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A bouquet of flowers 0

Dear Bradshaw,

            Well, what can I say? The castle was cool. A bit cold though, as we were outside and the castle was on top of a mountain. I’m telling you, pal, I mean the very tiptop. An army would have had a heck of a time trying to conquer that kid. While wandering from room to room and peeking in nooks and crannies, I imagined myself ordering servants around and ruling with an iron fist. I don’t know, you know? I just don’t see myself in that role. I prefer peasant-hood.

            The wedding itself was a joyous occasion. The ceremony was in the church of a little village where the groom’s family lives. You know how those Catholic weddings are: the ceremony lasted an hour and half and not a split second less. Personally, I could have gotten through it in about fifteen minutes and it would have been just as beautiful but I wasn’t running the show, the priest was. Meanwhile, he quoted Einstein, Dostoyevsky and Schopenhauer, which I found amusing coming from a priest and on the occasion of a wedding. Whatever the case, I prefer Jewish weddings. The ceremony lasts about four and a half minutes and then the bottles are passed around.

            The reception was at the castle, of course, dinner and drinks outside on a grass patio, jazz playing (mostly Ella Fitzgerald) and lamps to illuminate the tables. There were a lot of kids running around and then later more drinks and dancing inside. At one point, around midnight, after they had cut the cake, Francesca and I were in the courtyard with everyone else, standing by a table with potato chips and sliced fruit in bowls. We were debating whether or not to begin the hour drive back to Rome when suddenly something fell from the air, hit the table, and then rolled on the ground by Francesca’s feet. It was about the size of a human head and — in the candlelight and in my drunken stupor — I thought it was a cabbage or… a human head. I glanced at the ramparts above to see if someone had dropped a cabbage as Francesca reached down to grab it. No sooner did she have it in her hands than a group of women were congratulating her with hugs and kisses. It was a bouquet of flowers. The bride had chucked them over her shoulder to a sea of single women and the bouquet had landed on the table where we were standing. How’s that for a hoot?

            Anyway, we made it home in one piece and spent the day cleaning our apartment and joking around with Jimi. She has learned to leap four feet in the air, latch onto a finger-thin ledge on the glass door leading to the balcony, and hang on while trying to catch fruit flies. What are fruit flies doing in our apartment, you ask? Looking for fruit.

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