A Bride’s Guide to a New York Wedding by Mary Novakovich
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Second weddings can be a bit of a problem. If you’ve been through the big family shindig once, you don’t really want to go through it another time. Then again, do you want to steal away and not have anyone you care about witness the best day of your life (Mark II)? Beach weddings never appealed to me, but the thought of an intimate, outdoor occasion did. I just didn’t want it to be in England.
So New York it was. Obvious answer.
The plan to get married in one of the world’s greatest parks instantly went down well with everyone who mattered: the select group of 15 family and friends who would turn our happy occasion into a glorious long weekend. After all, there are few places more romantic than Central Park, which is enchanting at any time of year, regardless of the weather.
Finding the Perfect Place
But where among Central Park’s 863 acres would be the perfect place for our wedding? I couldn’t ignore the fact that rain was possible, even though we had deliberately chosen the temperate month of September. And for such a vast space, there are surprisingly few areas that can provide cover if the weather changes.
I had plenty of suggestions from not one, but two wedding co-ordinators Kuoni Travel gave us: Fred in the UK, whose enthusiasm would send my high level of excitement soaring even further, and the beautifully calming Orysia in Manhattan, in whose hands I instantly felt reassured.
Ignoring our jet-lag we set out for the park soon after our arrival, eager to see the place we had earmarked for the wedding location. Unfortunately, Wagner Cove, charming as it was, turned out be unsuitable for the rainy day we knew was forecast. We had to start again in our search.
The main lake in Central Park is dotted with little coves with attractive wooden gazebos that are used for landing stages. Fine for three people, impossible for 15. Finally we spotted a fancy cast-iron structure with a filigree roof on the opposite side of the lake at Hernshead, roughly parallel to West 77th Street. It was the Ladies Pavilion, which started life as a Victorian trolley shelter at Columbus Circle before it was moved to its permanent home in 1912. Gardens surrounded the structure, which was on the bank of the lake with the New York skyline behind it. It was perfect.
Organising the Weekend
Now that we had the location sorted, we could work on how best to organise the rest of the weekend – without over-organising it to the extent that people couldn’t go off and do their own thing. We decided on drinks the night before, lunch before the ceremony, champagne afterwards followed by the evening meal. The rest of the time they could call their own.
We also had legal matters to attend to, namely getting the marriage licence. Unlike in some countries, where it’s nigh-on impossible for non-residents to get married, it’s a straightforward business in the state of New York. Turn up at the City Clerk’s office downtown at least 24 hours before, take along your passport (and in our case, our decrees absolute), pay the $35 postal order and then hand the licence to the person officiating the ceremony (which was arranged by Orysia). You can even get married there – we saw a few couples decked out in their wedding togs – but it’s a pretty soulless place, to be frank.
The Wedding Spirit
Our families and friends were arriving throughout the week, some, including my brother, turning it into a proper family holiday and doing some major sightseeing. My mother and I spent a girlie hour at the make-up counters at Saks, where the staff cooed around us excitedly when they heard a wedding was taking place.
Say what you like about jaded New Yorkers: mention a wedding and they all turn to goo. One of the make-up assistants asked who was doing my hair and face for the big day. Alarm flashed in his eyes when I said I was. After he deftly redid my make-up I immediately wished I had thought about booking someone. Then I came to my senses.
The idea of having stag and hen nights was as appealing as a beach wedding, so we had a “hag” night at the Faces & Names bar near our hotel, the Wellington, at Seventh Avenue and West 55th Street. It was the first chance for everyone to come together and get into the wedding spirit. Too much spirit (vodka, to be exact) entered me, and I staggered back to the Wellington in a bit of a state.
I thought waking up with a stinking great hangover on your wedding day was reserved for gross-out American comedies. Wrong. I cursed myself as I struggled to get ready, wishing I had been more sensible the night before. Then my wedding bouquet arrived, producing my first moment of real nervousness mixed with awe. I was going to be a bride. And it was raining.
Authentically New York
My physical state wasn’t helped much by the delay in getting a cab to West 72nd Street where we were meeting for lunch. However, within minutes of sitting down, my hangover started to dissipate. We had chosen a kosher deli, Fine & Schapiro, on the Upper West Side as our lunch spot, a gem of a place we discovered on our last visit. It’s nothing great from the outside, even less so on the inside, but it’s authentically New York and the food is incredible. A bowl of chicken soup with a huge matzo ball, followed by hot pastrami on rye, is now officially the best way to start off your wedding day.
While I was becoming slightly more human, I could see family and friends start to gel as a group. Having lunch first was an inspired idea, my father-in-law told me later.
The rain stopped long enough for everyone to make their leisurely and rather ramshackle way along West 72nd towards Central Park West, through Strawberry Fields and up towards Hernshead where the Ladies Pavilion was waiting for us.
A Moving Ceremony
Orysia was there with the officiant, a pleasant chap called Baron dressed in a distinguished black robe. He had been given a copy of the vows which we had compiled ourselves, as we had decided to pass on the sample American ones we had been emailed. Romance is one thing, but sickening sentimentality is another.
And we were husband and wife, after a moving ceremony filled with joy and warmth. The heavens had opened again, although no one noticed. We were too busy laughing and hugging. “You’re part of our family now,” my mother said to my father-in-law. Rather than take fright, he looked pleased and gave her a hug.
The rain persisted, but we made our slightly damp way to the Boathouse restaurant and bar where we were to have champagne. Our guests held up their umbrellas in a makeshift guard of honour as we walked in to applause. And because of the rain, the usual Friday post-work crowd went elsewhere and left us with plenty of seats.
The Convivial Gathering
Our luck held out with the evening meal too. We had chosen the Trattoria dell’Arte on Seventh Avenue mainly because it was opposite the Wellington, which sounds rather like a feeble reason. We hadn’t even tasted the food. But we did spot its private rooms on its website, and for once the photos didn’t lie.
Our room was delightful, with a large stone fireplace, candles, terracotta-coloured walls and flagstone floor. It had its own bar and a comfy seating area, and one long table was set up elegantly for our party. The meal started with a cocktail/antipasti hour, which was so good that we had to warn our guests about the four courses that were to follow. The food was superb, its quality matching the convivial gathering.
The sun reappeared the following day, which suited us fine as a few of us had planned to go to the Festa di San Gennaro, the raucous street festival held every September in Little Italy. After getting our fill of Italian delicacies, we made it uptown in enough time to take my mother on a carriage ride in Central Park, followed by an impromptu picnic graced by the brief presence of Bruce Willis. We finally got the weather we had wanted the day before, but in the end it didn’t matter in the slightest. New York had cast its spell, and the magic worked.
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