I spent a good part of the evening trying to figure out how to say "cojones" in Yiddish (what's the difference between Yiddish and Hebrew? click here). As I am typically prone to do in situations where I am culturally unaware, I spent most of the evening trying to broaden my base of understanding of Judeaism and all the idiosyncacies that go with a wedding in that culture. Being ever the upstanding gentile, I had woefully underestimated our Jewish brethren in their celebration of what us Catholics refer to as "the blessed sacrament of marriage." The Jews refer to it as the "chabbad," which I imagine means something along those lines.

Being a "goy" at a Jewish wedding is a lot harder than one might think. Add to that the cultural mish-mash of being a Chilean goy whose better half has abandoned him to be in the ceremony and a very specific form of anxiety sets in. I like to call it cultural anxiety. This is the kind of anxiety that American tourists have when they visit a land where they know not the language and where they are painfully aware that the hawaiian print t-shirts they are wearing are the cultural equivalent of flies in your fondue.

The first awkward moment for me came as we were barely entering the ballroom where the ceremony was to take place. At the entrance was a basket full of little skullcaps which are known in hebrew as the yarmulka. Now the yarmulka is a crafty little piece of leather, roughly the size of a sand dollar which you are supposed slap on the back of your dome and expect it to stay there for at least half an hour [the more enterprising and pious Jews actually wear these things day in and day out]. The origin of the yarmulka, as with many Jewish traditions (not unlike the Catholics), stems from the Old Testament when a pee-in-your-pants-scared Abraham was told to never to expose his noggin as a reminder that the Lord is always up there. Anyways, it is customary for wedding goers to don these odd little chapeaus regardless of their religious affiliations. Dutifully, I complied and spend the next forty-five minutes with my head angled slightly forward to avoid what I felt would be a huge cultural faux pas.

The Jewish wedding ceremony is a mercifully short affair led by a rabbi who is supposed to make sure everything goes well and also imparts the vows, much like a priest at a Catholic ceremony. The ceremony takes place under a sort of latice frame called the Chupah (prounounced "hoopa") which is adorned with white flowers to symbolize purity. The chupah is supposed to be placed in the home of the newlyweds to bring blessing to their union. The ceremony is fairly simple and consists of alternating readings in Hebrew and English, as well as the standard exchange of rings and marriage vows. One big difference between the Jewish ceremony and the Catholic ceremonies (besides being half as long) is the traditional smashing of the wine glass. There seems to be conflicting accounts as to the meaning of this age old ritual. One explanation is that it symbolizes the destruction of the Holy Temple of Jerusalem, a pivotal moment in Judeaism. Another explanation (and one that I am particularly fond of) is that the smashing of the glass is a metaphor for another very specific type of destruction that happens when a virgin comes into her own, so to speak.

After the glass is stomped on, certain traditions have it that the couple, instead of going through a receiving line, are to exit gracefully and sojourn to the privacy of their rooms (called the Yichud - YEE-hood) to spend a moment in "quiet reflection," as it is so delicately put. That's right, they are supposed to immediately consumate their marriage and not waste any time doing so. Way to go, my Jewish brethren! Now here is a tradition that, if I were Jewish, could create all sorts of anxiety. I mean, what if you "jump the gun" and are back downstairs in five minutes? That could be potentially embarrasing. "Oy vey, what a schmeckel on that boy!" Conversely, what if you are in the throes of an all night lovemaking session and miss the reception altogether? "What a schlemiel. He didn't even come to his own reception." I mean, you can't win either way. Apparently, in the old days the rabbi is supposed to inspect and display the post-coital sheets to the assembled crowd for proof of having "broken the glass" (to keep with the glass metaphor). Talk about being put on the spot (so to speak).

Much like the other weddings I've been to, a reception (Simche) ensues and one shoots the proverbial shit with distant relatives, old high-school acquaintances and somebody from the groom's father's office. The canapes and the bottomless glasses of champagne and schnapps are liberally dispensed and conversations are kept to a five minute limit (usually ended by uttering "oh look, dear, au d'ouevres.") The reception leads to the dinner, where 300 people are herded into a giant ballroom with numbered tables. (A tip for going to big weddings with a spouse or significant other: if you split up before dinner, make sure you coordinate what table you are supposed to sit at before you part ways to shmooze, as the significant other inevitably always grabs the seating card before you. This will save you significant time and discomfort of having to talk to people you don't know while you look for your table in a haystack).

The dinner is followed by dancing, which is actually considered a "mitzve" in Jewish tradition, which basically means that it is a commandment to party at peoples' weddings--gotta love that. Everything was going great until about two thirds of the way into the dancing, when the Havinagila song started. Don't get me wrong. The song is fine. I have no problems with the song. It's the dancing that gets me. First of all, you have to link arms with people. I don't like linking arms with my own mother, much less nameless strangers with little leather caps on. You're supposed to skip around and sort of do-si-do like some sort of crazy middle-eastern squaredance. You are switching partners relentlessly and have to be extremely careful to coordinate your steps so that you don't mistakenly switch the woman you are linked to with a man. People did seem to be having a great time doing it, and I do admit having cracked a smile once or twice. After "having a gila" for about twenty minutes, the crazy toss-people-in-their-chairs dance began. This is a quaint little ritual that starts out by lofting the bride and groom up high in their respective chairs. It typically takes at least five or six men to accomplish this effectively-and being that I was tired of swinging strangers around the floor, I joined in. At first, being one of the chair-tossers was quite a rush. Here I was, merely tossing people around in the company of my fellow male chair-tossers. My job was quite simply mustering up enough muscle power to effortlessly toss a couple of newly-married Jews up into the air to the rhythm of some middle eastern trot.

"This is fun," I remembered thinking. The bride probably weighed in at a buck-o-five, which was great because between the five of us, we were lifting 26 pounds each. Just as she became nauseous and asked to be put down I could hear someone say: "Ok, mom, now its your turn." This was not a problem, as the mother of the bride did not appear overweight and was manageable on the chair. What followed was an seemingly endless flow of aunts, uncles, great-uncles and wannabes of all shapes and sizes who yearned to be hoisted by four strapping Jews and a gentile. After handling the fourth chair jockey, I could tell my fellow tossers were starting to undergo muscle fatigue (as was I) and were schvitzing quite profusely. The burn in my shoulders and biceps was only superseded by the fear of causing the great Jewish wedding tragedy of 2000 by dropping Great Aunt-in-law Gertie on her head during the chair dance. Out of respect for my Hebrew brethren I refrained from kvetching, but was fairly certain that the pulsating vein on my forehead spoke volumes for the strain I was enduring.

I don't remember exactly how it happened, but the odd chair-tossing ritual ended abruptly. Me and my partners in arms (or throbbing biceps) were thankful and dragged our knuckles back to our tables where our women had been gazing at us admiringly. I sat down and one of my tablemates held out his cupped hand and shook it at me saying as if holding a couple tennis balls: "You got a lot of chutzpah... for a gentile!" It was at that point that it clicked: Chutzpah = Cohones. Cohones = Chutzpah.