peter jaques: clarinetist &c

I was greeted at the Gotse Delchev bus station by Rumen, Aya, & Alan in the immaculate black Mercedes given by the German ambassador to Rumen's daughter Stefka, complete with mid-90s style in-dash car phone. Rolling through the mahala thusly in style, soon pulling up in front of one of the few houses faced in plaster (rather than nude poorly mortared brick), my offer to stay in a hotel flatly dismissed, we climbed the four concrete flights to the top floor, which Rumen built largely himself.

No one actually lives there now, as son Angel (Ali) is in conservatory in Plovdiv & ex-wife Svetla works in Ioannina (Greece), though Stefka lives downstairs with her husband Ali ("Professor Ali," since he's the one with all the answers, & since in a manner worthy of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, names are eagerly recycled in these parts, necessitating personality-reflective nicknames for almost everyone) & magnetic daughters Arolina & Salina. (Aliah, you would have devoured so many kids here, you'd have everlasting heartburn.)

After one of many lovely dinners prepared by Svetla, we descended again to the front stoop (which includes the first few meters of roadway as well) where were arranged plastic tables & all available chairs. There we remained, with what seemed (I was wrong) to be most of the neighborhood, drinking the homemade Serbian plum brandy Zeljko had sent with me, speaking slightly archaic Turkish (most of that neighborhood being Turkish Roma who left Turkey 3-4 generations ago, shortly before Atatürk's language reforms). Rumen introduced me as speaking Turkish, which is a stretch even with the Istanbul dialect. One by one I met enthusiastic new friends with incomplete comprehension, and it wasn't until very late that someone (yet another Ali, older brother of Sali "Salcho" the beautiful clarinetist) persisted in his efforts to reach me. In fact, Ali either ignored or missed my bewilderment, & my lack of response must have seemed an invitation to expound further. Which he did. Way further. Until Rumen intervened, instructing him to let me listen to Salcho's clarinet. Even then, every few seconds he'd lean in to speak, & then stop himself, apparently deferring to his inner voice's quickly forgotten reminder to Sus.

Slight knowledge of a language, incidentally, can be worse than none at all. Folks are tempted to try it, and when met dimly, to easily give up. If there's no obvious linguistic avenue, however, people tend to be more creative with their initial attempts to connect with new people. In any case, by far my two most lucid conversations all weekend were in Greek & Spanish. Simultaneously at that. (So many people here work abroad, that in one night we employed Turkish, Bulgarian, Greek, Spanish, Portuguese, German, & English in our efforts. I'm frankly surprised no one took up Aya on her offer of Japanese.)

The next day, Samir (Sali), the best zurna player I've ever heard, probably the best in the Balkans, arrived for the real beginning of the wedding festivities. When I get home I'll send out some photos & videos, because words fail. After three hours playing casually at the stoop, Samir, with his two intrepid backup zurnacis & entranced drummer who plays as an Evangelical speaks in tongues, processed the few blocks to the house of the groom, who in turn led us, under the eyes of what I now realize to be the actual whole neighborhood, a few more blocks to the bride's house. There the groom was met by the defiant father, who demanded five million leva before he'd turn over his daughter. Yet after a not very fierce confrontation, he settled for 50, and out came Maria, dressed completely inappropriately for the 102 degree weather in a lovely but heavy Indian maroon dress, one of two brought for her (along with little ones for the granddaughters) by Rumen from University Ave. in Berkeley. More processing, dancing in the streets, leva & euros & dollars slapped onto Samir's forehead every few meters, playing directly into revelers' ecstatic faces, weaving through the streets, all the previous onlookers now joining (well except for a few too cool teenagers).

Back in front of Rumen's house the dancing continued, occasionally talking form as a serpentine line, for at least two more hours, though time had quickly become irrelevant. Went upstairs to eat something, and on returning was informed that we'd missed something traditional, very interesting, and indescribable. Guess I'll wait for the video.

Don't remember anything else that night. Not sure why.

Anyway that was all the day *before* the wedding. The next day, Saturday, Rumen said the party would start by 10:30am. Turned out to be 4 in the afternoon, which was fine for me and my head. We, 500 of us, took over the restaurant at the Hotel Valentino. This includes close family & friends & colleagues, and, by tradition, almost as many uninvited guests, eating, videotaping (a new yet now primary tradition), & lurking behind the band stealing licks.

A slow beginning as we waited for the band to arrive two hours late. Two keyboards (one of which accomplished convincing-to-my-plugged-against-the-unconscionable-(as in, what *is* that internal organ that's rumbling so, deep inside of me?)-volume ears kanun & violin imitations), electronic drum kit (played by an excellent live player, but wow what corny drum sounds), darabuka, phased guitar, an excellent, tiny-with-one-notable-exception lady singer, and a hotshot clarinetist who never entirely turned off his octave pedal, not that I minded.

The ceremony eventually took place accompanied by this band, with a woman officiant speaking Bulgarian, toasting with silver glasses joined by a long silver, champagne poured from a silver painted bottle, rings installed by the best man & maid of honor. After the first few dances, the floor cleared, and a parade of food, led by a lamb roast in an aluminum pan borne by Angel & another cousin whose name I forget, sashayed around the dancefloor, then up to the bridal table, where three kids danced on the table over the meat. We ate (small when the waiter insisted, in front of a soon-to-be-indignant Rumen, that there was nothing vegetarian to feed me) & drank & danced & the band, in over six hours of playing, took one 15 minute break.

Once again the sheer length of this email makes me despair as to whether anyone will read this far. Let me know if you do. I'll send you a longer one next time.

One thing remains which I would be unforgivably remiss to omit: Rumen's family, and literally all the other people I met there, exuded generosity & warmth. Beyond that, the neighborhood is truly a community in a way which I think we really lack in the U.S. I'm sure there are difficult aspects, some of which I saw (notably the sadly unsurprising fact that the women sure do a lot of work while the men sit around drinking & laughing) & some of which I was undoubtedly oblivious to. But the way in which families & friends took care of each other, & the way that literally the entire neighborhood participated in the celebration (& I sense they participate as well in the sorrows), were unlike anything I've seen anywhere. I see now part of why it's so hard for many folks who leave places like this, even if now they're making more money & some things are easier.

Anyway what do I know.

By now I'm sweating profusely on the overnight train from Thessaloniki to Athens, where I'll hang out with Erin Kurtz & likely Aya & Alan again, perhaps Dimitri the oud maker as well, who knows maybe I'll revisit the Parthenon, before flying home Friday.

I'm not so sure of the wisdom of spending the extra eight euros on the unventilated sleeper car in the Greek late August.

Love p