liscious’s posterous

I know what I want for xmas this year. I want a Slovinian liver. They must be indestructible. I can’t imagine a better-made filter for any blood engine. From what I observed, these people are the hard-core partying models of human beings. And I am proud to say I held my own and never once got sloppy. (spoken in a thick almost-russian-with-a-hint-of-italian accent) “wow, you heave nice budy… schmal but tough you…” I was much admired!

Let me give you a few details! It is worth it. It starts here…

Basically, Robert has taken me to meet his oldest friend who’s family is from Slovinia. A town called Gorizia is the closest, just across the border from northern Italy in former Yugoslavia. There is a big wedding taking place. They have taken over a small medieval town in the nearby hills. The father of the bride is a national Slovinian treasure- his art work is in the homes of head’s of state world wide (someone named Oskar Kogej). They are gearing up for a full weekend of eating and drinking and dancing. The groom family’s business is food distribution. There is a specialty of prochiutto, ham and wine. They are well off and in fact the surrounding cities towns and countryside impress me with their affluence. I was expecting that American stereotypically drab eastern block state feel, but everywhere I look is smart, clean, classy and historic.

It has taken 12 hours of travel and four trains when Robert and I arrive at the station in Gorizia. It is late. No one is around. Just a sleepy little town... Across from the train station surrounded by trees is a small war memorial. We wait for Robert’s friends to pick us up. I get the feeling that this bend in the road will be relaxing. A light night breeze, quiet… I am looking forward to all the nothing to do ahead of me. The car pulls up. Out spills Urush and Gary- Robert’s friend of thirty years. Urush is Matejash’s brother- it is Matejash’s wedding.

Just saying these people’s names gets me in the mood!

Urush: stocky, stoic and boisterous at the same time… he is going to take us for a beer before dropping us off at the hotel they have booked for us. I imagine a small dusty bar with old men smoking gitanes. What we GET is more Lan Kwai Fung than anything I have seen in Europe yet! The streets are absolutely full of young people sitting in front of bars and clubs. Dj’s on the street spinning music… people sitting under shaded seats, eating, smoking, laughing, flirting. A scene! Who knew! So much for a quiet sleepy town!

The next day we are expected to be ready for the wedding at 10 am. We will be brought to the house and the eating and drinking will start. When we arrive we surprise the mother of the bride sprinting up the stairs in a loosely wrapped bath towel. She is still quite beautiful. Her squeals and the family’s laughing set the mood for the rest of the day.

This classy family has pulled out all the stops and being at the wedding as an outsider not speaking the language makes it possible to sit back and watch. It is a feast for the eyes, ears, nose, mouth, stomach, pancreas… The wedding breakfast turns into the wedding snacks, which turns into the wedding itself which is broken up with more food and drink which becomes the wedding tea which becomes, finally, the cortege to the restaurant. At this point we have been drinking and eating for a full eight hours. I am ready to drop. The cars pull out behind the bride and groom in a 12 cylinder Mercedes. A car behind them has a full set up of gas-powered horns on the car roof. It sounds like a cross between a church organ and a full cruiser ship. It’s pretty crazy I can tell you. As we drive, slowly, through the surrounding towns all the people come out to yell and clap and if they are in cars, to beep in solidarity.

Suddenly the bride’s car pulls into a gas station up ahead. I can’t believe that they have forgotten to gas up the car! The bride gets out to gas up…. Huh?!?...

We shift about, unsure of what to do, the cortege begins to pull over, finding places to wait… we are too many, we block the gas station… the bride begins to dance to the music they have turned from loud to deafening and the best man returns from the station store not with cigarettes as I have thought he might, but with a five liter bottle of grappa and a pile of plastic cups.

And the party begins.

We stay at the gas station, drinking shots of grappa and dancing on the cars for a full half hour. Arms are raised over heads, backs are slapped, full evening gowns are held up by the thighs as the women are lifted to wiggle and laugh. The grappa, white man’s firewater basically, burns on the way down but it hits with a high that is euphoric. What a party. It is seven pm.

At the restaurant we are served course after course. The theme of the evening we decide is ham and asparagus. Everything seems to come with one or the other or both. Who cares… it is sumptuous food. The wine is brilliant. All from a local maker. The wine bottles are designed by the bride’s father. We get to the sixth course and stop counting. I beg Robert: don’t make me eat for the rest of the trip… He will laugh at me for the next few days because just after I say this a course arrives with amazingly tender veal steak with a light drizzle of porto reduction and grilled fennel. I will finish it and lick the plate clean,

Everyone under 60 is stepping out to partake of the special stuff and so will we. Crazy crazy crazy. At around one am the groom will go by our table and point at me gruffly. I point to my own chest and mouth “me?”. He jerks his head to follow him and Robert and one other friend to the bar. (that accent again) “…now, you come…now: we party!” What he could possibly have in mind I just don’t know but, well, I am up for it! He slams down huge shot glasses of more engine starter and challenges. I don’t know why I can feel I won’t be drunk or hung over (and Robert will witness for me that I will not be either!) but I can feel I will make it. I take the glass, look him in the eye, and kick it back. And the next one too. A big slovic belly laugh and he grabs me for a spin on the dance floor. The groom spins me in the air, body bumps me, rides me on his thigh, swings me out and pulls me back all the time laughing into my eyes. “… uh…wont the bride mind?...” I am thinking… Mind?!? Another second and she is dancing with us, and then her mother too and his mother, and that crazy uncle with the false leg who keeps insisting on dancing with me…. As the crowd grows they grab hands. And we are all dancing in a silly circle. Robert appears beside me : “it’s like a Slovinian hora!” he yells

When we try to leave at three am we are dragged back onto the dance floor and plied with drink. ‘Stay! There are rooms upstairs..!” We have to get on our knees to beg and are only allowed disgruntled departure permission when we claim we have jetlag. We will make our way home with perhaps the only sober person left who is ferrying the grandmothers home. From what we understand, the wedding will go on until six am

What can I say folks. Get thee to Slovinia.