Feeding the Ducks Laurie Fox Pessemier Acrylic on canvas 13 x 9 inches
Cross-legged in the Chair Laurie Fox PESSEMIER Acrylic on wood 10 x6 inches
Two ladies beneath the trees Laurie Fox PESSEMIER Acrylic on wood 7 x 10 inches
ARNOTES: LADIES NIGHT
“You
know that dress you would like to buy but think you would never wear? That’s what you wear to a Tunisian
wedding.” (answers.com, Internet)
Still, I wasn’t prepared for just HOW
extraordinary the women looked at this wedding. I chose a striped silk jacket with jet
black beading from my closet of clothes I hardly ever wear. The choice was between it and a sequined
affair I got at my Aunt Franny’s thrift store years ago (I am not sure Blair
likes it). Anyhow, I looked like I was going to the office in
comparison to the other women at the wedding.
There was an array of sparkles and lace, in
the most beautiful colors I’d ever seen.
We attended our friend H’s
wedding last Friday night. We are
friends with him and his family and it was wonderful of them to invite us to
the festivities. We went whole hog,
from the early ceremony at the mayor’s office to the final throws of the dance. A had to pinch myself from time to time to
be sure this fantastic event was real.
It was a ladies’ event, where women showed
off their finery. Men sat at their own tables in the back,
except for Blair and an 81 year-old Algerian who sat at our table.
“Doesn’t he look like Anthony Quinn?” his wife would ask people. I thought:
sort of, except this fellow is only five feet tall.
My
favorite outfit of the night was a tight black underdress with a brilliant
yellow lace (heavy, like tablecloth Рreminiscent of 60s macram̩) overdress. And,
if that weren’t enough, everyone changed dresses between dinner and dancing
(except me, of course). The
indispensible item was the scarf, worn tight around the hips, for sashaying to
the chords of traditional North African wedding music. Everyone knew the words to all the songs, and
would sing along like we Americans do at “that’s amore”.
I felt I’d entered another dimension, like
the sky or the sea. Like mermaids, the
women, just the women, danced madly all night long.
Despite the French ceremony earlier in the
day, the sigh of relief (or in this case, ululation – that warbly, Indian-like
yell) was heard as the imams negotiated
with the bride’s father and husband at the reception.
Wearing little white crocheted hats, the imams migrated to a small room near where the bride
was enthroned – it was necessary that she hear the conversation and agree,
while not being present in the room.
The Kor an was read in there, and the grooms mother invited us to listen
to the chanting and traditional exchange, ears to the door.
We ate couscous and fruit and later had
sticky sweets in lieu of a western wedding cake. All was washed down with hot sweet mint tea,
or water, juice or coca-cola. I visited with two Moroccan ladies at our
table, who promised to “fix me up with the right clothes” for the next wedding.
The dancing was still going on when we left
at 1:30 AM. I felt like I was allowed a
peak in the door of a rich culture and felt awed as we got lost on our way
home.
