plus a few of the Greeks, piled back into the hotel and immediately hit the bar, demanding drink. Unfortunately, the guy whose name was something like Albert was not there, but two other girls were, and they were more than willing to engage in mercantile exchange of alcoholic beverages.

Everyone quickly piled outside, as a lot of the group smoked.

After a short while, the Goombada, his brother, and a few other cousins arrived, and I quickly struck up a conversation. There were a few things about football I still did not understand, and these guys seemed like they knew their stuff.

Of course, there were other guests as well, and I was keeping a modest eye on the Crazy Croat, becoming ever more aware that I had a room all to myself.

YHN: So, there is one thing I do not understand about defense, and could you help me out?
G’s B: Sure. What do you want to know?
YHN: Well, I’d always heard that the 4-3 defense was the standard, but a lot of teams seem to be switching to 3-4, and that is what the Patriots use as standard. Why are teams switching?
C1: First off all, don’t try to learn anything about defense from Bill Belichick, cos that guy is a genius! He does stuff no-one else ever imagined.
THN: Okay, but a lot of other teams are using it as well!
G’s B: Well, it’s main because the passing game has become much more important due to rule changes. With a 3-4 D, you have more linebackers in the backfield, so it is more flexible.
YHN: Oh, I get it!

The terrifying thing is, I was on the wrong end of about ten JD and Cokes, but I did. I got it. I was finally starting to learn the game!

Swivelling in the chair, my attention returned to the Crazy Croat. Again, we were chatting, but the alcohol had bypassed almost all higher brain functions. I was quite strongly attracted to this girl, and almost all other considerations suddenly seemed very unimportant.

The problem was, there were a few other guys hitting on her too.

Bastards.

In the past, Mick would have let it go. Not anymore. My new motto when it comes to the other gender is “We are not at home to Mr. Beta”, a philosophy formed from the night of the original explosive decompartmentalisation.

Time to compete for attention, methinks.

Unfortunately, the guys behind me had started talking about football again, and this time it was their Fantasy Football league. I couldn’t resist.

YHN: Do you like Fantasy Football?
C1: Yeah, why? Don’t you?
YHN: Not really, I must admit.
C2: Why the hell not man, it’s cool!
YHN: While I admit there’s no other way to organise it, it emphasises the stats too much. Look at Peyton Manning. He’s always the best quarterback but there’s no way he’s better than Brady. Brady is 9-0 in the postseason.
C1: I accept that, but the Pats are amazing too, what a team.
C2: Who’s your backup?
C1: Michael Vick.
YHN: How the hell did you get Vick as your backup? Would he not be taken straight away. How many teams in your league?
C1: Just eight.
C2: Hey Mike, do you follow a team at all?
YHN: Not really, I don’t know enough to have one team. I love the Patriots approach, but that’s easy cos they are winning, and they were impressive against Oakland. Still, they have so many injuries, it’s gonna be tough for them.
C1: They’ve got good backups though.
YHN: Well, the old guy from the area is supposed to be good. I can’t remember his name.
C2: Flutie.
YHN: Flutie, yeah, that’s it, Doug Flutie. He’s meant to be very good. But they’ve got a new guy. A young fella they drafted in Round 4 or 5. He’s from the area and he’s also meant to be a legend. Cassel. Matt Cassel?
C1: Yeah, Matt Cassel. You know it.
C2: I like this guy, dude. The crazy Irish guy from Longford knows the third-string quarterback for the New England Patriots!

It was easily the coolest conversation of the entire holiday.