Pabianice feels like a holdover from the old days-lots of big gray plain apartment blocks with dour, glum people milling around. No matter, I was there to party. Now, prior to the trip, Jim had said to me earlier that one of K’s friends, Monika, would be there and they wanted to have us seated next to each other-maybe...well, just maybe. At the time I was thinking, what’s the worst that could happen? Some interesting conversation, a little dancing…at best, well, I wouldn’t dare go there. We arrive at the reception venue, a restaurant with a large room upstairs, both of which looked to have been newly remodeled. We were immediately handed a glass of champagne and waited for the newlyweds to arrive.
J carried K across the threshold, then met by K’s parents who presented them with bread and salt, symbolizing that the couple would never be without life’s necessities. We toasted, then found our seats. I ended up at the head table, next to the best man, thinking maybe there was a mistake in the seating arrangement. I was doublechecking my place card when my peripheral vision caught brown hair and blue chiffon settling into the seat next to me. Must be Monika. I introduced myself, she introduced herself. And her friend. Robert. Crap, well, no pressure now, just relax and have fun.
We were being served our first course by now, and I noticed that the little shot glass at my seat was already full of wodka, and soon after that we were on our feet for another toast. This early, people were only taking sips of their vodka, so I did likewise, immediately chasing it with a little water, or juice, whatever was on hand. Generally, food courses appeared every half hour or so,between which were toasts or some dancing or songs or encouragements to get J and K to smooch. As time went on, my sips turned into gulps turned into bottoms up, the catering staff always making sure you had a full glass.
Meanwhile, conversation with Monika went well (and admittedly with Robert also. Suppposedly he was just a "friend," and we had an interesting chat about progressive guitar rock), I learned she was living in London and, well, I was going to be passing thru London, how about that? She said I'll give you my number later and maybe show you around. He shoots, he scores! Wait, Frank, let's see the instant replay...yep, he doesn't get the number as soon as it's offered, that may come back to bite him...
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