There’s No Such Thing as a Simple Turkish Wedding

The marriage bureaucrats at the Şişli marriage bureau seem like the unhappiest people in the world. Just a few meters from the miniature theater, where everyday on the central stage couples say ‘yes’ to marriage and the lifetime commitment that comes with it, the administrators work in a closeted office under yellowish strip lights taking applications and printing out the evidence of marital bliss. No windows and no reprieve from the stapling, typing, and pasting. Like any affianced couple, my Turkish beloved and I entered their cave a bit giddy, all the paperwork ready to seal the deal on our wedding date.

After the Engagement

No matter what country you’re in, the engagement is the easy part. Under a black, star-speckled sky on the balcony of our mountain treehouse, we became affianced in the traditional manner. On vacation in the south of Turkey, relaxed and happy, we didn’t give much thought to the expectations of families and friends on both sides of the Atlantic. However, the reality of attempting a simple marriage in Turkey would soon set in. While in the U.S. weddings can be intimate affairs pulled off at the spur of the moment, Turkish weddings have a reputation for being huge events with every acquaintance in attendance — all dressed up to the nines — and fireworks wrapping up the festivities. Throughout it all, of course, the Turkish family is involved.

His parents wanted a village wedding spectacle in the summer complete with traditional Turkish musicians, dancing and fancy-dress. We wanted the legal wedding and drinks with friends and close family afterwards in winter. Every time we rejected a part of their plan, I felt a guilty pang for being the difficult foreign daughter-in-law. No puffy dress, no tuxedo, no dancing, no car decked out with flowers, no formal dinner after the main event, no showing off. We had to negotiate for every detail, and were sometimes made to relent.

Passing through Paperwork

Doctors had affirmed our physical fitness to join in matrimony after a slew of blood tests and, for mysterious reasons, a chest x-ray. The two governments had found us to be a suitable match after going through a process which felt akin to getting permission from a patriarch or matriarch of the family. Without a paper from the U.S. declaring my ability, I was not free to wed. Then, the family patriarch of my fiancé’s family, a.k.a. the Turkish government, had to also give their blessing. This involved taking the sacred document to another government office for further stamping and signing by a couple of Turkish memurs debating on who knew better the various consuls and representatives of the U.S. consulate.

Of all these official administrators and consuls, the woman in the marriage office seemed the least fit for her position of guiding couples toward the happiest day of their lives. Looking disgusted with our behavior, and life in general, she furrowed her brow and huffed in annoyance when I asked for the additional paper to keep my own last name and hyphen with my husband’s. As if we had come that day with preplanned malicious intent to make her life more difficult with this one extra task. I wondered for a moment leaving that office, if any of them were themselves married, and whether happily or not?

Like Chuckie’s Bride

Post-paperwork, number one on my agenda was of course the dress. People informed me that Turkey was the place to create your dream gown, the tailors were masters of the craft and could create a dress to fit my exact specifications. My mother, aunts, and many friends had all married in beautiful ceremonies all their own, but all I wanted was the right dress. Something that fit me and was as timeless as my grandmother’s portrait in simple white satin.

But, as I stood under the yellowish hue of my sister-in-law’s hallway light for my final attempt to make myself like the made-for-me dress, it felt like the death-knell to that little dream. What should have been a graceful empire waist flowing down to the knee, instead was a hem bunched up around my middle like a middle-aged muffin-top. The fabric, as shiny and cheap as a Halloween costume, made me look like a life-size doll from a horror movie.

Fortunately, future family loyalty runs just as strong as blood ties. My sister-in-law took a whole Saturday to find another dress-maker who would make gown number two in just under one week. It had to fit; it had to be right, because time was out.

Parental Meet and Greet

This was really the main event — the meeting of the parents, my rather shy mother who hadn’t left the country since her teenage years and my future in-laws, who were a full generation older and had barely been out of Turkey. In America, this meeting is a more relaxed event that is usually only necessary because of the nuptials. But, in Turkey, with the belief that marriage is also about connecting two families, this occasion was of great significance to his parents. The first meeting would take place at a busy Starbucks over cups of weak coffee, and my fiancé was running late for the critical moment, of course.

Everyone was all nervous smiles when my in-laws entered the cafe. While I was kissing their hands in the traditional manner, aware of my mother’s curious gaze, a dreadful thought came to me — I was about to be made translator of this official meeting. Saying the “hellos” and “how are yous” was easy enough, but as mother met mother and started to ask more detailed questions, I stumbled between English and Turkish, in a full on blush from the state of my Turkish and three parents watching me. My father-in-law pulled out some basic English from his school days, wowing me and giving my mother some respite. When my fiancé arrived a few minutes later, I happily passed the trio off to his care for an afternoon of sightseeing and cross-cultural exchange, thankful that I would not have to bridge the language gap or dodge questions about getting pregnant for a whole afternoon.

And into the Sunset

After the marathon of making-up, two hour picture session, and a five minute exchange with the judge on the marriage stage, the official bureau photographer and videographer followed us out to the greeting room like our own personal paparazzi, and here we shook hands and kissed cheeks of each individual attendee and posed for more pictures. By the end of the line, it felt like mission completed rather than the happiest moment of our lives. Entering our escape car from the cameras and hand-shaking with drink and food on the mind, the car entered directly into Istanbul’s evening traffic. A fitting end to an Istanbul wedding, the getaway vehicle inching into the Bosphorus sunset.

Have you had any cross-cultural troubles when getting married in Turkey? Any shocking events while a guest at a Turkish wedding?

Meridith Paterson is a contributor to Yabangee.