Paris!

12 Dec 2014 11 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Weddings Tags: , , , , , , , ,

The plane was boarding when I approached the gate at Ngurah Rai Airport in Denpasar. Snarly traffic stretched the drive from the usual one hour to an additional forty-five minutes. It was perfect. Engaged in Made’s gossipy prattle, I was spared the boring, clock-staring wait in the airport.

Jostling my way down the congested aisle to 28A, I saw that the seats beside mine were occupied by two women who appeared to be in their mid forties. Bridget and Lizbeth were just the right combination of reserved friendliness. A few pleasantries then they busied themselves and left me alone. Perfect.

Nine point five hours slid by with two Hindu vegetarian meals, wine, tea, four movies and a cat nap which landed us in Qatar for an eight point five hour layover. I hate long layovers. As the shuffling line of passengers departed the plane, I bid my new friends farewell, safe journey, happy life, and set out to find an internet kiosk where I could alert the world that, “Here I am in Qatar!” via Facebook. That done, I scoped out a lounge area where the barrel-shaped chairs upholstered in red faux suede were draped with sleeping bodies. As I passed, one form came to life, shook itself, and hurried off. I claimed the vacated space. It felt like a king-size bed compared to the cramp of the airplane seat and I dozed on and off through the relative quiet from one to five a.m.

But even at 5:00 it was still two hours to boarding. I walked through the glitz of fragrance laden retail surprised only by a shop selling high end hijabs. Until now I’d only seen basic black. The store was a feast for the eyes. Fabrics in bright colors, jeweled trims, embroidery and lace made it clear that the garments on display were not for the budget conscious. They fairly screamed wealth, excess, and Western values in this predominantly Muslim country.

I found my gate, not yet open, and an empty chair along the corridor. After a few minutes I kicked myself for not coming sooner. It was people-watching paradise. Arab men in white robes with billowing scarves arranged nomad fashion on their heads strode with pride and purpose, deep in conversation. Black shrouded mysteries whose eyes peered through small, rectangular slits, floated by. Petit Asian women with tight leather skirts, over-the-knee-sliver-studded boots, and swooping necklines giggled as they wobbled on stiletto heels. A granny wearing vintage Converse hightops, skin hugging violet leggings, and a bouffant, sheer blouse that ended at her waist exposing to full view the effects of time and gravity on her ancient buttocks, passed, stopped, turned, and retraced her steps. I felt terribly ordinary.

It was almost a disappointment when the boarding call tore me from the fascinating view.

For the second leg of the journey, a mere eight hours and thirty minutes, I would be on the largest passenger plane in the industry to date. With seats for 800 people on two levels and a wing span that could stretch across a small country, I settled into my seat with appropriate amounts of awe and trepidation. How does this work again? Air passing over the wings creates lift…? The laws of aerodynamics…ummm? I turned away from the window and there, sliding into the seats beside me were Bridget and Lizbeth.

“Seriously?” I said. They nodded, laughed, and just like that we bonded more intimately than best friends. “Did you choose these seats online?”

“No, we should have, but they were assigned to us at the ticket counter.”

“I selected mine online…what are the odds?!”

The rest of the journey passed in the comfortable presence of familiarity. Departing the plane at Charles DeGaulle in Paris I told my new bff’s that I expected them to meet me in five days for the flights back to Bali, that I really couldn’t bear to sit beside anyone else. They assured me that they’d be there. Liars!

As I traversed the long jetway, cleared immigration and then customs, my mind raggedly shifted gears. I mentally pulled up the map of the Paris subway system that I’d studied in great detail online: airport shuttle to terminal two, red line to Paris center, one transfer at Halle, then two stops…

“Mom!”

“Joy! You’re here!” We threw our arms around each other, squeezing and swaying in the mother/daughter hug that is so familiar and so deeply missed.

“We got in an hour ago and waited for you….Kellen’s with the luggage right over there…”

………

So it began.

……..

From the subway we trundled our bags to 36 Rue de Turbigo, an apartment in the center of Paris. Towering blue doors and wrought iron balconies dripping red geraniums, screamed charm.

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Francesca met us with keys and instructions for the state-of-the-art appliances that occupied the glossy, red kitchen. With hardwood floors, an ornate Louis XIV fireplace surround, and soaring ceilings, the two bedroom apartment held a boggling mix of sleek modernity and historic charm.

Up to that moment, Kellen had been leading the charge, way-finding in the underground tunnels and navigating the twisted streets. But when the door closed behind Francesca, Joy assumed the role she was born to: Commander in Chief. Joy plans. Joy makes lists. Joy multi-tasks and organizes. Joy delegates. But mostly, Joy leads and others willingly follow. Such was the case the moment suitcases were stowed.

“Time to buy groceries! Who’s coming?”

Kellen and I snapped to attention stopping just shy of a heel-clicking salute. Fired by a tireless energy that thrives on over commitment, Joy had invited all ten of her wedding guests to a Thanksgiving dinner in our apartment that she planned to cook that night: herbed chicken, sweet potatoes, roasted vegetables, baguettes and a cheese plate served up with bounteous bottles of wine.

“There’s a market a few blocks away, and a cheese shop, I saw them on Google Earth,” she says as we follow like obedient ducklings. And she’s right.

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An hour later, laden with produce, poultry, smelly cheeses and bread, we met Jessa, Dan, Jenny, and Kennen on the street. It was a fresh round of hugging and happiness. Then Joy lassoed her herd and ushered us into the wine shop.

“Everybody choose a bottle,” she said.

Kennen glanced at me, “I know what you want,” He pointed to a Maison Louis Jadot Pinot.

“I can’t believe you remembered…it’s my favorite!” Dimples creviced his cheeks as he gave me a knowing grin.

I don’t know how she did it, but when everyone arrived at seven p.m. a veritable feast lay steaming on the table.

P1080271 Jenny and Kennen added dessert to the mix, two tarts, one raspberry, one chocolate, so beautifully contrived that to cut into them took some measure of courage.

P1080266 P1080268Conversation hummed, animated, excited, expectant, until each one hit the jet-lag wall.  Another round of hugs and the group shrugged into their coats and left for their hotel two blocks away.

“Brunch back here in the morning…eleven o’clock…then home to dress for pictures!” Joy chirped to each one as they left. In spite of the wine, the overstimulation, the belly full of rich, unaccustomed food, I remember nothing from the moment my body found the bed.

Joy, ever the morning sprite, was mixing eggs for omelets when I peered into the kitchen the next morning, rubbing the grainy remnants of sleep from my eyes. P1080285The meaty salt smell of bacon accompanied the sizzle and pop as it rippled into crisp brown strips. The fairies, or gnomes, had come in the night and cleaned the kitchen. Joy said it was Kellen. My love for the man doubled in that moment.

The wedding party arrived, boisterous and rested, heaped their plates with buttery croissants, pancakes, omelet, bacon, yogurt, and strawberries, and ate until their eyes rolled back in their heads.

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It was a good thing that the wedding festivities were planned for today. By tomorrow I might not be able to zip my dress. My diet of fresh fruit, fresh vegetables and a little rice in Bali keeps me trim. Joy doesn’t consider that food. She made certain that we had our daily quota of bread, cheese, meat and unlimited quantities of wine. Nobody complained.

Stuffed to a fine stupor Joy issued the next set of instructions. Be dressed for photos and back at the apartment to catch taxis to the Pont Alexander Bridge at one o’clock.

There was no time to lose. My most important job was clearly ahead. I’d been entrusted with the task of lacing Joy into the corset part of her bridal ensemble and buttoning the bustle. In a flurry of frothy white she donned the gown and I commenced lacing and pulling until the perfect hourglass shape was achieved. I felt tears welling as I gazed at her. She was busy applying makeup so she didn’t notice, but memories washed over me in a churning stream of nostalgia and my throat constricted with remembering. It passed so quickly, childhood. Birth to graduation to marriage, a blur. Now, in the presence of this beautiful, accomplished woman, I felt the weight and the privilege of motherhood. All of my fumbling best intentions that fell so far short hadn’t ruined her.

“Can you bring my shoes, Mom?” Her request shook me out of the past and I hurried to do her bidding. The final result was ravishing and I caught her essence as she turned from the window and flashed one of her heart-stopping smiles.

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The afternoon took us from the bridge, to Notre Dame, to obscure Parisian alleyways. Thousands of photos were taken, but these are some of mine:

We were lucky with the weather. Paris can be nasty in November, snow, sleet, rain. We had a mild day in the high 50’s. Perfect. But there was more to come…so much more…

Here Comes the Balinese Bride!

07 Apr 2012 3 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

A traditional Balinese wedding takes three days. It goes something like this:

Day 1: The groom goes to the home of the bride and informs the family that he wants to marry her. This of course has been planned for years so it comes as no surprise to anyone. The family and friends of the groom begin to prepare his family compound for the wedding.

Day 2: The groom returns to the bride’s home, gathers her and her belongings, and takes her to his home which is with his family. Family and friends continue with the decoration and preparations. Three pigs are slaughtered in the morning and two in the afternoon to make bbq’d pork satays for the 1500 guests that have been invited.

Day 3: The bride awakens at 3:00 a.m. and meets with her makeup team. Both the bride and groom are painted and polished until they absolutely glow. There is an abundance of gold in the headdresses, the fabrics, and the jewelry that they both wear. The groom has a sword tucked in the back of his cummerbund, similar to Prince Rama from Hindu lore.  The guests begin arriving early, about 9:00 a.m., although there is an order that is loosely followed, relatives first, then close friends start coming a little later, and finally the third tier of relationship. In this case he is a dentist and she is a professor teaching nursing students.  Their co-workers are invited and other business related acquaintances of the families.

Guests enter from the street through an elaborate arch of woven palm fronds and flowers. There is a long table with the guest book at one end and chafing dishes holding an array of delicacies. Each guest is given a small woven bamboo leaf plate and we help ourselves.

This is a picture looking back at the reception table.

As I arrive the Holy Man is blessing the couple and performing a wedding ritual in this highly decorated pavilion.

They are just completing the first ritual. There are many more to follow as the different groups arrive.

The bride and groom move to these elaborate thrones for family photos.

A very handsome family indeed!


The couple then moves to the Western equivalent of a receiving line. Note the exotic headdresses worn by both.

The bride is exquisite and the groom is so handsome.

I sat by this guest later and complimented her on her hand. “Tatoo,” she said. I murmured, “Beautiful.” and quietly thought, Ouch!

From the receiving line we move into another area of the compound that has been tented and a huge buffet awaits. As an uninvited guest I do not presume to help myself to the food but find a chair in the shade and watch, enjoying the colors, the people, the happiness. In a matter of moments a Balinese woman approaches me and in the universal language of hand signals and head nods invites me to partake. I smile and delightedly accept.

The tables are arranged in a horseshoe shape. They hold Indonesian delights: tuna tempura with sambal, curried tofu and vegetables, chicken rolls, pork satay, tempe, batter fried green beans, of course rice, and pistachio ice cream for dessert.

Guests mostly sit at tables and on chairs that have been draped with white fabric and red accents, talking, laughing, eating.

On the left is the tented buffet. This is a small section of the seated guests. I must say a word about the attire of the female guests. I take the opportunity to really scrutinize the outfits in their various forms. Most of the ladies are wearing a sheer lace blouse like the one front and center. But upon close inspection, underneath that lace is a tight CORSET!! The corset is sometimes the same color as the lace, sometimes flesh colored, and sometimes a bright contrasting color. The lace blouse extends down to mid-thigh but is usually secured at the waist by a cummerbund or scarf often of the same pattern as the sarong.

The lace plunges to a ‘V’ in the front sometimes secured by a lovely pin as you can see on the woman in brown at the left of the photo above. The Balinese are not shy about mixing patterns and color! I see every imaginable combination and it is all simply spectacular.

When I purchased my sarong for the event I had no idea if I would be appropriately dressed. Putu informed me that I should wear a T-shirt, not a sleeveless top. So here’s what my attempt at a wedding outfit looks like. Next time I’ll have my tight corset and lace shirt!

About now you’re probably asking, “How does Sherry know about Balinese weddings?” Let me say again, the Balinese people are incredibly kind and hospitable. At one point the lovely young woman in the next photo, Desak is her name, approached me to make certain I had eaten. She spoke beautiful English and was kind enough to explain what was happening. She is a cousin of the groom, a Kindergarten teacher, and is eagerly anticipating her own wedding in about six months.

She tells me she wants four children, then adds that the Balinese government is suggesting that couples have just two. “It’s for the population, so it doesn’t get too large for the island.” I think I must have looked shocked. “But it’s still okay to have four,” she explains with a huge smile.

Back in my room I am suddenly overwhelmed with intense gratitude for the people I’ve met, my precious time here in Bali, and the opportunity to learn first-hand about their customs and time-honored traditions. It is a privilege that feels sacred. It feeds my soul.

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