Complications: Confetti Magazine
Title: Part 2: Complications
Author: Jonathan McCrea
Date: 13th September 2009
Publication: Confetti for publication
In the three months since the proposal, I’ve acquired a newfound understanding of how complicated weddings can be. With such a huge event, every single decision can have unforeseen complications. Take the very first decision we made after our engagement, for example. Having attended so many weddings in Ireland, Dara and I settled on France, where we had gotten engaged, as our dream destination. We knew of plenty of couples who had done the same and reckoned it couldn’t be that hard to organise. Had we picked a remote village in deepest darkest Africa, we probably would have had an easier time of it.
In fairness, some of the hassle was our own making. While I’m sure a lot of the big hotel chains would have been very efficient, we wanted a non-commercial venue for the reception. Unfortunately, most of the villas and chateaux in France have a pretty crummy web-presence. Out-of-focus photos and vague details on occupancy are surprisingly common. Email response times can be frustratingly slow. Stunted and repetitive phone conversations were a regular feature. Weirdly, it also seemed that anyone who ever answered the phone was always named Celine, but it was never the same Celine you had been speaking to just moments before. After a highly improbable fourth Celine at one venue, I began to get suspicious that I was the unwitting victim of some sort of parlour game invented by bored receptionists to pass the time.
I speak basic French pretty well, but weddings have a language all of their own. I take my hat off to any Leaving Cert student who knows what a “houppa” is and how much it should cost to hire one for the day. Adding to all of this confusion is the fact that no two venues offer the same service. One will have a very reasonable food menu, but an extortionate “privatisation” fee. Another might allow you to bring your own champagne, but insist you book out all of the rooms for the entire week. Trying to compare costs is a gargantuan task. In the end, we decided to book a flight over for a weekend, making just three viewing appointments.
The Domaine de Mont Leuze is spectacular, with an incredible view of Villefranche-sur-Mer, a beautiful coastal town about 20 minutes drive from Nice. Unfortunately the spectacle has a matching price tag. A Jewish wedding was booked for the following day and the happy couple were splashing out over €90,000 on their big day. We took photos, sighed and hopped back on our rented moped to the next spot on our list: a seafront villa overlooking Beaulieu, the next town across. It was one of those places that estate agents like to call “cosy” or “intimate” when they actually just mean small. The agent assured us that the venue could cater for one hundred people, but I couldn’t see it work without guests sitting on each other’s laps. A little too intimate for our liking. Everything was now riding on our last appointment.
The hills of Provence are a breathtaking sight in summer. Swathes of rolling lavender fields, orchards and vineyards cover a landscape that has barely changed in centuries. As we motored up the steep roads to the medieval town of St Paul de Vence, we both had that tingling feeling: this is where we’ll be getting married. Sure enough, our venue, a small boutique hotel with oodles of charm, was exactly what we had been hoping for. We were sold in the first three minutes. What had been a consecrated 12th century abbey, has since been carefully renovated and furnished with quirky modern art, an excellent restaurant and luxury accommodation onsite. It was literally a godsend. After a brief tour and a glass of champagne to celebrate, we signed the deposit straight away and scooted off before something could spoil our luck. It was only when we arrived back in Dublin that I got a horrible sinking feeling in my stomach. The date, there was something about the date.
A few years ago, a friend of mine had his wedding on the same day as a rather important rugby game. Most men love sport and most women love putting on a nice frock; mixing the two occasions is asking for trouble. The dinner ended up being an hour and a half late and most of the guests were sloshed before they even got their starters. At dessert someone even started a sing-along. All that was missing was a few scarves and a pair of giant foam hands. I remember being astounded at the groom’s lack of foresight: most of my friends are extremely sporty and can’t be torn away from the telly when a match is on. I mean, can you imagine how much of an idiot I’d have to be to agree to a 3-day wedding slap-bang in the middle of the 2010 FIFA World Cup?
The very next day, we had another complication, on a marginally bigger scale. After speaking with several priests it turns out the Catholic Church in France is extremely strict on religious ceremonies. Only permanent residents of the parish of Nice can apply to be married in Nice, and the same rules apply across the whole country, supposedly with no exceptions. So right now, with 8 months to go, we’re looking at a football-themed Catholic wedding without a church or a priest. Try explaining that to the mother of the bride.