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We spent the rest of the day helping
out, carrying tables and such. We hiked up to the
village's reservoir and took a long afternoon siesta. The
evening we whiled away, reading and talking and playing
with the neighborhood kids. “Yup! Ela!” Adonis called to us, the same way he might call to his sheep. We went out to the verandah. A motley collection of men had gathered. They were going, they said, to the village square, to drink raki, a strong, very intoxicating grape brandy – or, as they called it, Albanian rocket fuel. Would we join them? We hesitated. We were tired. They implored us. Please, please, come to the square and tell us of America. Again, we hesitated. Then Adonis stepped into the circle. He looked us in the eyes, and said, “My friends, tomorrow is tomorrow and today is today!” and led the way out the front gate. And that settled it. We went to the square to drink brandy.We stayed up very late that night, drinking and telling stories. We met the priest who would perform the wedding ceremony. Adonis returned home that morning and woke us, laughing, shouting to us that his hangover had not kept him from getting up and going to work. We sipped our Greek coffee, courtesy of Yia Yia. She clucked and smiled knowingly and returned to the kitchen. About midday the convoy from Gorishove arrived. They were all exhausted from the previous night’s celebrations and the long, torturous drive, but were prepared to celebrate again tonight. We greeted Bill and his best man, Andreas, and various other friends, Albanian and American, who had been in Gorishove for the first half of the wedding. The bride had been hustled away to an undisclosed location, to put on her dress. The men of the village assembled at the Yiotis house, grumbling that the women were taking too long. Bill paced, furiously chain smoking. Finally, a gaggle of children appeared to announce that the bride was ready. She was coming up the path. And so she appeared, like a vision or a ghost or a goddess, in a white gown and white high-heeled shoes and bright red lipstick. Her maid of honor, Andreas's wife, carried her long train so that it did not drag in the mud. We joined the procession, marching to the brand new Orthodox church, which had just been built to replace the old church, torn down by the Hoxha regime. The whole village packed into the church to witness the first rite of holy matrimony performed in Vangelati in more than a generation. The temperature in the small building crept up as the priest droned on, invoking God the Father, God the Holy Ghost, Jesus, and all the saints, repeatedly. At one point a commotion erupted. A man had brought a gun into the church. He apologized and it was passed from hand to hand out the door. A teenage girl with severely crossed eyes and a cleft palate stared at me throughout the whole two-hour ceremony. The party, after the long hot service, was a riot of sound and energy. Bottles of cheap Greek champagne were uncorked. Our wine was a hit. Hazel and Charlotte performed admirably. People gave speeches, toasting the new couple, saluting this union of America and Albania. Then the Gypsy band began to play and the village danced. Old men sang folk songs. We sang the theme to “Welcome Back, Kotter” because we could think of no other song to sing. In the wee hours of the night we piled into pick-up trucks and returned home to bed.
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