Our company voluntarily departed us after a botched attempt at a night swim, we choosing to press on. As cliché as it sounds, we took a long walk on the beach. And I liked it. Arm in arm, we strolled on, over one shallow sea shell sand mound and down to the next, skipping over beer bottles, just out of reach of low tide.
. . .
The first day was quiet and spent catching up with Ms. Baku. The afternoon found us all at Grandma’s. Along with her Mom and Dad and Sister and Nephew and Aunt and cousin and his fiancée, we chased the chickens, choked them, grilled them, and served them up with fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, unknowingly prefacing what would later become an inappropriate euphemism about chicken choking. Also, Grandma has a chicken farm.
The evening was well rested, for we were to spend the entire next day galloping around the city fulfilling Ukrainian wedding customs. Not quite what I was expecting in way of ceremonial traditions, but there were girls there. And the weather was hot. And they was all emotional ‘n stuff.
The first stop was at the bride’s house, where the Best Man rolled up in a rented Ford Explorer with the groom. Poverty runs deep in these parts and I imagine it took a rather long time to save up for such a luxury. Yet the rumour mill soon churned out that this Ford was actually mine. And coincidentally, I quickly became known as ‘American Boy, American Joy.’ Which is kinda true. I am American. And I’m a joy. Ask my mom.
Upon disembarkation from said Ford Explorer, the groom was stopped by friends of the bride (girls), and required to complete a series of tests prior to being allowed to pass and retrieve his waiting bride. Tests of Love. Like reciting certain special days in their relationship, identifying her in a childhood school photograph, picking out her “kiss” on a piece of white paper with several lipstick-stained kiss marks, using words to describe his love for her for the next 30 paces, characteristical traits about her that begin with letters of her name, and of course, bribes. Which came in the form of bottles of Vodka, champagne and chocolate. If successfully completed, only then was he allowed steps closer to the house to retrieve her.
Once he worked his way into the house and on to the back bedroom, where he received his prize of an impatiently waiting bride, they emerged, he victorious, she hungry. I say, ‘prize’ because isn’t that really all women are? It’s like playing Skeeball at Dave & Buster’s for 7 hours, gathering up all the tickets you can possibly carry, only to change them in for a few plastic water guns and a can of bubbles, which by the end of the day, find themselves tucked away in the back closet only to be found again during Spring Cleaning and Anniversaries.
Ok. I didn’t really mean that.
. . .
The first day was quiet and spent catching up with Ms. Baku. The afternoon found us all at Grandma’s. Along with her Mom and Dad and Sister and Nephew and Aunt and cousin and his fiancée, we chased the chickens, choked them, grilled them, and served them up with fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, unknowingly prefacing what would later become an inappropriate euphemism about chicken choking. Also, Grandma has a chicken farm.
The evening was well rested, for we were to spend the entire next day galloping around the city fulfilling Ukrainian wedding customs. Not quite what I was expecting in way of ceremonial traditions, but there were girls there. And the weather was hot. And they was all emotional ‘n stuff.
The first stop was at the bride’s house, where the Best Man rolled up in a rented Ford Explorer with the groom. Poverty runs deep in these parts and I imagine it took a rather long time to save up for such a luxury. Yet the rumour mill soon churned out that this Ford was actually mine. And coincidentally, I quickly became known as ‘American Boy, American Joy.’ Which is kinda true. I am American. And I’m a joy. Ask my mom.
Upon disembarkation from said Ford Explorer, the groom was stopped by friends of the bride (girls), and required to complete a series of tests prior to being allowed to pass and retrieve his waiting bride. Tests of Love. Like reciting certain special days in their relationship, identifying her in a childhood school photograph, picking out her “kiss” on a piece of white paper with several lipstick-stained kiss marks, using words to describe his love for her for the next 30 paces, characteristical traits about her that begin with letters of her name, and of course, bribes. Which came in the form of bottles of Vodka, champagne and chocolate. If successfully completed, only then was he allowed steps closer to the house to retrieve her.
Once he worked his way into the house and on to the back bedroom, where he received his prize of an impatiently waiting bride, they emerged, he victorious, she hungry. I say, ‘prize’ because isn’t that really all women are? It’s like playing Skeeball at Dave & Buster’s for 7 hours, gathering up all the tickets you can possibly carry, only to change them in for a few plastic water guns and a can of bubbles, which by the end of the day, find themselves tucked away in the back closet only to be found again during Spring Cleaning and Anniversaries.
Ok. I didn’t really mean that.
