It’s a short flight from Belgrade to Rome. Italy’s capital was the driver for this entire trip: we were here to celebrate the wedding of a long-time (I won’t say old) friend of mine from Oregon. True to stereotype, I arrived at Fiumicino to a frustrating sequence of long airport lines and a disorderly train ride and nearly shot out of Termini station when the train doors opened. From there I beelined it to the hotel in Monti, a close-in neighbourhood of winding streets, small restaurants, bars and cafes a short walk from the Colosseum. Hannah, gratefully, interrupted her jetlag-induced nap to see me upstairs and I set down my bag before with relief before hunting for a quick meal. Food would unsurprisingly be a major theme in Italy.

The wedding was composed of three spread over three days. The first came on that same first night, and freshly scrubbed and wearing a decent collared shirt for once on this trip, we took a short evening walk past the Colosseum, Forum and other ancient Roman ruins to a enoteca sprawling out onto the sidewalk opposite the Circus Maximus. It is an ongoing testament to how chockful of ruins Rome is that locals, including the wine bar itself, seem to make no fuss about living amidst such history. The enoteca itself was a whirl of people circling around a long outdoor table: wedding guests, family members, and friends from Rome, Italy and wider points abroad. Folks sat and stood, moving from group to group, testing the conversational waters to figure out the balance of Italian or English skills.

In between people arriving and circulating, staff snuck away empty plates or, to much greater fanfare, appeared with more appetizer plates. Bottles of natural wine marked distances down the length of the table, doubling as social lubricant and introductory device as one person reaches past another to make a pour or asks how it is. I can vouch that the wines, for whatever my palate is worth, were excellent. The evening was also a chance for me to reunite with some high school friends and meet their partners, which was an absolute highlight of the wedding days. The party showed no signs of stopping when we stepped away, exhausted. I could not begin to match the gusto of the groom’s older uncle, a short and robust Sicilian who took to an impromptu operetta dedicated to the bride. When in Rome and all.

The wedding itself was two days later, giving me time to gracefully nurse a hangover before pulling out a suit and tie, both firsts in my travel fashion history. Appropriately attired, we took seats in the pews at the Chiesa di Santa Maria ai Monti, a few blocks from the Colosseum. The Catholic building is in the Baroque-style and dates back to the 1580s with a fittingly grandiose interior. I had time to look at it in detail as the ceremony itself was conducted, appropriately, in Italian, and did my best to catch onto various words where I could. The mother’s side of my family is Catholic, and I’ve been to enough family events to follow the major beats of a Catholic wedding – when to stand, when to sit, when to kneel, when to greet those around you – though I am still looking around a room for the cues. Tossing rice at the newlyweds as they came out, the wedding itself became a tourist attraction, passerbys stopping for pictures before continuing on their hunt for a midday gelato.

From Rome, attendees boarded a coach bus that snaked through the city’s curving, choked streets where I found great respect (and no envy) for the bus driver. The reception was at an agriturismo in Bracciano, a sort of bed-and-breakfast set up, literally perched on a hill between an expansive volcanic lake and a Renaissance castle looking down from above. The rest of the afternoon and into the night were a succession of fantastic Italian food and ongoing wine refills. The dance floor, delightfully in this case a corner of the lawn, was inaugurated after dinner with accompanying cocktails as the live musicians packed up and a DJ took over.

Like any good wedding, there were speeches to be had, though the majority in Italian, sounded lovely and incomprehensible to me. One of the tables began an impromptu live version of a 1968 Italian song, “Piccola Katy”, in dedication to the bride, and its simple chorus was picked up by the rest of us before the DJ astutely pulled the recorded version up. The older Italian men in attendance took the dance floor with astonishing vigour before gracefully ceding to the rest of us. The same Sicilian uncle reappeared later in the evening with another serenade mixed in with the wedding cake and the tossing of the bouquet and garter. It was an energetic and long-lasting reception, with good food, good drink and good people, one I was thankful to be part of and will not soon forget.

It was late when Hannah and I made our way up the hill towards our rented flat under the shadow of the Bracciano castle’s turret, promptly collapsing from the long day for a well-earned sleep. It was only the morning when I could take stock of the apartment, one of several in a centuries-old building in the winding town streets, and the recipient of a committed and now charmingly dated 1960s renovation. It was like a time capsule, with a ceramic fireplace and heavy, dark wooden furniture creaking with each movement, doors groaning on the hinge. I wish we had been able to stay longer, but Rome beckoned us back. The morning charms of the town are enough to earn a recommendation, especially for the local bakery on the piazza with the soft, fresh pistachio crème croissants. Those alone would have been worth the trip.