A Wedding in Urbino; lunch at Scacco Matto, Bologna; Pizza at Paolo’s, Verona. Italy.

The plan had been to leave Layla behind with my mother and attend my girlfriend’s wedding in Urbino with my husband: a handsome and groomed couple.  This was going to be the one wedding where I didn’t have to change into my dress in the car, hastily wiping my underarms with some old kleenex.  Eh, ya.  Because you go your whole life being one way only to discover that you can be another way? No, of course not.My mother’s business in Athens is suffering so she had to return.  I was happy to have Layla with me because the two weeks I spent travelling without her, I felt that there was a glowing piece of coal sitting heavily on my heart.  Then the chaos of traveling with a child began, Air Berlin issued her an ‘infant’ boarding card even though she is over 2 and we had paid full fare.  The onboard stewardess made us produce every single document, receipt and paper we had to prove we hadn’t smuggled a child on in the cheaper fare ‘baby’ tariff.  The luggage handler broke her pram, I filled out the paperwork and was told I would have to sort out any future compensation with Air Berlin which I am pretty sure is never going to happen because there is no way a scatter brain like me can possibly gather all the correct paperwork, from the right people and speak to the designated department.  Europcar didn’t have the baby seat we booked.  *Shrug* was all they had to say, until my husband said that he would walk on broken glass, barefoot, to avoid his wife’s wrath so they better magic up a car seat and fast like! Which they did.  I didn’t book any of the hotels the bride recommended and instead, picked the only ugly hotel to be found in Urbino.  Which had zero hot water, not even a drop: so I didn’t wash my hair, the whole time I was there and spent the entire trip crusted in dried soap because I couldn’t get my body to stand under freezing water.

On the day of the wedding, I laid Layla’s pretty dress out on the bed so it wouldn’t get crumpled, (and that is where it remained by the way)  and got ready.  On the way there, we got lost for one hour and a half, in a town no bigger than my street in Berlin and couldn’t for the life of us find the house perched on the hill.  Getting desperate, we turned into a farm where an old lady sat, knee-high panty hose hanging loosely around her ankles, behind her, two-story high bales of hay.  I motioned at my ring finger frantically, “Marrido, Marrido?” I asked.  She shooed us away probably thinking, “what do I care your are married, get off my property!”  Until, her daughter saw us and started laughing “Wedding?” she asked, looking at her watch as if to say “You missed it!”, pointed us in the right direction.We arrived in time for canapes.  Layla dressed in a t-shirt and jeans when all the other children were in pretty dresses with flowers in their hair.  I had to ditch the high heels because it was a garden wedding.  And Hrabi decided that was the right time to tell me he found my dress too low-cut, which made me paranoid enough to put on a bulky sweater, rendering my well thought ensemble from chic to frump.  I was mortified when Layla kept repeating “Mommy it’s hot! Take off your sweater!”

The bride, meanwhile made you tear your eyes away from the undulating hills and gape at how lovely she was.  Ivory dress, low heeled gold peep toe shoes, slender legs, effortlessly elegant and charming as always.  We ate fried calamari in paper cones, two courses of pasta and instead of a tasteless cake, she had the local ice cream shop set up a booth.  It was dreamy. Read more of this post