Four hundred people crossed an ocean for this one. Most of them flew in from the States, landed in Rome, and gave the city over to three days that Sofia and Nick had been quietly building toward for the better part of a year. It was not a wedding so much as a small, temporary world, one that existed only for a weekend and then folded back up and went home.

It began the way the best long weekends do, with everyone in one room and nowhere to be. The first night was a club, low and warm, at Hotel de la Ville above the Spanish Steps. No speeches. No schedule. Just the people who had traveled the farthest, finding each other again.

The second night is the one people will talk about for years. A welcome party at Palazzo Brancaccio, polka themed and completely committed to the idea, the way it only works when no one is being ironic about it. Halfway through, an opera singer no one had been warned about. Then ballet dancers. Then violinists moving room to room. There is a particular kind of luxury in being surprised at your own party.

And then the wedding itself, at Villa Miani, with the whole of Rome laid out below the terrace. There were traditional Italian performances, the kind that belong to the place and cannot be flown in. A martini wall. A band that read the room perfectly. Local food that made even the Americans go quiet for a minute.

When the formal part was done, they moved into a room built for exactly this: red velvet drapes, a bar made just for the night, and a party that ran well past the point anyone had planned for. There was a five tier cake. There were dancers. By every account, not one dull hour across three days.