Going to the chapel of Love

The next day was an unexpected one in Barcelona - I had thought we were going to Campo right away, but in fact we were going to wait and follow another car whos driver had been to Campo before and knew how to get there. So we took advantage of the beautiful sunny weather (an unheard of luxury in Dublin in October) to walk in and around the Ramblas and go coat-shopping (my shopping mission on this trip was to buy a good winter coat). I saw two Gaudi buildings (brilliant) and found some Dali and Miro prints (but left it until Madrid to buy them, as I was sure I'd be able to find them in the museums). We ate delicious tapas in the sunshine and went home for a rest before the long drive to Campo. We were just about to leave when we find out the guy we are supposed to be following to Campo has never been there before, wouldn't have the first clue how to get there, and now we'd be driving in pitch black. It later transpired that he has a GPS, so our fears were calmed somewhat.

Long story short, we arrived in Campo with only one (small, and quickly corrected) wrong turn and arrived just as the Ronda was beginning. Campo is a small village about four hours' drive from Barcelona, and like the other villages in the region, they have a Ronda the night before the wedding - a few guys in traditional dress, some instruments, strong, melodic voices, and songs dedicated to the happy couple. We stood in the narrow street outside Cris's family's houses and and listened to the songs, sung in traditional style, making fun of Ro, Cris, their families, Argentines, themselves, and anyone else that happened past. They were hilarious - only the jokes are, of course, impossible to translate, so it's a case of "you had to be there". We listened and laughed and ate and drank (incidentally my first jamón in spain and it was delicious) I talked to an Irish couple and their son (from Cork) and met a load of people whos names I didn't remember five minutes later (always the case when you meet a hundred people in half an hour). I saw my aunt and uncle again, Ro of course, who I hadn't seen in 10 years, and met Cris for the first time. All that family around (old and new) was pretty magical. So was the juxtaposition of the Spanish with the Argentines (also quite funny). At about midnight we made our way to the local, which, although pretty and cosy, was smothered in a thick blanket of cigarette smoke (I've become unaccustomed to this in Dublin). My eyes tired quickly of that and I went home relatively early.

The next morning, a lovely relaxing lie-in (first in months) and a leisurely breakfast. We all took our time until someone casually asked what the time was and we realised Ro and Cris were getting married in an hour. I showered like lightning, smeared on some makeup, on with the dress (loaned to me by my colleague Una, thanks a million) and shoes (Penneys, 13 euro, two inch heels, and absolutely fabulous) and I was ready to go. Even the males remarked on how fast I was ready.

It was a gorgeously sunny day, perfect for an outdoor wedding, not too hot and not too cold. We were just commenting on how lucky that was when Cris informed us it had nothing to do with luck; her mother had made a pilgrimage to the monks of Santa Clara with a dozen eggs from her own hens for them to pray for good weather on her daughter's wedding day. Well, the monks came through, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the wedding took place in a lush enclave of verdant trees with a backdrop of the majestic Pyrénées.

The wedding itself matched the natural beauty of the surroundings; simple, elegant, and moving. After the judge had (eventually) married them (thanks to some nudging from his sidekick who helpfully pointed out he had forgotten the "I now pronounce you husband and wife" part) there were some heartfelt speeches which had the whole audience in floods of tears. I must admit I'm not really into the idea of marriage; the nuclear family just isn't that important in the 21st century, the wedding rituals and traditions are fraught with misogynistic undercurrents (the "pure", ie. chaste bride in a white dress being given away by her father who hands ownership of her over to her new husband) and I hate the ridiculous way some people get totally carried away with the wedding part of the marriage and forget about the marriage part (the most important part). Not to mention weddings are often over-formal and stuffy. However Cris didn't wear white, but gorgeous orange, the atmosphere was relaxed and buoyant, and it was clear how in love with each other the bride and groom were and that this day was about declaring that love and pact of friendship in front of their family and friends. Clearly there is something charming about weddings that a cynic like myself needs to recognise, if, like in this case, it's done with love as the prime motivator.

After the wedding, the speeches, and the floods of tears (and after I had done a great job of aerating the soil with my two inch heels) we made our way around the corner for a bite to eat. As usual everything was delicious and we ate up, unawares of the magnitude of the feast awaiting us at the reception. After a short walk down to the restaurant, we chomped our way through soup, lobster, fish, lamb, sorbet, wedding cake, alfajores and liqueur (clearly a digestif was sorely needed by this point). Following those four hours of continuous and gleeful gluttony, down to the basement where the party continued with dancing, music, and an open bar. We all tried to dance but the DJ was clueless - insisted on playing slow numbers with no beat. We persisted valiantly however, and I mastered the art of the porrón (glass contraption with which you pour wine through a spout directly into your mouth without touching your lips - harder than it looks). At about 1 am we were served a delicious supper (as we were all clearly starving) but after a while the smoke started to really bother me and I snuck out early with my parents. I can't believe I used to go out to bars and clubs in Melbourne where people are allowed to smoke. I cannot stand it. Your eyes and throat fill with smoke, the air is viscous and lacking in oxygen, and the horror doesn't end when you step outside - you have to go home, change your clothes, have a shower and wash your hair before you can breathe easy.

The next morning, tired of being a fat lazy piglet, I woke at 11 (delicious sleep in) and went for a run. What a place to run though - at the feet of the Pyrénées, the vista was magnificent and the air as pure as you can get - so long as you didn't meet anyone on the way, who would invariably be smoking or in a car blowing exhaust in your face. But every silver lining has a cloud, and at 700 m above sea level, running in Campo is slightly harder than a jog to Stephen's Green. I felt like a new woman afterwards though and well disposed to listening to the dissection and post mortem of the previous night by the people who had stayed on after I'd hit the sack. The conversation was most enlightening however - I can now say with complete confidence that you really do learn a lot more if you keep your mouth shut. For instance, in this case I learned that in their unguarded and basic state, men really are crude and vulgar creatures. Bless them in all their simplicity. Points for best quote of the night go to the Spanish girl who asked Luis, in her slightly inebriated state, to, "Cojeme un poquito". Luis, being Argentine, raised an eyebrow at this request but although he is the perfect gentleman he couldn't resist replying, "Te cojo todo lo que quieras".

After that much needed caffeine we sat down to lunch where I finally got together the courage to speak to people...it really is infuriating, as I'm sure everyone I met over those few days thinks I'm timid, shy , stupid or snobby. It's just that I don't have the vocabulary to be my usual exuberant, opinionated, stubborn, narcissistic, ebullient self in Spanish. I usually resort to speaking when spoken to, which, although when well executed can come across as mysterious and enigmatic, but when coupled with my obvious discomfort at having to speak at all is revealed as a simple lack of confidence. This wouldn't be so frustrating were it fact; but the truth of the matter is that I have loads of self-confidence (some might say an over-abundance) and having to present a distorted image of myself is irritating and makes me feel like I'm wearing an ugly mask. Or like my personality is being asphyxiated by a large downy pillow. Perhaps my personality could do with some asphyxiation (you decide) but that's quite beside the point.

After lunch we bade farewell to the wedding party who were off to continue the festivities in Buenos Aires and then had the afternoon and evening by ourselves in Campo to relax. Campo is lovely and soothing during the daytime when the views give pleasure to the eyes and walking does your body and soul good, but in winter it gets dark pretty early and on a Sunday night in a small pueblo in the middle of nowhere in a catholic country like Spain, you have to make your own fun. My parents proved too tired to have an interesting conversation with, and so on discovering I had exhausted my only reading material on the way to Barcelona I was at a loss until I pulled out Dad's Mac and began to organise all the music on my iPod. This, unbelievably, kept me entertained for hours on end and I spent the evening reliving the 60s through to the 90s, from the Beatles through U2 and INXS to the Hilltop Hoods and DJ Format.