a different approach to the same sacred union

Saturday I was truly honored to attend the wedding of my dearest Department of Italian-grad-student-friend’s sister.  It was held at the Madonna della Difesa church in Little Italy, a church founded-and-attended by immigrants from Molise, a southern province of Italy.  I arrived early, just as the florists were finishing up placing the white star lilies and white bows on the pews.  The church was stunning (as are most Catholic churches), with white marble everywhere, and vivid frescoes on the ceiling.  The Stations of the Cross were covered in gold, and the darkly-hued crucifix was a focal point, towering above everything.  The prayers were led in Italian, and the homily said in English, though with a heavily-Italian-tinged accent.  I was thankful for the priest’s words—encouraging the couple to find their source of love in the only One whose love is eternal, Jesus Christ.  His words were hard, not a typical, polished and lovey-dovey sermon, but they were solid.  He broke up the severity of the message with anecdotes and funny comments.  I found a bit more common ground with that particular Catholic church, with that particular priest, and was thankful to have attended my first Italian Catholic wedding.  The Ave Maria (complete with a stunning soprano performance) and other traditional wedding songs were gorgeous and elaborate.  I was struck by the formality of the event and enjoyed watching the guests arrive and seat themselves, dressed in beautiful attire. 

 

After the mass and greeting my friend, the maid of honor, I walked to the Jean Talon Market, which is the largest farmer’s market in town and was dazzled by the beautiful fresh fruits and vegetables and flowers.  I love the fact that Little Italy and the Market are only a half-hour Metro ride away.  Though I miss the mountains and sunsets of Colorado, I really do love urban life and all the wonderful experiences, sights and sounds of this colorful city.

A Walk to See Half the City (Winter 07)

I woke up with a penchant for a walk. So I layered appropriately, grabbed my keys, a credit card, chapstick, my medical insurance card (yes, walking accidents are rare, but we’re talking about ME here ), and Nan (my cleverly-named nano), and set out. The terrain was agreeable (as in, still-frozen-enough snow dotted with cinders to provide traction). It wasn’t a particularly picturesque morning–the sky a pale whitish-grey, but I was glad to be walking. I walked for the express purpose of walking, but on the way thought of the cool gourmet market I’d been to (for the coffee maker), and thought they might have another thing I needed for my kitchen, so I headed up that way on a bit more of a residential street than most north-south routes. I took in the Quebecois architecture (three-story flats with stairs leading to the second floor), appreciating all the different stairway configurations–from the plain straight-up option to the spiral to the hesitant spiral, to the right-angle). The buildings themselves are quite a mélange of colors, with interesting doors and wrought-iron stair rails twisting every which way. Pockets of boutiques and bakeries and cafés break up the residential areas.

Then there were the people. I passed the chic, the comfortable, the sad-eyed, the furrowed browed, the coke-bottle-glasses-donning, the moms with strollers, the bundled-up kids on lunch break from school, the bored crossing guards and the impatient awaiting their buses. When I made eye contact with people, I thought it would be fun to smile, and one particular lady who had a previously anxious gaze lit up and smiled back with a beautiful grin.

When I reached Latina, I looked around in vain. I inquired about the item, and the cashier in a mix of English and French suggested a place on the corner of St. Laurent and Jean Talon that would surely have what I was looking for. Since I was already the majority of the way there, I kept walking, and ever-so-felicitously walked through Little Italy. The store had a fantastic selection and a shocking lack of clientele. The owner saw my cold-flushed cheeks and said, “c’est froid, non?” If only she knew. I got my sweet new coffee grinder and walked to Milano, the Italian supermarket. I didn’t want to walk home with a bunch of groceries, so I limited myself to some Calabrese olives and imported tomatoes, but looked at their selection of cheeses and fresh pasta. What a great place! Then I stopped in Caffé Italia, a well-established place in the heart of Little Italy. I’d always wanted to go, but never had the chance. I ordered in Italian, and strained my ears trying to pick out dialects of Italian… but couldn’t hear any for the French that surrounded me. The espresso was alright and didn’t cost much, but my previously romantic notions of Caffé Italia were shattered. The search for a Montrealish Amante Coffee continues. There were five or six old codgers standing near the espresso machine who were almost certainly Italian, but it just wasn’t an opportune time to say hello. Oh well.

On my way back home, I smelled freshly-baked bread and looked in the windows of restaurants and boutiques, seeing everything from couture italian wedding gowns, super-modern furniture, puffy coats, shiny restaurant supplies, stationery, an infinity of spools of thread, and some dogs. Waiters were awaiting the lunch crowd, looking out the windows a bit nervously. The temperature had warmed up in the midst of my three-hour affair, so the squeaky snow-smushing sound (biz, i’m sorry) mixed with Nan’s shuffle changed to a gushy slush sound.

I reflected on how different this walk was compared to the walks I had in the summer, with the sun setting behind the Rockies. It wasn’t the same view. But it was still a fabulous walk, good for thinking and praying and observing. I like this city. And my body liked the eight mile trek.

I had a Welsh Italian professor at Penn State who used to walk across countries (namely England, Ireland and South Africa). I think I’ll stick to cities for now.