Country Article / Postcards

An Irish Wedding in Italy

Date: 10/07/2006

Irish wakes are infamous. Irish weddings don’t get their due.

One of our Irish staff, Ronan, tied the knot last weekend. He invited Lief and me to join a small non-Irish minority among the 140 sons and daughters of Eire making the trip to Lido di Camiore on Italy’s Tuscan coast to witness the happy event. We arrived Thursday night for the Friday afternoon ceremony. By that time, Ronan and Linda’s mates were already two days at least into the celebrating…which would continue through the long weekend. We Yanks had no idea what we were in for.

If you could be married anywhere, where would you choose? Linda sought out this spot on Italy’s western shores, and, seeing it, you can appreciate why--ancient stone villages…hillsides covered with olive and fruit trees…mountains in the background of the sparkling Mediterranean... We joined the wedding party installed at the Hotel Villa Ariston, across from the sea, and began trying to catch up.

The wedding took place in Pietrasanta, 15 minutes from the hotel, in the 16th-century white marble Duomo di San Martino. Immediately following the ceremony, in the stone square before the church, the celebrating resumed, with champagne and toasting beneath the Tuscan sun. Back at Villa Ariston a half-hour later, the party got into full swing.

Lief and I straightened our backs and resolved not to embarrass our American brethren. We’d match these Irish glass for glass, toast for toast.

More champagne in the garden at the villa…then we were called into the dining room. Five forks at each place. Ah, this would be an extended meal.

“The custom here, I’m told,” Ronan’s best man Fred explained to everyone straight off, “is to turn your empty wine bottle upside-down in the bucket. This lets the staff know you’re ready for another.”

Fred introduced Linda’s father, who spoke sentimentally about watching his fair Linda be wed. We toasted him…toasted Linda.

Fred introduced Ronan’s father, who, he assured us, would not wax poetic. “As the father of the groom, it’s my place to be serious and sober…macho,” he stated with as straight a face as he could manage, sparking applause, laughter, more toasting.

Fred introduced Linda, who thanked us all for making the trip all the way to sunny Italy to join her and Ronan for their special day. We assured her it was our collective pleasure…and all raised our glasses.

Fred introduced Ronan, who brought the room to its feet by admitting he’d known Linda was the one for him, the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, from the first moment he’d met her…in a pub in Dublin. We smiled, we clapped, we…yes…we toasted.

Waiters in black vests moved from table to table, a half-dozen bottles of red and white in their arms at once, replacing the upside-down empties.

As the best man began his remarks, the waiters brought the first course. Eight more would follow. As we ate, Fred thanked us all, again, for making the trip. We toasted. He congratulated Linda and Ronan. We toasted. He congratulated the wedding planner…the mother of the bride…the mother of the groom…introduced grandparents…friends who’d made the trip from Canada…even Lief (Ronan’s boss) from the corner table. We toasted…toasted…toasted…

We counted the courses but gave up counting the replacement bottles of wine. Wedding cake cut, more bottles of champagne appeared at each table, and we were bid toast among ourselves.

Then, first dance. The entire room, young and old, crowded the dance floor to watch Ronan take Linda for her first twirl as his new bride. The music continued, and we all danced, glasses in hand. The music ended, but no one took this as a sign that the night was finished. They moved on to the bar.

Lief and I went to bed, heads groggy, eyes weary. Saturday’s celebrating lay ahead.

I’ve no idea what time the Irish finished that night…but I saw their hearty selves up the next morning, at the pool, on the balconies. Then, Saturday afternoon, back at it. Barbecue on the beach. More champagne. More wine. And, this night, singing. Ronan’s father encouraged one after another among us to lift our voices as we lifted our glasses. Irish ballads…2006 pop tunes…if you knew the words, any song would do.

Again, Lief and I excused ourselves long before the night was done. We heard the next day, Sunday, that, at precisely 4:28 that morning, Ronan’s mum had awakened to find her husband not in her bed. She dressed and descended to the hotel bar…where she found her man and his compatriots, still toasting, still singing…

Sunday dawned bright and warm. The Tuscan sun beamed down on our knackered selves as we made our way, in small groups, to Linda and Ronan’s suite to extend final congratulations and bid arrivederci. Finally, the Irish, too, had had enough. “I fear we may require medical treatment,” one of Linda’s friends remarked as she settled herself gingerly into a lounge chair facing the sea. Ronan had ordered (you guessed it) more champagne from room service, but, for the first time, he found no takers when offering glasses around the group.

No one wanted to go. Many had traveled far to be here--from Canada, the States. Irish clans can be scattered to the four corners of the globe, and when they come together for an event like Linda and Ronan’s wedding, they savor every moment.

Lief and I took the long, scenic route to the airport that afternoon, stopping again in Pietrasanta, for a lunch of pasta (but no wine) at an outdoor café on the square, then in Lucca, a bigger, walled city, and, finally, in Pisa, to see the tower.

We’d survived our first Irish wedding.

Kathleen Peddicord
Publisher, International Living

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P.S. Ryanair helped Linda make her choice of wedding locations. The low-cost Euro-airline recently began offering direct flights from Dublin to Pisa…and are creating, as a result, a mini industry in Irish weddings in that part of Tuscany. As Lief might point out…sounds like an opportunity for front-running the infrastructure.