On we ventured. The music fading and the beach growing darker under the less-than quarter moon. We found our spot within a few meters from the wave’s reach, nestling our bottoms in the sand, she curling up in my gorilla-like arms, seeking the safety of my man chest. I say ‘gorilla’ because they freakishly long like a gorillas. Hairy like a Mother-in-Law.
. . .
Our next stop would find us at the Registry Office where the legal part of the wedding would take place. There’s no eloquent way to put this. It was like the DMV of weddings. Your entire party lined up outside, waiting for your turn where, once inside, the boombox played the music, and some woman said a bunch of things in Russian blah blah blah, here’s your marriage license and BOOM, you’re married. There were multiple rooms cranking out freshly married couples.
After congratulations and launching doves into the air, we were across the street drinking champagne in the park and snapping more photos.
Then it was off to some lake where we joined the other hundreds of newlyweds for photo opportunities and snacks, consisting of things wrapped in chicken and fresh cucumbers and tomatoes.
And girl watching.
Then it was off to the city centre where we joined the other hundreds of newlyweds for photo opportunities. The one tradition here was to have your photo taken in the middle of what was once the longest city street in Europe.
The sun high and our feets tired, we cruised back home where we would rest and drink for a few hours, preparing for the dinner. You may know it as The Reception. I now know it as the Hall of Overly Excessive Vodka Consummation. Or consumption. Whatever. Nonetheless, we were looking sexy, primed with Red Bull, and even the chickens were presentable:
The remaining 6 hours were familiar. Lots of toasting, plenty of dancing, vodka, more toasting with more vodka, bride kidnapping, vodka, and two overly large tables where the food flowed like vodka. There were of course the usual traditions of the bouquet toss, which almost turned into an East-bloc bloodbath.
And the garter toss. Where your humble narrator walked away victorious. For the second time in his career.
We then celebrated with more dancing and vodka.
. . .
Our next stop would find us at the Registry Office where the legal part of the wedding would take place. There’s no eloquent way to put this. It was like the DMV of weddings. Your entire party lined up outside, waiting for your turn where, once inside, the boombox played the music, and some woman said a bunch of things in Russian blah blah blah, here’s your marriage license and BOOM, you’re married. There were multiple rooms cranking out freshly married couples.
After congratulations and launching doves into the air, we were across the street drinking champagne in the park and snapping more photos.
Then it was off to some lake where we joined the other hundreds of newlyweds for photo opportunities and snacks, consisting of things wrapped in chicken and fresh cucumbers and tomatoes.
And girl watching.
Then it was off to the city centre where we joined the other hundreds of newlyweds for photo opportunities. The one tradition here was to have your photo taken in the middle of what was once the longest city street in Europe.
The sun high and our feets tired, we cruised back home where we would rest and drink for a few hours, preparing for the dinner. You may know it as The Reception. I now know it as the Hall of Overly Excessive Vodka Consummation. Or consumption. Whatever. Nonetheless, we were looking sexy, primed with Red Bull, and even the chickens were presentable:
The remaining 6 hours were familiar. Lots of toasting, plenty of dancing, vodka, more toasting with more vodka, bride kidnapping, vodka, and two overly large tables where the food flowed like vodka. There were of course the usual traditions of the bouquet toss, which almost turned into an East-bloc bloodbath.
And the garter toss. Where your humble narrator walked away victorious. For the second time in his career.
We then celebrated with more dancing and vodka.
