There are a few things I expect from weddings: cake, regret, and at least one uncle crying next to a karaoke machine. What I did not expect—on this particular sunny Saturday in Valencia—was to walk in alone and walk out holding a baby someone told me I now spiritually co-own.
The invite came on WhatsApp, naturally. Just an emoji-heavy message from a girl I’d met once at a language exchange who swore we had “a connection.” I thought that meant she liked my jokes. Turns out she meant I was destined to be in her bridal party.
Anyway.
They said “small wedding,” so I threw on a dress I hadn’t worn since 2017 and assumed we’d be in a garden or a tapas bar. Folding chairs. Some awkward speeches. One too many sangrias.
What I did not prepare for was the castle.
A literal, honest-to-God, 14th-century stone fortress. Turrets. Arched doors. A dude in medieval tights tuning a lute. I thought I’d stumbled into a live-action roleplay group until someone handed me a prosecco and said, “Welcome to the bride’s side.”
Apparently, here in Spain, you can just rent out entire castles like it’s no big deal. Apparently, you can even buy one—yes, there are actual castles for sale in Spain—if you’ve got a few million euros lying around and a passion for heavy drapes and echoey corridors. Which… I do not. But I could. The idea now lives in my head rent-free.
Back to the wedding.
The ceremony started an hour late, which I now understand is “on time” in Spanish culture. There were flamenco guitarists, a priest who looked like Antonio Banderas’ dad, and more tears than there were vows. It was beautiful. Unhinged, but beautiful.
Then came the food. Five courses. I’m not even sure if the third one was food or performance art. People started dancing between the second and fourth plates. Someone’s grandmother rapped. I made friends with a goat (long story). At some point, the groom’s cousin—after several glasses of local wine and what I think was absinthe—pulled me aside and whispered, “You are the godmother now.”
I laughed.
He didn’t.
Turns out, somewhere between the flamenco and the fifth plate, a baby had been christened and my name was mentioned. I still don’t know the baby’s name. I have a photo of us together, though. I’m holding her like someone passed me a baguette I didn’t ask for, but she seems content. Apparently that’s all it takes.
I left around 3 a.m. with a flower crown, a blister, and a new identity as Madrina Aerielle.
The next morning, I woke up with a faint headache and a text from the bride: “Thank you for everything. You are now family. See you next month for the goat festival 💃🏼🐐.”
Honestly? I’m in.
