Saying 'I Do' in Provence

Marriage was a concept that had always escaped me. It seemed to involve complicated dresses and unrealistic promises, community property, white shoes and obscene amounts of money.

Yet, I had been with Joe for nine years. I adored him, though my mother wondered why, and it was clear we'd stay together. We'd talk of marriage. I'd quit breathing. He wanted something intimate and romantic. I suggested Las Vegas. Then he quit breathing. The idea of anything traditional – vows, veils, guests, rice – was so, well, traditional.

My friend Marcia had the answer. She lives in France, in a small medieval village in Provence, one of those impossibly beautiful "perched" villages that seem to grow out of the hilltops and be part of the very stone upon which they are built. "Why not do it here?" she asked.

Get married in France? In a country where we didn't speak the language? Surrounded by people we didn't know?

Brilliant!

But a real French wedding, we discovered, requires a 40-day residency period and serious paperwork. Plus, weddings in France are sacred affairs that usually take place in a church. We wanted a ceremony free of religion but filled with spirit and fun, one that reflected good times and laughter. So it was decided: We would be wed officially in a judge's chambers in Washington, then leave immediately for France and an "unofficial" wedding that Marcia would plan.

Marcia, a woman who loves weddings and has had three of her own, is the owner of a small bed-and-breakfast in a 14th-century building in the village of Saignon, about 30 miles east of Avignon. She and her partner, Andrew the artist, offer rustically luxe accommodations and personalized itineraries that cover regional cuisine, wine, art, antiquities and outdoor excursions. When the subject of marriage came up, Marcia quickly realized this was a service she could add to her repertoire. She took charge, and quicker than you can say "Pierre Deux," our French wedding began taking shape. All we had to do was sit back and worry about marriage tax penalties.

I went shopping for a dress. Marcia did everything else. Which is how Joe and I came to be "married" on a perfect May evening on the crumbling remains of a centuries-old castle in a Provencal village by a French mayor and a Dominican priest-turned-psychologist while being serenaded by a Gypsy accordion player as a baron, a baroness, a few American friends, several French strangers and Mina the French kitty looked on.

Forget everything you've heard about the snooty French and their disdain for Americans. When Marcia began planning in January, her fellow villagers took an immediate and proprietary interest in the event. They seemed not only intrigued by this peculiar American couple with their untraditional notions of marriage, she reported, but also genuinely eager to participate.

It was, after all, a village that for centuries had attracted the unorthodox and the adventurous. Saignon, I was told by those who live there, has always embraced individuals who have a mind to just do what they want to do. Everyone, it seemed, felt comfortable offering their views and input on the ceremony and the party afterward. Joe and I became willing props and basked in brief celebrity when we arrived a couple of days before the ceremony.

A cool spring had turned warm and sunny the day we arrived. We took the bags from the car, stepped over a sleeping dog and were handed a glass of pastis by Jean-Claude, Marcia's co-proprietor and keeper of the Petit Comptoir Provencal, one of the few shops in the village.

Mina the kitty was there to meet us, too. Mina, whom I'd met on a previous trip, speaks perfect French. "I see you, but I do not care that you are there. You may pet me now."