7 years till I do

I’m not exactly a wedding enthusiast. Not at all. Sure, some rituals and traditions are kind of cute, but I prefer to keep my distance. The inevitable descent into chaos, debauchery, and general madness — which our parents’ generation for some reason calls “tradition” — doesn’t awaken even a milligram of interest in me.

If you’ve read The Wedding Tan, you probably already know how I feel about wedding cuisine and why, when it came to our own marriage, Nastya and I tried desperately to dodge the classic wedding traps — competitions, shrieking "Kiss! Kiss!", and all the usual pits and snares.

So, when I casually asked Sasha, “How’s it going? What’s new?” and he casually dropped, “Getting married. You’re invited,” I found myself a little stunned. On the one hand, it wouldn’t be bad to make a trip to St. Petersburg and personally congratulate my childhood friend on a major life event. On the other hand, neither weddings nor St. Petersburg tend to make my heart race with excitement. If anything, they make me narrow my eyes suspiciously and brace for an ambush.

After some thought, Nastya and I decided that a quick weekend escape to the northern capital still fit within our definition of acceptable leisure. Lady Luck, as usual, was on our side: the bride and groom had chosen a wedding palette almost identical to ours. Thanks to this little miracle, all I had to do was dust off my old wedding suit, while Nastya quickly found a matching evening dress in her closet.

My wonderful friend Alyonka has an extraordinary superpower: every time she comes to St. Petersburg, the rain stops instantly, the clouds flee in terror, and the sun shines triumphantly.

But alas, ma chérie Alyonchik had moved to another hemisphere, and without her, the St. Petersburg weather went feral once again.

So, it wasn’t much of a surprise when, arriving at Moskovsky Station, we were greeted — along with our friends — by a brooding sky making ironclad promises of an imminent downpour.
Sasha gave our luggage a critical once-over and approvingly noted, "Oh, you brought an umbrella? Smart. You’re definitely gonna need it tomorrow." Well, who could doubt it? In this city, the rain can fall whenever it wants — even, somehow, from the ground up. And drenching the newlyweds on their big day? That’s practically sacred.

We grabbed a taxi and headed for the apartment we’d rented, where a rather chilly reception awaited us. The thoughtful landlord had opened all the windows before our arrival, so we could, apparently, fully appreciate the authentic St. Petersburg air. The appreciation was even sharper considering the temperature outside hovered somewhere around 15 degrees Celsius — allegedly "warm" — and the heating hadn’t been turned on yet.
There was no air conditioner.
There was no heater.
And some paranoid soul with a harsh Nordic temperament had apparently decided a towel warmer in the bathroom was an unnecessary luxury.

Like drunken kingfishers who had accidentally swapped habitats with polar gulls, we fluttered around the apartment, flapping our wings irritably and cursing the local climate. The only small consolation was the shower, whose hot tap seemed to have been welded directly to the mouth of a volcano. I can’t otherwise explain the molten stream of magma that came blasting out when you opened it even slightly. By evening, we were very clean — but still very unhappy, because the warming effect of the shower lasted, at best, an hour. After that, the arctic freeze crept back into our bones. Apparently, global warming had politely skipped over the Leningrad region — and wasn’t available even through a VPN.

Vibe of the moment

At some point, we decided that if we couldn’t raise the ambient temperature, we’d have to raise the internal one. On the way to the store, the city on the Neva managed to show us about seven different kinds of rain. Judging by the color of the sky, it looked like it planned to keep raining from now until sometime in December. Paradoxically, it actually felt warmer outside in the rain than it did inside the apartment.

But we had a mission. Upon entering Lenta supermarket, we headed straight for the liquor aisle.
Sergey Shnurov had already outlined the ideal leisure strategy for St. Petersburg back in 2016 — quite vividly, in fact. So, not wanting to go against local folklore (and also, let’s be honest, desperately needing to warm up), we each stabbed a can of sparkling wine into our souls.
The world, from being unbearable, shifted into something just about tolerable. Not wanting to lose the precious warmth we had fought so hard to earn, we bolted home and dove straight under the covers.

The wedding morning greeted us with the same endless rain. Nastya had already dashed off for her makeup session and made it back, skillfully dodging the bulk of the storm clouds. Meanwhile, I was deep in thought about the water-repelling properties of my suit and her dress.
After concluding that neither of them had anything even remotely resembling such properties, we decided we'd be moving around exclusively by taxi — never mind that the civil registry office (the ZAGS) was only a ten-minute walk away.

After Sasha and Nastya very clearly expressed their willingness to marry and solemnly assured the stern woman behind the government lectern that this was neither a joke, nor a prank, nor a trap, all the guests immediately lined up to shower them with congratulations. A small queue formed. Flustered, I ended up congratulating only Sasha.
I was immediately reprimanded in a fierce whisper by my own Nastya — and promptly sent off to congratulate the other Nastya as well.

To give the freshly minted couple ample opportunity to pose for what would surely be no fewer than 56,781 photos, all the guests were herded into a rented bus and driven to the river. Not to be drowned, thankfully — but to take a little boat ride. The outing was accompanied by champagne and a variety of snacks.

The day before, Nastya and I had had a small debate. She had wanted to buy motion sickness pills, reasoning that the boat ride might make her queasy. I was quite puzzled, since we’d been on similar boats before — in St. Petersburg, Moscow, and Kaliningrad — and no one had gotten seasick, as far as I could remember. Maybe she thought the newlyweds would spend three months posing for photos: long enough for us to circle the western coasts of Europe and Africa, trade glass beads for raw gold and diamonds in Tanzania, then make our way back through the Suez Canal. All the while battling pirates, dehydration, and waves like the ones in Aivazovsky’s Ninth Wave painting. We would return bronzed, emaciated, and slightly mad.

Of course, none of that happened. The gravest danger on that little vessel was the low bridges over the canals. If you weren’t paying attention and forgot to duck, you could easily knock yourself out — courtesy of the bridges’ elegant yet unforgiving ironwork.

When our shallow-water cruise finally ended and we returned to dry land, we discovered that the bus had no intention of chasing us down the narrow streets. Instead, it had camped out somewhere near the Hermitage Museum. Apparently, the saying about Muhammad and the mountain resonated deeply with its diesel engine.

It became clear we'd have to walk a little. There was just one minor problem: the champagne served on board had moved through Nastya and me at impressive speed — and was not planning to accompany us to the wedding banquet. While the rest of the guests argued over which direction our elusive bus had taken, we slipped into one of the countless museums nearby.
As you can probably guess, our particular interest at that moment lay not in the exhibits, but in the ceramic installations, boldly labeled by the artist with avant-garde abbreviations like “WC.”

Sparkling wine is about to do us dirty

Upon arriving at the restaurant, we immediately understood why Sasha had been cursing all kinds of construction and renovation work under his breath: just a week before the big day, the city authorities of St. Petersburg had decided to shroud the entire facade in scaffolding. Because of this, the Italian panoramic restaurant Luce had turned, at least from the outside, into a very convincing Russian-style canteen called Chthon. Thankfully, only on the outside. Inside, it remained quite presentable, living up to its radiant name.

The hall was small, cozy, and decorated in light tones — perfect for our group of about thirty guests. After a brief welcome reception and a few obligatory photographs, everyone began settling at their tables. I braced myself, wondering in dread what kind of banquet format we were about to face. Would Marasmus, Shame, and Humiliation — the three true horsemen of the Apocalypse (and wedding contests) — make their grim entrance? I clung to the hope that Sasha and Nastya weren't the wild wedding party type and hadn't budgeted for fistfights or roaming jesters.

And for once — if we don't count our own wedding — my silent prayers were actually heard:
there were mercifully few contests, and to be fair, they were quite original. Participants had to quickly guess between two facts about the newlyweds. If they chose incorrectly, they received an electric shock to the hand — supposedly to stimulate their hippocampus and competitive spirit.
Honestly, any competition where someone else gets zapped and not me is, by definition, a fantastic one.

The groom’s and bride’s unmarried friends had their own trial: open and chug a bottle of beer as fast as possible. Winners received six bottles of a tastier variety as a prize. The room was alive with shouting, coughing, and the occasional foam explosion from someone's nose. Dangerous, illogical, and absolutely hilarious.

The Grand Prix was undoubtedly snatched by the guy who, just days before the wedding, had jumped off a bridge into the Neva River — in full suit and shoes — all in honor of the newly formed family unit. To stave off any accusations of storytelling embellishment, his comrades had recorded the entire thing on video. After watching the footage, the newlyweds — along with half the guest list — rushed to congratulate the daredevil for such a dazzling triumph of recklessness over common sense.

The host was another pleasant surprise. Dmitry masterfully walked the line between playful showmanship and healthy sentimentality, making the evening feel like an emotional rollercoaster. There were moments that made you laugh out loud — and a few that brought a lump to your throat. It was clear he had not only a few excellent scripts up his sleeve, but also a razor-sharp wit. A good chunk of his jokes hit the bullseye, sending the entire hall roaring with laughter.

Speaking of quick reactions — the DJ, though he had composed a pretty questionable playlist filled with not-so-danceable tracks, was absolutely brilliant whenever he needed to accompany Dmitry’s performances. When the speech turned to family, he subtly played "Bandoleros" from Fast and Furious in the background — a nod to Vin Diesel’s tender obsession with the concept of family.
When the bridge-jumping hero was lazily paddling toward the shore, Shnurov’s raspy voice croaked over the speakers with the chorus of "The Fish of My Dreams."
And when it was my turn to give a speech about the groom, I shared a story from our school days. At one point, inspired by Game of Thrones ("The North Remembers"), I said, "Lipetsk Remembers" to honor our youthful escapades. To my absolute delight, the DJ caught the reference — and the hall was instantly filled with the low, ominous strains of the show’s iconic theme music. You know the one: "Duuu-duruu, du-ru-ruu-ruu, du-ru-ru-ruu..."

The newlyweds’ parents, for their part, stuck to the traditional blessings. Through tears of joyful excitement, they urged the couple to live in perfect harmony — and to hurry up with the grandkids already.

It turned out that Sasha and Nastya hadn’t exactly rushed into throwing this whole shindig —
they had spent a solid seven years sizing each other up before taking the plunge.
Seven years!
That’s quite a number, at least by our local standards. I once knew an Italian guy who lived with his girlfriend for thirteen (thirteen!) years. I have no idea whether they’re married now or still busy “testing compatibility.”

Here, though, things tend to move at a slightly different pace. Around these parts, after just one year of dating, girls usually start asking: "Are we just goofing around here or are we doing something serious?" Maybe some poor guy has already bought the ring but is chickening out for no good reason.

My beloved wife, upon learning that it had taken Sasha more than two and a half thousand days to pop The Question, was utterly scandalized. She turned to me with the gravest expression and firmly declared that she would never have waited that long. All evening long, waves of righteous indignation would wash over her, and she kept quietly marveling at how her namesake could have been so incredibly patient.

To distract Nastya from her thoughts about alleged male treachery, we headed off for a photoshoot. Every selfie we had taken before that, and every time we had asked someone to snap a picture of us, had been ruthlessly rejected by her.

As trophies, we managed to take home a couple of instant prints, spat out by some infernal techno-chimera: a full-length mirror with a built-in camera and a color printer. Basically, a Polaroid — but in heavy luxury mode. I'm sure the professional photographers managed to capture something worthwhile too, but Nastya wasn’t about to wait several months.
She needed photos here and now. Her Insta page wasn’t going to feed itself.

I'll be honest: I tried my best to pose seriously. But come on, people — it's so boring! My wife always wants those kinds of photos where we look like two stylish alphas, standing there all cool, gazing into the camera with a hint of superiority. Or better yet not looking at it at all.
Because who even cares, right? And of course, the lighting, background, hairstyles, and clothes — everything has to be absolutely top-notch.

But my inner demons simply won’t allow that. I can bargain with them for maybe two such photos. Alright, fine — three. But that's the absolute limit. After that, I have to pull a face.
Then strike the most unglamorous pose imaginable. And ideally, somewhere in the middle of it all, sneak in a playful bite on my wife’s butt.
Now that is the kind of photo I'd proudly frame.
Even put it on my office desk.

So, it always turns out the same: every time we try to take a decent picture together, Nastya desperately pleads with me to act normal for just five minutes — but honestly, that’s a KPI I’m fundamentally incapable of meeting.
I feel like I used up my entire lifetime supply of Serious Posing at our own wedding.