On the weekend before the Dragon Boat Festival, I attended my sister's (actually my cousin, but I call her "sister" to feel closer) wedding in Wuhan. Essentially, it was a journey from one sweltering southern city to another even hotter southern city - like taking an extended stroll to greet someone and return. Having forgotten most previous family weddings I attended, this time I wanted to document the occasion as an observer.

Wuhan held no visual imprint in my mind until I squeezed into a local taxi plastered with small ads, its desaturated paint job peeling. Crumpled in the dusty backseat peering outside, I suddenly sensed the city's vitality - not Beijing's arid energy bursting from PH3 nightclubs at 3am, nor Shanghai's sharp stiletto confidence clacking on polished mall floors, but the warm anticipation of dropping bullfrogs into a sizzling wok (yes, I'm Beijing-born) and preparing chili dip. This warmth carried less humidity, more earthy grit. Alighting at a renovated chain hotel, I gazed at parched shrubs and monotonous power lines, inhaling deeply. How I craved a bowl of grilled cold noodles!

Waking at 8am next day, I frantically tied my tie to catch the departing bridal convoy. My worst fear - oversleeping on the wedding day - materialized. I get what I wish for. The car ride with relatives felt different this time. Our worlds had spiraled like derailed planets since middle school; conversing with these distant relations now felt like Jane Goodall interacting with gorillas in the Amazon - awkward yet curiously moving. I engaged with tentative curiosity rather than detached observation.

Inside the chapel, distorted LED screens chanted hymns to the tune of "Ode to Joy". The scarlet decor scheme evoked choir competitions, while the choir's white chef hats, floral red tops, and taut black pants vaguely resembled a Red Cross charity event. Above the weathered plaster wall behind the pulpit, twelve golden characters loomed: "Emmanuel", "Path to Eternal Life", "Hallelujah". A transcendent disconnect enveloped me - the Chinese Bible in my hands turned meaningless, the narrow pews rotting beneath me. I nearly raised my arms shouting "I've gone mad!" to Jehovah before slapping myself awake: Merciful Father, I've fallen into a sinless void.

The subsequent rituals I termed "cutscenes". As friends say: "At others' weddings, just eat". There was laughter, tears (mostly laughter), culminating in heartfelt blessings for my sister.

I'd anticipated this as "socially obligatory play-acting", yet unexpectedly invested personal emotions. Reflecting, I recognize this as reflective nostalgia (from "The Future of Nostalgia") - yearning for a homeland that never existed. Nostalgia (nostos + algia) embodies loss and displacement, yet romantic entanglement with imagination. What I witnessed overlapped two images: homeland and wandering. My experience became dual existence - past and present, dreams and reality, marriage and solitude, reunion and separation, Wuhan and hometown.

Postscript 1:

Post-lunch, encountering Wuhan's youth at a music festival - their TikTok-esque restlessness, hollow glamour, idle posturing with latent impulsiveness. Many live thus; I resolved never to become them.

Postscript 2:

Is wedding merely an "occasion"? Let's distinguish marriage (being wed) from wedding ceremonies. Globally varied in scale, ceremonies persist across cultures as optional appendages to legal unions. Can we have weddings without marriage? Consider:

All share ceremonial elements yet differ from traditional weddings. Essentially, "wedding" implicitly assumes legal marriage as prerequisite. Thus, marriage certification and ceremonial rituals form a conceptual whole.

—Translated by DeepSeek-R1 on 2025-03-20