Lunch in Paris (21 page)

Inside the town hall is a grand staircase, made slightly less grand by the plastic bulletin board with announcements about
recycling and nursery schools. My friend Oscar, a fashion designer, was straightening Gwendal’s silver tie when I met them
on the front steps.

If the groom was having doubts, the décolletage of my dress squashed them right away. Despite my best efforts in the lingerie
shop, my wares were conspicuously on display, like the Christmas windows at Saks.

I could say I was nervous, but that would be a lie. My inner control freak had taken the day off, and in her place appeared
a perfectly relaxed young woman, kissing friends, directing traffic. I had descended from the mountain of the perfect, into
the valley of the possible, and was now on the happy shaded trail, dappled with sunlight, of the present. It was the most
wonderful walk of my life.

That may have been because I didn’t understand a word of what I was committing myself to.

In France, before you sign any kind of legal contract, they read it out loud to the assembled parties. I’m sure it’s an excellent
idea; it lets you prick up your ears for little words like “illegitimate,”
“disinherit,” “obey.” But the effect is limited when the person signing is still learning the word for “turnip.” At one point
the intonation raised slightly to indicate a question, and I said, “
Oui
.” I think that was it. Since we had our backs to our family and friends, I gave a little thumbs-up to the peanut gallery.
They didn’t understand anything either.

Like so many other rituals in France, this one involved paperwork. We turned the pages and kissed, knocking noses on the way.
Then Gwendal’s godmother Annick got up to sing a song. It was a love poem, but again, the words didn’t penetrate. Carefully
applied mascara started rolling down my cheeks. They weren’t tears of sadness, or even tears of joy. I was just overflowing.
Like so many things since I’d been here, I didn’t yet understand it, but I felt it.

T
HE RECEPTION WAS
in the Buttes Chaumont, the park where Gwendal proposed. The restaurant was lovely in an old-fashioned way, with two huge
terraces, one in front, one in back. It was a sunny day, which was a relief, as there was no place for an eighteen-piece band
inside. The city disappeared behind a curtain of chestnut trees.

When we arrived, the hostess handed us each a glass of champagne. The chef had done his level best with the polenta triangles
(a little thick and sticky, but what do you expect when you ask for something foreign). I could see the
tomes
of cheese, stacked like the ends of barbells on the serving table inside. Rachel, Gwendal’s witness, had brought
saucisson
and smoked duck breast from Toulouse. I bought medjool dates and plump dried apricots and tiny grapes, so red they were nearly
black, which hung over the edge of the serving dish with Dionysian abundance.

We had hidden the big band on the back terrace; only four of them, a perfectly polite jazz ensemble, greeted us at the front
door. But I’ve been known to surprise people, so as the guests filed through to the back terrace, the remaining brass let
out an astounding honk, and the saxophone players stepped up in unison as they broke into a swingin’ version of “Stompin’
at the Savoy.”

Gwendal pulled me onto the dance floor. There was no time for speeches or formalities or introductions.

He was right about the music. It was barely noon, and the terrace was full of twirling couples. It was an instant form of
communication. On the dance floor, you couldn’t tell who was who, or who spoke what.

Admittedly, lunch itself may have been a little confusing. Americans tend to eat cheese as an hors d’oeuvre at the beginning
of the meal and the French eat cheese at the end of the meal, just before dessert. We had skipped the meal altogether. I was
beginning to see the beauty of an intercultural marriage—things were so mixed up that we could get away with anything. Instead
of doing it the American way or the French way, we did it our way. Our guests caught on soon enough.

In the end, the U.S. contingent did me proud. They inhaled the cheese like they’d been born eating it—not a wrinkled nose
in sight.

Afra asked if she could perform part of the Persian wedding ceremony. During a traditional Persian wedding, the bride and
groom sit under a piece of white silk, and all the married women grind two cylindrical cones of sugar over their heads to
wish them a sweet life together. My mother came up, and then Nicole, then Sarah and Rachel and on and on till the cloth was
heavy with sugar and Gwendal and I started to taste it on our cheeks.

There was no way Gwendal was going to get away without tap-dancing. Hervé and Axelle, two friends from his class, had already
done a routine, and my American friends had been hearing
rumors for months. Gwendal strapped on some borrowed shoes and went to it. The band struck up “Cute,” and the saxophone players
stood up and made a swift forward bow. Gwendal shuffle-stepped and turned and slid, and our friends hooted and cheered as
if they were at the Super Bowl. As usual, by being exactly who he was and doing exactly what made him happy, Gwendal had charmed
the pants off of everyone. I stood to one side, hands clapping in time to the music, thinking to myself:
I’m going to spend the rest of my life in Paris with a tap-dancing Frog
.

In that moment, it sounded like the best idea I’d ever heard.

O
N SUNDAY NIGHT
, we organized a small “family” dinner at the Bistro Sainte Marthe. Only one person there was actually related to me, but
I had always had the good fortune to choose my family. They set us up at a long table outside. The men started off with vodka
rocks. Normally the French don’t drink hard alcohol before dinner, they insist it dampens the palate, but the Yanks were in
town, so normal etiquette was suspended. With more than a dozen guests and only two translators, I think everyone saw the
advantage of more, rather than less, social lubrication.

We were a big group for a small kitchen, and the
raviolis d
’
escargots
were slow to arrive. What we lacked in food, we soon made up for in wine. Bottle after bottle was uncorked by the bar. By
the time the pork ribs with honey and bloody steak topped with foie gras began trickling out toward the table, Yanig and Affif
were speaking to each other in English: “Kahn you pleeze passs ze zalt.
Tu ne peux pas parler anglais, comme tout le monde?
” Why can’t you speak in English like everyone else?

We decided that dessert for fourteen might cripple the kitchen permanently; there was plenty of leftover
croquembouche
in the fridge. We walked woozily back to the flat. As if English and
French weren’t trouble enough, Paul had decided to introduce some Yiddish into the mix. He had Yanig by the elbow trying to
explain the word
Machatunim.
“In English there is no word to describe the direct relationship between the two sets of parents.” He called Gwendal over
to translate. Auntie Lynn took a pillow off the couch and plopped down on the floor. I gathered various plates and saucers
from the kitchen. I didn’t have enough cake plates for everyone. It was a bit of a motley crew, but I guess I’d always preferred
my life this way. Sprawled across our living room eating leftover wedding cake, we became a family.

O
N MONDAY MORNING
, Gwendal and I went to my parents’ hotel room to say good-bye. I noticed, for the first time, that the management had put
a welcome basket in everyone’s room for the Fourth of July—wine and fruit topped with a miniature American flag.

Paul zipped the suitcase and did a final sweep to see if they’d left anything in the bathroom. My mother, who had been good
up until this point, finally burst into tears. “I just don’t know if I can leave you here.”

As she hugged me, hanging on for dear life, I realized she was hanging on for all the other times she unselfishly let me march
out into the world—sleepaway camp, boarding school, college, junior year abroad, grad school in London.

I’d been so far away for so long. I pressed my forehead against her cheek and thanked her again, silently, for letting me
go.