`FROSSIE LAND` DIARY
-A Wedding in Nantes- Bordeaux reprise
Saturday July 1st 2006
I am always delighted to receive wedding invitations, as these occasions seem to spark the idealist or optimist in me. A wedding in France- that country of love- during a European Summer is a tantalizing prospect for senses dulled by dreary winter. Other events were also aligning themselves to my imagination, like planets in some rare astronomical phenomenon, promising glorious times ahead for weary travellers like me.
In Germany, `La Coupe du Monde` (The World Cup) was already in full swing and the eyes of the world were slowly turning to the aging French team, whose journey through the tournament was taking on mythical proportions. Zidane Zinadine (or `Zizou` as he is affectionately known in France), the captain of `Les Bleus` and demi-god to this nation, was writing his own epic with the expectation of one last miracle before retirement to immortality. `Zizou`s` supernatural skills and saintly heavenward glances had captivated the media, his ethereal visage adorning Paris billboards and magazines like that of Cuba’s revolutionary martyr Che Guerra, in the streets of Havana.
And like a hero in some Greek tragedy, he was to later fall from grace during the penultimate moment of battle, trading `La Coupe du Monde` for a `coupe de tete` (head butt) and `red card` ejection against that colossus of Italy, Mazzarotti. President Jacques Chirac immediately and diplomatically praised his lengthy service record and according to one survey, eighty six percent of the population had forgiven him.
However, such events remained in the realm of wildest speculation, as the excited groom, Renaud, drove me to Nantes in the West and the forthcoming wedding celebrations. It was two years before that I had met him at another wedding in Bordeaux, held in a medieval castle. He had distinguished (and extinguished) himself then by consuming too much of a good thing, which thankfully is never a crime in Bordeaux. However, true to the sagely Shakespearean verse- `wine promotes the desire, but inhibits the performance`- he had tried valiantly and vainly to breach the castle and his lady’s bedchamber, by way of the dry moat. The effort proved no trouble for his enduring heart, but queasy to his stomach, with which contents he then re-decorated her room and slumbering personage.
Forgiveness must be a French virtue as the lady in question, despite banishing him to a bed by the roses, had since agreed to marry him. This act only proves the axiom `to err is human; to forgive, divine`, but wasting of a good Bordeaux, inexcusable,the only proviso I would add. Proof also that she could take the worst he could give; a triumph for the validity of forgiveness, love and draw bridges.
We arrive in the town of Sautron near Nantes, in picturesque juxtaposition to the wonderful villas of footballers, successful businessmen and on this occasion, the family home of the bride, Delphine. As we enter via the gates and circuitous path, I glimpse a mansion nestled between many tall trees of various types, including an Australian eucalyptus. I am later informed that they were all planted some thirty years before, in expectation (and symbolism, I imagine) of a growing family and they now provide a postcard backdrop to the great occasion ahead.
Close friends and relatives arrive from all parts of the country and there is frenetic industriousness in the staging of three events during the course of the weekend. The bride’s parents somehow manage to play perfect hosts to their guests, whilst managing the Herculean organisational tasks. On the Friday we erect three marquees, one of which will host a Middle Eastern banquet that evening.
What might appear incongruous to the idyllic European settings of the manor and gardens is in fact a huge triumph for typically French panache. Perched on Persian cushions and low table, about sixty guests feast on sumptuous `tagine` (a Morrocan stew of chicken, spices with a base of preserved lemons, tomato, garlic, parsley, onions, wine, and olives) and cous cous.
The next day is hectic as the house is full of guests,the bride and groom doing their best not to see each other before the ceremony.
As was the case two years ago in Bordeaux, we arrive at the town hall, which is sweltering beneath the summer sun. The mayor arrives and looks identical to the one that presided over the aforementioned wedding- silver hair flowing on top of a tan that looks very Hollywood (in a George Hamilton kind of way), but was hopefully acquired by working his vineyards?
The bride arrives in the midst of the expectant throng and a paparattzi type photo frenzy ensues when she steps from the car. The vision before us is exquisite against the ancient stone walls around-a custom designed bridal dress that seems to flow with the gentle summer breezes, accentuating her charm and individuality.
What makes Delphine`s arrival and indeed the wider scene so tantalising is the absence of any `Disney` inspired staging or sentimentality. There is the naturally textured beauty of the setting, its history and culture, in contrast to the finer sensibilities of the moment. It is a poignant statement about a high moment of life, but one held in appropriate perspective within the composition of the greater picture.
The bride also exhibits an ease, poise and certainty that perhaps only two thousand years of cultivation can provide? The French do possess that sense of surety that others sometimes take for arrogance; but there is no pretentiousness here and my many accolades are countered by frequent reassurances of ``C`est normale Chris``! Yes, hopefully it is.
The nuptials having been concluded, we drive ten kilometres to the reception, which is held in an astonishing chateau. The buildings are early 18th Century in construction, complete with a huge courtyard, ringed by sculptured landscaping and elaborately presented tables.
Upon the arrival of the delicious canapés and champagne I am introduced to a group of men that call themselves `The Buffet Eagles` (otherwise known to experts as `predatorius gastronomique`). I recognise most of them from the wedding in Bordeaux two years before and am initiated into their coterie, when a mouth watering morsel of
foie gras is snatched from beneath my outreaching hand-to the raucous approval of the group. I am later informed that their charter confines their activities to hovering around buffet tables, to enable the frequent swooping upon just arrived delicacies. I congratulate them on their initiative and offer a potential motto- `Je pense, donc je mange`(I think, so I eat).
I am also fascinated by the great cross-section of guests. There are French social workers from far flung places like Ghana and El Salvador sporting tribal motifs, surfers from Bordeaux, businessmen, theatre types and of course one displaced Australian.
At one point friends of the bride and groom perform a play depicting humorous scenes from the couple`s courtship; all very funny with incisive innuendo.
A `boat` of oysters arrives carried by several waiters and as the crowd gasps with the anticipation. I ask myself what the Rococo feasters would have thought of the scene and find myself at the bow of this `crustacean barge` surrounded by `Buffet Eagles` on all sides. They seem to know which oysters to take- the slightly milky ones I am told, which is against conventional wisdom back home and I resist the urge, in case I end up repeating the groom’s feat from two years prior.
After what seems like an eternity of feasting we are invited inside to take our places ahead of the four or more awaiting courses; and I wonder by which disappearing act I will be able to consume the fare. The theme is strangely a Chinese one, which seems to work out. Again I wonder why such incongruous ideas seem to work well in France?
I spy the occasional male guest wandering sheepishly into the kitchen and find that the World Cup semi final match between France and Brazil is in full swing on a small TV set. Once this little conspiracy is discovered, rather than being condemned by the bride, a full scale
coupe d`etat is launched and all 150 guests find themselves in the palatial courtyard watching the second half of the game, with the bridal party in full revolutionary support at the front.
The things that we desire to celebrate most in life are the things that unite us.In this case, love and national pride- two essential French qualities- so well presented on this occasion. Women, children and older folk all join in boisterous partisanship, as `Zizou` and his team weave their old magic spell on the reigning world champions and Brazil are knocked out of the tournament, like samba school rejects. The French are into the final! The corresponding scene at the wedding is volcanic in its outpouring of joy and the dance floor erupts for the rest of the evening.
When closing time comes at 3AM, the outnumbered venue management are charged by a group that challenges their unpatriotic action. However, on this occasion there is no Bastille Day triumph for the protesters. Undaunted, they drive back to the bride’s family home through the still countryside, some hanging through the windows of speeding cars whilst singing `Les Marseilles`(French national anthem).
The bride’s father, Daniel, informs me that he must get up in two hours time, to prepare for the luncheon planned on the lawns. But he makes no protest against the revelers who party until dawn and end up in the swimming pool.
Later that day, we enjoy a beautiful, relaxed lunch on the lawns of the manor, with only the occasional murmur emanating from the resting partygoers. This time it’s the turn of the more mature set, when our host ends up in his own swimming pool, courtesy of a neighbour and good friend. Other friends follow the lead amidst much cheering and laughter all around. The younger partiers can only watch in defeat like the Brazilians, upstaged by older and wiser competition who know that in life and sport, timing is everything.
As I organise a ride back to Paris, I see the headline of France’s top sports newspaper `L`Equipe`, which is now covering a sleeping reveler. Poised above the photo of a triumphant Zinadine Zidane, it best encapsulates the euphoria of a wonderful weekend in Nantes, France- `Magique`!
By Christopher Brown
Photos by courtesy of Ivory Motron
