Wedding Crashers

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I have been to some extremely expensive weddings, so please do not misunderstand me when I say that I have never seen a nuptial investment like this.

Sitting at a cafe yesterday afternoon, a friend casually mentioned that she would be attending an Egyptian wedding that evening. I inquired after the bride’s identity, and found that I had met her briefly on my AUC trip to the pyramids. When told that I should come, I hesitated. I thought about my mother’s face if some invitee of my theoretical wedding decided to invite a few friends on a whim. But here, when they say “Come to my wedding” in passing, it’s not an empty gesture. They actually mean it.

So I went. It felt tantamount to crashing an Oscar party. Dressed in a classy brown and black number my mother and I picked up before leaving, I was put to shame by the Egyptian women adorned in jewels, loud colors, and glitter. My friends and I approached the white marble building intoxicated with the sense of doing something halfway wrong, undeniably giddy about the cultural experience that awaited.

We must have said “this is so awesome” 50 times in the 2 hours we waited for the wedding party. We waited two hours, because we did not account for Egyptian time. Egyptian 8 o’clock really means, 10, you know.

The professional camera that swung around the room on a man-operated boom projected Steven Spielberg quality shots on two floor-to-ceiling screens as the lights constantly changed colors. Classical colonial architecture in black, white, and gold contrasted sharply with the blue lights hung from high ceilings.

When the bride and groom did pull up in their limo, it took them half an hour to get up the stairs to the ballroom. No worries, we watched the celebrations on the screens. Sufi dancing, drumming, and all-out ululations.

Islamic ceremonies include the signing of a marriage contract with the designated wali (protector) of the bride, the closest male family member. It’s usually reserved for family members, and does not have the sacramental connotation that it does in Christian traditions. But the party that follows stems completely from Arab culture, and is quite the affair.

After the bride and groom sat on the traditional couch placed prominently atop a stage, the dancing began. 50 men dressed in purple tops and black pants did a series of coordinated dances as a Cairene pop star crooned. We were eventually allowed to dance as the 50 dispersed to pull people into the crowd. The AUC students were briefly pulled up to the podium to take a picture with the happy bride, and just as quickly were ushered off to make room for more celebrants.

The party lasted past 3 AM, but by how long, I can’t tell you, as that’s when we left. Dinner was served around 1:00 AM, after the cake was revealed in a flurry of silver confetti, smoke, and bubbles. The bride and groom proceeded to the next room, with doors closed behind them, so they could peruse the selection of food uninterrupted. What a spread! I’ve never seen more food in my life, but it was gone before I could go back for second helpings. The Egyptian women, as usual, had no scruples about pushing people out of their way to get what they wanted, cutting lines, stealing spoons, and pretending I didn’t exist. I’ve found that walking on the street and in lines, Egyptian women are extremely rude, but when engaging them one on one, you’ll never find anyone more friendly. Case in point, dancing. Smiles, hand holding, labise (kissing on both cheeks, like in France) were commonplace on the dance-floor, but forgotten when the lamb, kofta, and Om Ali came into the picture.

Egyptian men seem to also lack that idea of gentlemanly politesse so ingrained in Western society by Catillian classes, conscientious mothers, and Jane Austen. No chairs are pulled out, and if you don’t have a seat, don’t expect that anyone will give theirs up for you. Again, it’s merely a cultural difference, not a show of rudeness.

The complete spontaneity of my attendance made my acceptance among the attendees even more astounding. I was at most a curious spectator, or more negatively, an intrusive foreigner. But I raised my voice to ululate with the women, danced in true Egyptian form, and conversed with any and all who approached me. The elderly who sat beamed at my enthusiasm, and I in turn smiled at their acknowledgement.

After dinner, the dancing recommenced, this time starring a famous singer from Said (Upper Egypt). Men in galabiyyas touting tablas, ouds, dumbeks (traditional musical instruments) struck up songs I recognized from this summer, and lots of line and group dancing followed. Personally, this is my favorite kind. The most analogous thing I can compare it to is dancing at a bar-mitzvah. Finally, eyes stinging from tiredness, sweat, and make-up, I threw in the towel. Halaas, one can only take so much fun.

And just thinking about the price tag still makes me a little giddy. Don’t worry, Mom and Dad, I just want the dancing. Not the camera crew.

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