JULY 3, 2019 – In an instant the work of many hands turned into a magical scene. Script, setting, players—all fell into perfect place. An invisible hand directed the action into images indelibly written into our memories. We would share a bond among themselves as with no other people.
Framing our memories were a late afternoon barbecue of fresh, Portuguese sardines; the wedding ceremony the following day inside the ancient stone church in the village; the reception that followed—amidst an olive grove, specially decorated for the occasion; the wedding dinner on the grounds of the “Grande Casa” and the dancing that followed—so far into the night, it was no longer night.
Throughout the proceedings, I tried to capture a few images that collectively would hold the greater picture firmly in my memory. Among the mental pictures:
The tall, shade-giving willow tree, its coiffure adorned with lights that turned it aglow after dark.
A great American writer and radio show host, uncle of the groom, seated in the shade of the willow tree, smitten by the scene, writing copious notes.
Scores of smiling, laughing guests from around the world, extended family, and members of the local, closely-knit community.
The long series of dining tables lined up in the shade of fragrant rose bushes along the cobblestone driveway.
A multi-lingual chorus of conversation in French, English, and Portuguese.
The groom in an azure-blue tailored suit bearing the date, 6 – 22 – 19, under the collar, looking so debonair as he rides a vintage motorcycle (from his father-in-law’s collection) to the church.
The bride, strikingly beautiful, wearing her mother’s wedding dress, her smile matching the flowers in her hair, escorted to the church by her brother in the black, streamer-festooned Mercedes sedan he’d rented for the occasion.
The bride’s paternal grandparents, transported from their home in the village to the festivities and looking as calm, peaceful and assuring as the olive trees around us.
The Brazilian priest, the liturgy in Portuguese, a reading in French, another in English; after the priest withdraws from the stage, the acolyte, Gonçalo, the caterer’s son, stepping forth and instructing in perfect English, “Okay, you can go now.”
Kumar, the groom’s close friend since early childhood, jumping for the cord of the church bell, which peals as the village has never heard it.
The Fado singer at the reception, her soft, sad, love music—the genre of Portugal—filling the arms of the olive trees in the reception grove.
The distant rumble that crescendos as the village drummers—led again by Gonçalo and the bride’s cousin Fernando—march up the road. Halting at the site of the reception to pound out a celebratory display of percussive virtuosity, they then lead the entire wedding party up into the yard of the “Grande Casa.”
A feast of fresh food from earth and sea.
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After dark, the twinkling lights of Cernadela in the valley below, as we celebrated in a magical world of our own high above the clouds.
Paradise in Portugal.
© 2019 Eric Nilsson
