Crashing a Wedding in Turkey

Yes, Zara is fast fashion (boo). But it’s good for last-minute weddings.

The morning after I arrived in Istanbul, Kristen asked me if I’d like to go to brunch with two of her friends.

Of course I said yes, I didn’t have to work until 3pm. Neither did her friends apparently, as they worked as traders on the US market (we incorrectly assumed day traders for a bit, but that was cleared up for us quickly).

I wore a long, flowy, blue-checkered dress my mom bought me in Todos San Lucas. She wore a cute little sundress that showed off her incredible tits.

“Should I be cuter?” I asked when I came upstairs.

“Shut up you’re literally so cute,” she replied, in her positive Gen-Z way. I looked like a French woman living in solitude in a cottage on the countryside but appreciated her approval.

We walked out of the apartment and started walking to the main street, my sandals sliding on the smooth cobblestones. She directed us to a black SUV with the hazard lights on.

“They offered to pick us up, let’s hope it’s not a Taken situation,” she laughed as we opened the doors.

Two guys were sitting in the front seat. One was Emre, Kristen’s friend, one was Tahar, his coworker. After some initial introductions, we got on to the topic of driving.

“I’m a terrible driver,” Kristen admitted.

“Of course,” Emre conceded. “You’re a woman.”

Kristen eyes darted to mine in the backseat. A beat of cultural silence. You could cut the tension with a bıçak.

'“It’s a joke!” the guys laughed.

We finally were all relaxed - bad driving jokes span cultures, thank god.

“I’m actually a fantastic driver,” I said, blatantly lying. Truth be told I had only totaled one car, had never received a speeding ticket, and enthusiastically sold my car to move to New York five years prior. Mostly I just wanted to make up for my lack of tits.

They drove us for about 20 minutes to a cute breakfast place called A Bit of Eggo where we sat outside. Kristen practiced her beginner-level Turkish and cursed them when they didn’t speak in English for us.

I ordered a Nutella coffee drink, explaining that I only have Nutella when I’m in Europe because if I buy it for myself I can’t NOT eat the entire jar in an alarming time frame. The men didn’t find that funny, but my sense of humor is niche.

My cottage core moment.

Emre sat directly across from me. His English was perfect, his eyes behind his round tortoise-shell glasses were kind. The guys both smoked cigarettes as we waited for our food.

It was a leisurely breakfast - I learned all about Turkish circumcision practices (it happens when they’re 13??? appreciation for the Jews and Muslims in other countries that prefer this practice on infants) and we ate great food.

“What are you doing this weekend?” Emre asked, with an abundance of eye contact I later learned was from his upbringing with his disciplined father.

“We might go to Cappadocia!” I said with the enthusiasm of someone who didn’t just travel for three weeks straight.

“Ah. It’s nice.” He took a drag from his cigarette. “We’re going to a wedding. You can come if you like.”

Kristen and I looked at each other. American weddings are a big deal, with guest lists and plus ones and seating charts.

“Are you serious?”

“Of course,” he shrugged. Both guys were relaxed. I say guys, not men, as they are two years younger than me. But the seed was planted.

That night after we finished working, I started researching travel and lodging for our weekend in Cappadocia. After realizing the only direct flights were at 2am, I sighed with resignation.

“Should we just go to the wedding?” Kristen asked, with a sparkle in her eye.

“I can’t do another flight. I don’t know what I was thinking. Let’s do it".”

“I already texted Emre,” she smiled. With that, a plan was formed.

That Sunday I found myself driving us to Bursa, a suburb 2 hours away from Istanbul. Kristen and I ran to Zara the morning of the wedding, grabbing black dresses and heels. An important thing to remember about traveling is that you can always buy what you need - helps with overpacking on the way there, might make you buy a suitcase for the way back.

There were two main reasons we were allowed to come to the wedding that confused us compared to American weddings: size and sobriety. You see, the couple had already had the bride’s half of the wedding in the bride’s hometown with all of her friends and family. This “second” wedding was solely for the groom’s friends and family in his hometown. Both large events, but absolutely no worries about cutting plus ones for size or not being able to see everyone when your guest list is in the hundreds. The second reason that we were allowed to just roll through is that there was no open bar (!!!). Kristen and I quickly realized that we had not been sober at a wedding since were were in middle school.

I was nervous walking up to the venue. We all looked amazing - Emre in his linen suit, me in my red lipstick, Kristen in her Meredith Blake dress. The space was set up outdoors, roughly fifty round tables with white tablecloths topped with Fanta, Coca-Cola, and water bottles. There was food already on each plate, but nobody was eating. I had no idea what was in front of me, but I was starving. I waited about 20 minutes to watch someone else eat to no avail. I dug in to the mystery platter as the guys greeted their coworkers and chain-smoked their cigarettes.

Look how cute we are! 🫶🏼

After a quick photo shoot in the atrium, we rushed back to our table. The bride and groom walked arm in arm down the pine-tree lined walkway out to the stage. He was sweet and handsome in his tux, and she was straight from a bridal magazine - blonde hair, white dress, big smile, veil styled into her hair cascading down to the floor. They had their first dance (well, technically their second) to a Turkish song, swaying side to side. After the song finished, an upbeat tempo filled the air and the band members started waving people to join the bride and groom.

Emre reached for my hand as everyone headed to the dance floor. Kristen waved me on and we danced hand in hand in a huge circle, a dance called the Halay. There was a member of the band with a huge drum strapped to his chest, and he would go up to everyone and pound to the beat and the men would reach for their wallets and tuck Lira in the ropes around the drum. It took me a while to figure out the foot movements, and once the dance ended all the men went to a circle and the women to another.

I ran back to the table to grab Kristen and Tahar, and the wait staff handed me a napkin to wipe the sweat from my brow. Kristen and I laughed as we realized Turkish dancing was mostly arm movements. Every time we inadvertently moved our hips we would whisper to each other “stop it slut!”

Dinner was served and we ran back to the table to eat. Like American weddings, the bride and groom made their rounds to each table. After they finished, the bride walked up to her table to eat and the groom snuck over to his friends table. He gave them his credit card and two of the guys went to buy some alcohol under the table. When I say that, I literally mean that we had to open the alcohol bottles under the table. The wait staff was well versed in this, getting on one knee with their wine openers. Kristen and I slowly drank wine and the boys downed raki and whiskey.

All of the sudden, Emre rushed Kristen and I to the dance floor.

“They’re throwing the bouquet!”

Kristen and I looked at each other with alarm. That was absolutely the last thing we wanted. There were only 6 single women at the groom’s side of the wedding, including the two of us. We wanted to die.

The bride smiled and the band counted down on the microphone. The bouquet sailed through the air and Kristen and I jumped out of the way. It hit the floor.

The band laughed and ran to pick up the bouquet. Kristen and I tried to sneak off - but the bride ended up throwing it again.

It came straight at me. I’m getting married in 2023!