“Are you ready?” asks my mom, casting a quick glance at me and then the hairdresser who’s unwinding the last tendril from his iron. He deftly places a mirror in front of my face, giving me a moment to admire his work. “Love it,” I tell him, and a rush shoots through my chest. “Let’s go,” says my mom.
Moving quickly, she leads me to the back of the house, tunnel vision to the people zipping around us, strapping on dainty sandals, and arranging and rearranging their wavy locks. My high school best friends have been lingering around the house all afternoon, providing more comfort than they probably realize. Mom opens the door to an air conditioned room and closes it behind us. Still in her plain clothes so she can move nimbly to assist me, she sets into triage mode. “Arms up,” she directs, with a calm assertiveness that signals her past as a registered nurse. I lift my arms and she helps me shimmy off my cotton white tank top, which I’ll replace with the lace corset carefully hanging in the closet.
Somewhere, in another house, on another part of the property, G is with his best friends, taking sips of whiskey and waiting for his soon-to-be-bride — she’s running almost an hour behind. One of his friends jokes that maybe she’s getting cold feet. The thought flashes through his mind for an instant, but he immediately laughs it off, knowing it’s an impossibility.
Drink it in. It’s incredible.
My white silk skirt is far too long to walk ungathered, so I hoist it up and navigate down the stone stairs on super high pink-and-red-flower-splashed platform sandals. I had taken my sister’s advice – wear shoes that you’d feel sexy in, naked. I make a mental note to always heed Sisty’s advice. My man-of-honor Ari trails behind me, lifting the petering silk train, and we dash toward the car where I’ll be handed off to my brother. He’ll drive me the two minute ride to where the ceremony is taking place: in a horse riding arena next to G’s parents’ home in Mallorca. G constructed the arena himself.
We slowly lurch into the driveway and I see just a couple of waiters darting around. The guests are all in the arena, where they’ve been entertained for the past hour by the man who’s marrying us, Joan Punyet Miró, G’s close family friend and grandson of one of my favorite Spanish artists, Joan Miró. I open the door, expecting to have time to breath and linger, but the familiar lyrics of UB40 “Fools Rush In” are booming from the speakers — it’s time. Still gathering my skirt, we approach the entry point and I can see pairs of bridesmaids and groomsmen, rushing down the aisle with arms hooked.
Flanked by my brother and my mom, I near the starting gate. I have no time to breath. We go. Take my hand, take my whole life, too. People are standing and cheering. My face can take no shape but a smile — I am so happy and excited. There is no room in my brain or heart to feel nervous. And G’s face, when he sees me, is so genuinely taken aback, I couldn’t have painted a more adorable reaction. (Well, I also can’t paint, but you get the point.)
The rest is a true whirlwind. I’m usually an observer, so it’s easy for me to recall pointed moments in time to describe in writing. But when I try to picture our wedding, I get spinning visions. I remember the beginning — taking photos with our gorgeous wedding party in a clearing behind the house. When the mosquitos started feasting on my pale flesh, G draped his jacket over my shoulders and hauled me back to safety. And I remember late in the night when G cued the music for our first dance. We chose a psychedelic song that my sister had introduced to me, “Female of the Species,” the moves to which we mapped out one late night in our Brooklyn apartment, having just emptied a bottle of wine. At some point, I heard a hushed giggle when I started mouthing, “One two three four! One two three four!” to get G and I on the beat. Still, under an eerily gorgeous full moon, I’m pretty sure we nailed it.
How can heaven hold a place for me, when a girl like you has cast a spell on me?
Thinking back to her own wedding, my friend Zoe told me, I remember being incredibly overwhelmed at our wedding to have everyone we loved in one place. Drink it in. It’s incredible. I couldn’t have put it better. Just a massive collision of all the people we love in one beautiful place, on one beautiful island, for one night. Actually, G’s family is half Spanish, so it was three full days of partying, not one night.
The only part I look back on with a touch of remorse is the food — damn I wish I ate more of the food. Throughout the night I kept swiping croquetas filled with shrimp and jamón, to sustain me and the stream of cava I was knocking back. They were perfectly delicious but there was so much more: legs of jamón iberico de bellota (the Bentley of jamón, made from pigs that live on a diet of acorns, which makes their fat soft and creamy), with a chef slicing feathers of glistening, fatty meat onto plates all night; a rich Mallorcan stew called eguiat, the color of golden, dusty sand, filled with the most tender meatballs you ever ate and salty, saturated potatoes (side note: I can vouch for the deliciousness because G and I mealed on it as soon as we woke up the next day); and huge clay bowls of trampó, a Mallorcan salad made with local tomatoes, onions and green peppers, doused in olive oil and sprinkled with shavings of Mallorcan sea salt. Then there was the cheese. Tomme de Savoie, Abondance and Beaufort cheese that (I shit you not) was transported by the kilo in a friend’s suitcase from the French Alps. And there were wheels of creamy Queso de Mahon, toted by another friend from Menorca. So many friends contributed to making it the most epic tapas spread ever. Makes me wanna pull an I am not worthy.
At 6:30 in the morning, when the rooster started crowing (literally — G’s family has a gaggle of chickens) and a touch of pink starting creeping across the horizon, I beckoned my husband to come with me to bed. The music was still playing, and friends still drinking and dancing, but we were both full — of happiness and love. But not food, dammit. Still, happiness and love. ❤
All photos were shot by our incredibly talented friend Lawrence Braun.
You can find the rest of our wedding photos here.
For more of Lawrence’s work, check out his newest project Meadowlark Stills.