I woke up early, before most of the guests had stirred from their beds, and began fashioning myself into the bride I’d spent my life envisioning. After coiffing my locks into soft starlet waves and slipping into my blush courthouse frock, I paused to look into the eyes of the man I would marry. Not scheduled to rendez-vous at the Marie until the noon hour, we snuck a few minutes to practice our slow dance to the crooning of Willie Nelson and Norah Jones’ duet Dreams Come True. Stéphane slipped a bouquet of fragrant white peonies into my hand before whisking me out the door.

A crowd of anxious friends and family were gathered outside Plougasnou’s courthouse to share their blessings. As I approached one guest after the next, cheeks were turned and kisses were placed upon each. I welcomed the embrace of those who had weathered the travel from America, savouring the hugs that some of my French family consider a barbaric embrace. The party followed us within the Marie where we were seated, témoins by our side. Brother, sister, cousin and friend would witness our wedding vows and validate them with a signature. The crowd grew weary as the mayor seized the opportunity for discourse on the merits of his village. No one would escape without knowing the names of Plougasnou’s founding fathers, but we waited patiently.

When the mayor opened his leather binder I knew it was our turn. I strained to understanding the formal French from which our civil ceremony was delivered. Sure enough, I deciphered my turn and answered, “Oui,” as did Stéphane. After scribbling our names at the bottom of our Contrat de Mariage, it was official. It didn’t take much prompting for Stéphane to plant his well-earned kiss upon my lips, although we wouldn’t be married in mon avis until later that afternoon. I realized, looking into damp eyes, that the civil ceremony is not one taken lightly by the French. Even my beau pére indulged in the sentiment of the marriage of his only son.

Upon leaving the Marie, we wound our way through artichoke fields back toward the sea. Champagne was uncorked as guests began to arrive at our little beach house. Platters of charcutterie, cheese, and salad assumed their place artfully arranged on the table. This spread, the first of a weekend’s worth of meals we would share, was the setting for the first of many toasts.

As I made my way around the corner, retreating to the privacy of our quiet hotel room at the Chateau de Sable, I caught a glimpse of my father and brother securing the arbour of flowers where the ceremony would take place. I sat at the long table manipulating digital images for the slideshow, clearing my mind and leaving Andrea to her work. She twisted and pinned my locks and into them snuggled a hand made comb embellished with feathers, silk petals and tulle. After she finished by attaching an eye-grazing voilette, I stole my first glimpse out the window down onto my court below. Guests were beginning to gather on the terrace while family and friends buzzed to finish last minute details.

As best friends powdered my shoes and unzipped my mermaid cut silk gown, my heart began to flutter. It was time to step into my gown and become the bride. Stéphane beckoned me from below as the orchestra began the tune of Ave Maria. I nearly forgot my bouquet in the flood of emotions that accompanied making my entrance. To the symphony of Cannon in D, I passed from father’s arm to accompany my husband at the alter. As my mother fought back tears from her dampened eyes, I heard French mumbles of Melrose Place. Never before had they witnessed the splendour of an outdoor ceremony. With nature as our church, under a canopy of clouds, we pledged our love and exchanged rings. As Stéphane stole his deuxieme bisou, the ocean was painted a brilliant rainbow of blues and greens by emergent sunrays. In that moment, surrounded by friends and family, bathed in radiant sunlight, I felt the realisation of my dreams. The picture of happiness, we made our exit arms intertwined.

Together, we descended onto the beach where the photographer framed our group between sable and sea. Bubbles floated in the salty breeze around friends who slipped off their shoes to invite sand between their toes. Upon emerging, we were greeted by flutes of Champagne and salty caviar canapés at the Vin d’Honneur. Ties were loosened and jackets removed as everyone became acquainted, the French with the Americans.

My father ushered us in to witness the mass ogle over our baby pictures in the form of a slide show, and once inside the grand sale de fete, we found our seats behind calligraphy inscribed place cards. As a beaming father-in-law, Jean Claude struggled through English words of welcome. As he took his place at the table, we stole a look at the phonetically written speech and erupted in laughter at the nonsensical words of which it was comprised.

Flowers were removed from the tables and in their place immense platters of fruits de mer were mounted upon metal holders. Oysters, moules and other sea dwelling shellfish were presented on a bed of ice. Steamed shrimp, crab, and langoustine were among the first delights I sampled. Determined to try everything, I braced myself and removed a large sea snail from its snug shell. As I placed it in my mouth, prepared for the worst, I was taken aback by the surprisingly pleasant taste. One would be enough, though they wouldn’t be snubbed on future plates. The faces of American guests after sampling this unfamiliar delicacy bore the same expression as that of Stéphane’s friends attempting to build their first fajitas at a Mexican dinner party I hosted. Curiously they glanced around the table, noting the strategy with which to approach their plate. Armed with diverse utensils for poking, prodding, and cracking, everyone set to work.

As the sunset, tables were cleared and a second course of fresh fish was presented paired with white wine. Between this plate and the course of veal that followed, a palate cleansing Trou Normand of apple liquor sorbet was served, which guests unaccustomed to the gourmand French style of dining mistook for a light dessert. The meal wouldn’t be finished until the cheese wheel with accompanying salad had circulated around the room and goblets of red wine had been drained.

Well after midnight, a dance was due. The lights were dimmed as Stéphane pulled me onto the floor to open with our song. Weighed down from a long repas, many our invitees didn’t make it through the first few numbers before retreating to their beds. More Champagne was uncorked as we gazed at the sparks that flew from ignited fireworks atop our cake. Tiered white cakes are foreign in a county where cream-filled pastry balls form a pyramid shaped Pièce Montée that is the recognized iconic wedding cake. Coffee and sugar fuelled the dancing that lasted until the early morning.

With bouquet and garter tossed, we bid adieu to the remaining friends who showered our departure with bubbles. After being carried up the winding staircase of the turreted hotel entrance, I fell into a well-deserved sleep under a duvet of feathers to awake a regenerated newlywed.

After enjoying breakfast on the patio of our room, a knock on the door announced the arrival of family. Curious to steal a peek inside the secluded manor where our first night was spent, we invited them in for a tour of the Maritime suite.

Mid day the lendemain, we arrived at the chateau to bid farewell to our guests over brunch. Stepping out of the car, we were greeted by our entourage waving their hellos. For many, this would be the start of their vacation. For us, the end would signify a calm moment from which to begin our life together.

The choice to host a wedding in France proved to be no small undertaking. While pressure mounted as time neared, we were blessed with luck as everything fell into place. Looking back, I wouldn’t change a thing. Every part of my memory of that day is bathed in resplendent beauty.

Weddings and Courtships - France