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CASA DE PIATRA - THE NIGHT OF A THOUSAND KISSES
In January 2006, Corina Stirb and I were married for the second time. The first wedding took place before a justice of the peace in Napa, CA. We returned to Zalau, Romania and held a traditional ceremony there in the Basilica, followed by a reception for two hundred of our family and friends that lasted until 7:30 the next morning.
I had seen Corina's wedding dress several days before during the final fitting, but when she walked through the door so we could go to stand before the priest at the Basilica, a nearly alchemical change—a combination of tears and music—affected my eyes. I could see the same reaction on the faces of family and friends who had gathered to share in the moment. Particularly her maternal grandmother, (Bunica), whose sole wish in the past several years of cancer and diminishing health was to see her granddaughter marry in just such a dress.
Rising high on a hillside overlooking the city, subtle colors gleaming through stained glass windows—the Orthodox Basilica was the manifestation of the vision of the priest who married us. During the Communist years, he had been expelled from school after school because his father wasn't a Party member. He and his wife (Romanian Orthodox priests cannot take a position with a church until they marry) grew up near my in-laws and when days earlier there had been a call to the village to bring Corina's baptismal certificate, he was reminded that he, himself, baptized her. There were no more questions about the certificate.
We waited outside the large wooden doors in sub-zero weather waiting for a few minutes while all was assembled inside so bride and groom could enter first, followed by the four"godparents", all carrying nearly three-foot-tall white candles. Each of us took hold of a long, wide white ribbon that signifies the future attachment and relationship that sharing in this moment represented.
The ceremony was presided over by the original priest and a second, one of Corina's cousins, whose church is in a nearby village, but who would have been hurt to not add his avocation to the family celebration. He spoke of the power and continuity of love through the generations of family that were gathered, then turned the service over to the host priest who dipped hard bread into honey for three bites each by bride and groom. Golden crowns were thrice blessed and touched to our foreheads and secured in place, the rings similarly blessed and put on our fingers. The priest took a censer burning with sacred herbs added its smoke to the candlelight reflecting off the golden altar. Knowing we are both poets, he recited a poem that spoke of love and the heart, and the six of us, bride, groom and godparents, walked around the altar three times. A final prayer and a kiss on each cheek for both of us and the ceremony was complete. On the way out, family and friends kissed each cheek, a far more satisfactory custom than shaking hands, and we were off to the restaurant.
In the days before a wedding in Romania, friends and family in the village begin dropping off chickens, eggs, and more in preparation for the feast. Everything is made from scratch, from the schnitzel (flattened, breaded pork), to the prajituri (desserts), to the sarmale (cabbage rolls), and when preparing a six course dinner for 200 guests, the quantities are astonishing given that nearly all the cooking is done in a brick oven in the small kitchen of the family home. Then everything has to be delivered over the 25 kilometers of winding, mountainous roads between the village of Buciumi and the city of Zalau, where we live. Corina's paternal uncles—four of them—shuttled like Fed-Ex drivers, their Dacias (the national car of choice, named after the ancient region that eventually become Romania) slogging through the snow packed roads, shock absorbers creaking from the weight of huge containers of homemade (and very, very tasty) wine and palinca (a clear plum brandy that rivals moonshine for kick). The forty or so long sheets of desserts, of seven or eight varieties, called for the use of Cousin Darie's van. No one who was asked to help deferred. And often, more help was offered than was needed. This is the Romanian way. Corina is one of them and there is nothing they will not do when someone in the family or circle of village friends needs assistance.
Outside the restaurant, (on the second floor of a large complex), we once again stood in sub-zero temperatures while the procession to enter assembled. I walked up the snowy steps holding Bunica's arm. At seventy-six and with swollen legs, walking around her small farm where she lives alone is difficult enough, but slippery steps are treacherous. Corina and I went through the doors to the tune of Happy Birthday, which is La Multi-Ani (Many Years in Romanian). The headwaiter held a tray with six champagne glasses, which produced the first toast of the evening. The bride and groom then break the glasses. My American writer friend and now godparent, George Crane, also threw his glass to the ground which produced much hilarity. (He covered the slight gaffe by saying he had always wanted to do that and couldn't resist).
There was a forty-minute wait for a bus from Buciumi, bringing village friends who had been waiting for years to attend Corina's wedding party. We walked around, talking to those who had already gathered, accepting the wishes of “Casa de Piatra” or “Stone House, (may your marriage be as permanent). Bunica sat off to the right of the main table, dressed in the traditional widow's black, her black scarf framing her face so I could see every expression from twenty feet away. She had survived the Nazi occupation of her village, the decades of Communism, and now her long illness to arrive at this moment. It was only 8 p.m., (I had been warned that I should not expect to sleep until morning), and I could see she was already tired, but her face glowed, reflecting the kisses of grandchildren, long ago friends not seen for some time, and the regular fixing of her gaze on her dearest granddaughter—a flowing vision in white and subtle grace.
Once the two hundred plus were assembled, Corina's priest cousin offered a simple prayer, followed by the second of innumerable toasts, and then a diving into the first course. (Perhaps in another column I'll talk about the food here, but I'll just say that it is all organic, fresh and delicious.) Hovering around our table set perpendicular to the seated throng, Andrada, Corina's 8 year old niece (and destined to someday be president of her country) kept eying her aunt's shoes under the table. It is the custom at Romanian weddings for the children to try to steal the bride's shoes, and one of the godparents has to ransom them back. A natural born accountant, (or politician) she had already calculated the ritual theft and how much she was going to put into her savings account.
The first dance is a waltz, and as beautiful as Corina looked before, the awe of watching the gentle breeze from her graceful steps catch in the riffling white of the dress made me look pretty silly in most of the pictures that were taken. Then the dance floor filled and I discovered that not only can Romanians cook up a storm, but it is just a squall compared to how well they dance. Doesn't matter whether modern or traditional, they put this particular American to shame.
A couple hours into the fun, I convinced Bunica to share the floor with me, and though tired, she graced me with a simple waltz that seemed to make her swollen feet young again. When Andrada and her gang of cousins managed to steal Corina's shoes, and then refused to exchange the hostages, I took off my own shoes and we went back to the dance floor in stocking feet, much to the hilarity of the gathered. Finally, (though disgruntled), Andrada accepted a smaller than envisioned ransom and returned the shoes. Bride and groom danced again, fully-shod.
I could write fifty columns about the individuals I have met here, but there are a brother and sister from the village—Iuliu and Maria—who are known for their ever present kindness and willingness to help in every and all situations. Over the past few weeks, Iuliu helped me paint the apartment, put up new light fixtures, and affix curtain rods (very difficult given the concrete walls of Soviet-style architecture), and would never take a penny in payment. Maria baked and designed the cake, which was five descending tiers and when lit rivaled the golden altar at the Basilica for sheer art. After Corina and I blew out the candles, rubbed a little icing on each other's noses, and took the first bites, I decided to break tradition and took our plate of cake around to everyone so each could have a bite from ours.
First was Maria, who had been part of the planning and cooking crew from the beginning. She is devoutly religious, attending Mass every morning at six a.m., and is as truly filled with the joy of selflessness as any person I have ever met. The irony of her and Iuliu's warm and saintly demeanors is that a village witch put a curse on their family's newly-built house when they were small children—that they should never marry. Neither has, though they are so universally beloved by all who know them that I believe the curse has backfired. The witch, whom I have seen just once, is a withered, unhappy old hag whose face is tattooed with unhappy line of bitterness, in stark contrast to her purported victims who are radiant with a deep, inner joy.
Through the long night, Corina's uncles led the men of Buciumi in the singing of traditional songs unique to the village and part of its renown in the country. Romanian can be a difficult language to learn with its combination of Latin root, the influence of Turkish occupation, and centuries of folding in on itself. But when the singing starts, the natural music of the language meets tune in a manner that touches the heart and delights the ear simultaneously.
By five a.m., it was obvious Bunica was ready for the long drive to her village—another hour-and-a-half's travel through the snowy mountains. A cab was called and I walked her down the slippery steps. She tried to mask the pain of each footfall, and it was obvious the price her body had paid for such a late night. But her kiss was energetic when we reached the curb and as she put her hand on my cheek the cold of the frozen morning was dispelled. The sleepy cabdriver was at first reluctant to make such a perilous journey until he realized he would be taking a grandmother home from a wedding. His demeanor changed completely—for everyone seems to have the same reverence for the Bunicas of Romania—and I knew she would be safely seen to her door.
By six-thirty in the morning, with the first light of winter morning glimmering pink and blue as shyly as the colored lights from the stained glass of the Basilica 12 hours earlier, we were ready to leave the restaurant. Driving home I realized that I had kissed and been kissed once on each cheek upon greeting and saying good-bye to everyone who attended—and many impromptu kisses in between. My Romanian wedding to the woman I have loved since first sight was truly a night of a thousand kisses, and even writing this, the glow and echoes continue to moisten my eyes and flutter within my heart.
I hope that someday some of you come to Romania to visit. You don't have to fall in love before you arrive, falling in love waits for you here, as patiently and surely as Bunica hoped to see Corina dressed in white—a joyful inevitability that is worth the wait. Casa de Piatra to you all!
You can see more pictures of the
wedding here
Here is some of
Corina Stirb's poetry.
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