`FROSSIE LAND` DIARY
`A Wedding in Bordeaux`
Episode # 2 Saturday 25th July

It was almost twelve months to the day, when my good friend Nancy rang me in LA from Paris, asking me in that a charming mix of cultural confusion, to be her `bridesmaid`. Whilst her fiancé Francois lay laughing in the background, I summoned more practical thoughts relating to the wearing of high heels and taffeta, during the summer heat in Bordeaux.

The phone call had come at a time heightened by stress and loneliness for me, as I labored to launch an ambitious publishing project on foreign soil. I was therefore touched deeply by the sentiment, if not the image of myself in drag and it gave me boost of much needed energy.

Such it is often the case with good friends and I have realized since that despite the vagaries of life, I must be doing something of a sustainable worth to have such people around me. Honored also since I am not French, despite my philosophical and epicurean affinity with that culture.

At the time I had unconditionally agreed to come, without knowing how or indeed where my next breakfast would be served. But I did trust that the Providence that resides over matters of love would indeed decide and I set this event as my main objective for the coming year, as an offering of my intent to be there.

Weddings seldom seem to provide the backdrop to the mosaic of perspectives that each person attending brings to the celebration. Perhaps it’s the production line routine of the formalities that cloak such mystique, or other stresses of organisation?

This certainly was not the case in Bordeaux, where three generations of family members mixed joyfully with a wide variety of surf-loving, party-going Bordelais and their slightly more reserved northern neighbors from Nantes, Paris and internationals such as myself.


The ceremony took place in the medieval town of Bazas, famous the world over for its beef and on this summer day, sizzling in the Spanish looking plaza of its centre. Juxtaposed with this ancient background, the colourful plumes of couture and coiffure were artistically framed, but my lens was not big enough to capture the exquisite moments around me, so I stepped back against the wall with my friend the gecko and observed all. (The lens does reduce the complexity of moments to a fragment and many a wartime photographer has been shot, whilst missing this point.)

The first thing I notice is the simple elegance of those attending. Perhaps it’s the centuries of grooming that provide the confidence, but I failed to see one aged aunt folding her breath against the snapping of the invisible thread that sometimes appears to bind clothes, hair and makeup together. Everyone looked delighted to be there, despite the petty spousal squabbles about social behavior, threats of divorce and resultant road rage that I know accompanies many a wedding guest back home.

The bride arrives in a white convertible and I instantly recognize my beautiful friend, who in typical defiant style has chosen a `bolero`(the best word I can think of to describe the colour, not the style) red dress with a white veil. The effect is stunning against her tanned, olive skin and the Spanish looking background.

The groom is wearing a red tie, which perhaps did not make total sense to him until now and the revelation before his eyes has him in a trance. I ask him to confirm the stunning vision in front of us and he responds with a singular primal syllable of appreciation that has defied wordsmiths since language was devised.

I partner the groom's sister Delphine, who had belatedly told me to match her brown and blue ensemble- a feat I ultimately realised could only be achieved by tattooing my dark complexion, which would have frightened children and doomed me to a life of rock stardom.

We enter the first floor reception area of the `Mairie`(town hall) and so do about half the guest list of 187 people, who cram into a room designed to suit twenty-five large seventeenth century Bazans (I presume that’s what they are called, especially from a distance). The official party sits down at the table set for the occasion and I realize that we are surrounded completely. Perhaps it’s a local tradition to prevent `cold feet`, but I am sure no one is going to get out of there, unless everyone has signed the contract or fires tear gas (note to future shaky Bazan brides and grooms).

The mayor, who looks like a famous French crooner, but is probably in reality the local bull breeder, carries his office with dignity. Mayors are very important people in rural towns and villages, accessible twenty-four hours a day to adjudicate on most local disagreements. (on another occasion,a local mayor I am dining with was interrupted by a farmer who complained to him of a mule that he caught having `relations`, as our grandmothers called it, with his prized mare.)

Our mayor on this occasion wears his official sash with the puff chested pride of a legionnaire and the bride answers an emphatic `yes` to the first question he asks and the room erupts with approval of her unabashed zeal. I am unable to understand the exact wording of the question, but no one behind me moves so I presume all is going to plan.

Papers signed and rings exchanged the bridal party descends down the stony stairs to the plaza below amid raucous applause and snapping lenses. As one of four `Temoir`(witness- the French tradition varies from the Anglo Saxon, as there is no role for a `best man`), my job consists of signing a part of the marriage contract whilst smiling at the camera, much in the same way that world leaders do when consummating peace accords.

The reception is held in Grignols, just a few miles East of Bazas and despite the couple’s assertion that the wedding would be a `casual party between friends`, I am confronted by the vision of a medieval castle, complete with moat. The `Domaine de la Dame Blanche`( www.domaine-de-la-dame-blanche.com), Chateau de Grignols, looks about as romantic a place for a wedding as the mind can imagine.

I expect to see Francois arriving on horseback to claim his trophy bride, but the château’s established authenticity and the cultural acceptance of such sights as normal, prevent thoughts pertaining to what might be otherwise considered kitsch. Each guest is asked to hold a single red or white balloon and when the newlyweds arrive by car across the bridge, they are released in spectacular fashion.

Delicate canapés and champagne having been consumed, the guests move to the lawns that overlook an endless vista of forests and paddocks, for more champagne, oysters (a specialty of the region) and other treats.

We are then led inside to take up our seats, while the bride and groom await their grand entrance. I am unsure as to which member of the bridal party will make a speech, as no one seems to know. I am told that in French tradition, anyone that wants to say something does and I am more than a little concerned when two days prior, a friend of the bride indicated that it would be nice for me to say something, in French!

I did however come prepared with a good deal of Aussie irreverence in the form of an entertainment sketch that I am convinced will either delight the French taste for parody or have me thrown in the moat. Raphaelle, a mutual French friend from Melbourne and I decided to produce a show with film clips that imitates a music award ceremony and which depicts the couples time in Australia. It’s all done to suggest naughty impropriety and innuendo, however the underlying sentiment is about great friendships and love. Whether this will translate to a French audience of unknown make-up remains the source of some anxiety, but I reassure myself that all creative pursuits involve risk.

Masks depicting the faces of Nancy and Francois are distributed to the throng and when the couple finally arrives bopping to the strains of a familiar `house music` track, guests stand on their seats and punch their fists into the air whilst holding up their masks. I have never been to a wedding that explodes the restrictions of formality with such passion and joy. Any concern about the appropriateness of our show vanishes at this moment and I get the `thumbs up` from Raphaelle at the adjoining table.

The groom makes a short speech thanking everyone and we then sit down to a banquet of many courses and wines provided by the vineyard of a family friend in the nearby region of Medoc- home to the likes of Chateaux Rothschild, Margaux and other Grand Crus vineyards.

Apart from the context of a wedding that brings me here, it is also a reunion with other close French friends-ones that I am linked with wide perspectives, despite the separation of years and oceans.

The bride and groom fill two pyramids of champagne glasses, spurred on by the cheering of their guests and the only other formality is the bridal dance with parents. The dance floor is then cleared and what ensues is a freewheeling dance party with DJ that continues until 8 AM for those that can remain upright. Everyone joins the fun including the eighty-one-year-old grandmother of the bride who remains until 6AM.

Our show gets scheduled in a rare lull and is warmly appreciated by all and we are relieved when many thanks are extended to us through misty eyes.

The huge contingent from Bordeaux live up to party reputation of that region and drinks are consumed with gusto. My bravery in presenting the show is rewarded by a continuous stream of arms around my shoulder that seem to always steer me to the bar.

The DJ plays regional songs and one that depicts a bullfight has a finale with the participants forming a conga line whilst seated on the floor. Some sweaty shirts come off and the dance/drink combination shows no sign of slowing down, but the DJ and bar staff do not complain. In fact no one objects, even the older folks that seem to smile in appreciation of youthful vigor around them.

Many characters make their impression on me this night. One that having had his fill decides to take a short cut to his bed via the empty moat, where he ends up getting some much-needed rest. Another that should have gone to the moat but instead redecorates the interior of his medieval bedroom in `Technicolor`- a scheme that also includes an unwitting partner.

We singles are put in the dormitory- a former chapel complete with lead light religious images that watch benevolently over unconscious revelers. As my own good time comes to a halt, I find the solitary figure of a young man slumped outside on the huge stony steps. He was apparently so drunk that he could not even find a wall to lean on and sits there asleep in the middle of the stairs like a gargoyle, preventing guests from accessing the bathroom.

I recognize him to be a cousin of the bride and having had my own share of stony staircases, I take pity on him and carry him to a bed despite the flaying of his arms (note for good Samaritans- in cases such as this, it is always wise to wake the individual first. A good way to do this is to pinch the back of the leg near the hamstring if the object of your compassion is not responding to pleadings or prods- lower hamstring only please! Then try as best to pin the flaying arms, whilst lifting to a safer, more comfortable location).

I find out later the next day that he awoke in what he thought was a Church and not having remembered how he got there, declares it a miracle. I am told on good authority that he has changed his ways and wonder if this might require the more regular use of France’s many churches, especially late on Saturday nights?

The next day, we awake to a late lunch provided on the lawns of the chateau, where a review of the previous nights festivities takes place- a stock take of party tales if you will. Near this tranquil setting one partygoer rests peacefully under a tree and I am unsure if he was there all night or whether anyone can be bothered to find out- this is a very accepting culture when it comes to celebrations.

The conclusion by all is that the night was a total success and I for one as witness can attest to a rare and special experience. As we depart, a sense of satisfaction and remorse imparts a wisdom- that these events happen only too rarely, and that’s what makes them special.