By Andrew Vaughan Winterbottom

My friend Liz was getting married. To Dima， another friend. I got the news from the couple in person one day when they came for dinner at my apartment in east Beijing. Dima lives in Tianjin， a short trainride from the capital. Liz， a Torontite， had flown over for a new-year visit. Theyd been doing long distance for a year.

I heard all about the proposal. Dima had dragged Liz from a bar mere minutes before the 2012 New Year countdown got underway， promising to show her his ‘magic trick. He barreled her up to a nearby hotel room； Liz assumed he fancied a bit of frisky midnight festivity. Turned out he really did have a magic trick； once in the room， he pulled out a paper crane， set it on fire and handed it to Liz. The crane burnt out， and at the cost of only a slightly singed thumb， Liz found herself holding an engagement ring. She said yes.

“Big whoop，” you yawn. “Another wedding story， Call the Press！” you gibe. Well， sure. Point taken. Everyones got their own quirky wedding story， and everyone assumes theirs is the best. Ive heard a few good ones myself： bride swears during vows（Australia）， photographer falls on cake （America）， grooms father fails to crack open coconut （Sri Lanka—very bad omen， apparently）.

Liz and Dimas wedding didnt have a cake-tastrophe， rude words or coconuts. Really， it had very little in the way of slapstick humor. It was， nonetheless， one of the more interesting ceremonies I think Ill ever attend.

See， Dima is Chinese， and speaks no English. His real name isnt actually ‘Dimaat all； its Han Guoqing. Liz doesnt speak any Chinese， nor is she learning. Liz and Dima met while studying Russian in Vladivostok， a gritty port city on Russias pacific coast. ‘Dima is the local name Guoqing picked out for himself in Russian school， where I was his classmate. Liz and Dima speak Russian together， though neither speaks it flawlessly. Their kids will either be triumphantly trilingual， or very confused. They decided to get hitched exactly a year after Dimas proposal—on New Years Eve， 2013. The wedding was to be in Tianjin， and that was all I knew about it until I arrived at the ceremony， with two mutual friends.

Wed been speculating about the service for weeks. Would it be held in Chinese， English or Russian？ Would it be a Chinese-style wedding？ Or a Western one？ A Russian？ Probably not Russian， we reasoned； neither had flirted with the Orthodox religion while studying abroad. Liz is actually Jewish； would we see glass break and the traditional folk Hora ‘chair dance？

Initially， signs pointed to Chinese. Guests were seated at big， round tables with Lazy Susans in the middle. Double happiness ‘Xi posters were plastered all over the hall， and red was the color of choice among the guests.

The bride- and groom-to-be soon entered. Liz had donned a red qipao， a traditional one-piece Chinese dress， and a gaitou， or red bridal veil. Dima wore a Western-style suit.

The ceremony began. Conducting it was a young Chinese girl， presumably a relative， who nervously giggled her way through the formalities. It was all in Chinese， though the Anglophones present were aided by a PowerPoint presentation on a giant screen behind the stage， which gave a running English commentary. Liz couldnt see it， so Dima helped her follow along with quiet Russian whispers.

The couples parents were invited to sit on the stage； Dima and Liz bowed to them three times and gave thanks. For their prostrations， they received several fat hongbao—red envelopes containing money.

Dimas uncle gave a delightful speech， a trans- lation of which appeared on the PowerPoint. This translation provided the one slapstick moment of the ceremony： a well-intentioned Chinese sentence was rendered in English as： “Im grateful that Dima is doomed to marry a Canadian Jewish Girl！”

Lizs father also gave a speech. Half an hour before， Liz had asked me if Id do some on-the-spot interpreting for him. His speech was unscripted， but it would be simple， she promised. I agreed， hoping I hadnt overstated my Mandarin abilities to her.

Her father took the microphone. He started： “In 1938 a Canadian Doctor by the name of Norman Bethune headed to Yanan to join the Communist Eighth Route Army during the Second SinoJapanese War.”

Her father paused， waiting for me to jump in. I know how to say “Canada” in Chinese. I said， “In Canada，” then made up the rest.

I thought Id got away with it. It was only later I learned that Lizs aunt was a Professor of Chinese history at an American University. Id noticed her watching me during “my speech” with a slightly bemused expression.

In the middle of the proceedings， Liz hightailed out of the hall without any warning. She waltzed back in five minutes later wearing a lovely Westernstyle wedding dress. The host then guided the couple—in Chinese—through an exchange of vows and rings as per the Western tradition.

After the formal proceedings， the hall livened up. I imagine that most cultures wedding receptions—Chinese， Western or anything else—resemble each other at this point. There was eating， toasting， posing for photos and dancing.

And just when I thought the most interesting wedding Ill ever attend was winding down， the DJ dropped Hava Nagila， the folk song staple of Jewish weddings. The floor was cleared； two chairs were produced， and up were hoisted Liz and a startled Dima. Liz explained to him in Russian that the chair lifting and circle dance was a Jewish tradition—apparently he hadnt been warned. Dima then relayed the explanation to his relatives in Chinese， and they all came together—his 5-foot grandmother included—to join Lizs family in dancing a very loose interpretation of the Hora around the happy couple.

A Footnote： Liz returned to Toronto soon after the wedding. Dima will join her once his immigration papers are processed. He promises to learn English once he arrives.