An alien's report on Marrying in Las Vegas
Created | Updated Oct 6, 2005
Thirty-five Dollars, Cash
Flight LH456 left Frankfurt at 10.35 am, CET, with champagne thrown in (served might be more appropriate, actually) by a steward, for Los Angeles International. For those not geographically inclined, LA is a long way from Germany, I mean, you might think it's a long way to Tipperary, but that's just a skip and a jump compared to LA! If on the other hand you're a seasoned traveller, it's merely an inconvenient day out.
What with the stop over there before the connecting flight (UA2560 for the plane spotters among you) we were on the go almost 23 hours before finally reaching the city that never sleeps (oh, no, that's New York), I mean the city that turns day into night-time, turning night into daytime (if you see it once, you'll never be the same again... all join in the chorus!).
Las Vegas (" the fields", though God knows why, there isn't a patch of grass to be seen anywhere!) has done some considerable growing since my last visit. The Strip was almost unrecognisable south of Caesar's Palace with the new hotels that have been sown and blossomed. I heard that it was growing at a rate of 6000 inhabitants per month... PER MONTH! I mean to say, 6000, that's almost as many people squashed onto the 6:43 train we get to work each day!
We stayed at the MGM Grand ("and have a GRAND day!") reputedly the largest hotel in the World, a bed for each of the 6000 new Vegas residents. Where else could your hotel room have a view of the New York City skyline, Mandalay bay and Excalibur? The hotel itself has a river running round outside and more Betty Boop souvenirs than you could wave a stick at.
There was no word from the chapel when we arrived... oh. We spent the Saturday lazing around in the wonderful hot, dry desert air and splashing about in the wonderful cool wet river. An early evening nap ensured Becky's co-operation for the later evening jaunt by monorail to Bally's and the gaudy lights of the Strip.
The next day, traditional Mothering Sunday all but forgotten by the excitement-smothering Monday, we breakfasted by the pool (clock change also forgotten). My Mum & Dad arrived from the Mirage around 10:30. The rest of the day was spent doing lots of nothing in preparation for The Big Day! Speaking of The Big Day, we still hadn't heard from the chapel but there again, what was the panic, after all, we weren't actually getting married for another 24 hours. I decided to ring them:
Me: "Hi, is that the Candlelight Wedding Chapel?"
CWC: "That's right, hi Mei, how are you doing, looking forward to tomorrow?" - How the Hell did they know it was me?! After all, they're the ones with an accent, not us!
Me: "Fine, and yes. We were just wondering about that actually, what's going to happen tomorrow?"
CWC: "You're getting married!" - A joker, great!
Me: "Er, yes, I mean how!"
CWC: "Well the limo driver will give you a ring about 10 minutes before he gets there, about 4.15 p.m."
ME: "We haven't even got a license yet, actually" (notice the Trans-Atlantic spelling of "licence" to aid understanding.)
CWC: "Oh," Here it comes, the dream is over, honeymoon first, wedding after "well in that case, make it 3.45 then, he'll take you to the County Clerk on the way here. Have you got all the necessary?" Ah, no, THIS is it, hopes dashed, shattered on the floor, glittering in the mocking neon of the Bright Light City!
Me: "What necessary do you mean exactly?"
CWC: "Thirty-five Dollars."
Me: "Is that it?"
CWC: "Cash." (Now that must be dodgy!) "See you tomorrow then!" Yeah, sure, and have a Grand day.
The next day, Monday, 3 April, was our zeroeth wedding anniversary. Until 2pm, we spent it by the pool again. Mum kept saying, "This isn't right you know, you're getting married in (6, 5, 4) hours, we should be panicking!". Dad obliged.
We went up to get ready at 2. I noticed a particular dearth of socks. OK, so I had a pair of thick hiking socks (well you never know when they might come in handy!) and a rather fetching white sport pair with blue stripes around the top. So I had the choice, go as Michael Jackson, have very hot feet or the Don Johnson look... I decided to run down to "Studio Walk" and attempt to buy a pair.
Now that may seem a relatively simple task but it was quite a foot, I mean "feat". Either Las Vegians don't wear socks or the tourist don't flock there to buy them. Probably the latter as you don't hear many people talking about having lost their socks at the roulette table, come to think of it. Anyhow, after much frantic searching (and a small round lady's persistent help) the day was saved. I even bought 2 pairs, just in case the contents settled during transit. I got back to the room to see Neleh looking resplendent without her dress and proceeded to put on my silver suit. In the inside jacket pocket were my socks.
Neleh looked marvellous, a dream in pink satin, a cross of pearls decorating her neck. Becky looked very pretty in her Woolworth's dress ("You DID say I could have ANY dress I wanted!") and I guess I looked OK too. Mum & Dad arrived at the door. My father, in his new suit ("It'll do for funerals too!"), probably more nervous than me; my mother wearing what could only be described as "A Wedding Outfit". A deep blue dress, matching shoes, handbag, hat and gloves (well after all, it can fall below 95 F in the Desert!).
3:44 and the phone still hadn't rung! 3:45, the phone rang. "See you outside the main lobby in 10 minutes!" - Cue Mission Impossible music, as the team headed for the exit. (Dum ti dum ti dumdum, dum ti dum ti dumdum, etc to fade).
The Limousine deserved to be capitalised! A hundred foot long, snow white with Mafia-style black windows and gaudy gold writing announcing "Candlelight Wedding Chapel", all done in the best possible taste. I'm not being sarcastic here, I really believe it was the best possible taste, I didn't claim it was good taste, just the best possible!
The driver took us to the Clarke County County clerk where we made our way past the variety of people who always seem to hang around government offices, no matter which country you're in, following the makeshift paper signs to the marriage licence (that T-Atlantic "c" again!) bureau (there don't seem to have offices in the States, I mean, it's not the FOI now, is it?). We "stood in line" (being careful not to "queue" and give away national secrets) after filling out what could only be described as a betting slip (with points such as: "If previously married, give approximate date of divorce.") until it was our turn to meet "Norma". Of course, having lived in one of the most bureaucratic (as opposed to "officratic") countries of Europe, we came prepared with everything from driver's license (UK ones) to birth certificates and beyond. What did Norma want from us? Well, apart from questioning our ability to spell our own names, $35, in cash. And that was that, marital bliss, there we went. The Limo floated over in time to avert another minor heart attack, and we bundled in for the trip to the chapel (Mum looking like an extra from "Royal Garden Party, The Movie" and Dad, by this time, in possession of an unusually large amount of thumbs and unable to operate the video camera). When we arrived I had practically rubbed the skin off Nel's hand through over-zealous comforting. Only the credit card slip left to sign before we were on our way down the aisle.
I rather cleverly recognised that the minister was French due to observing the fact that his French accent was so thick, it was hard to understand what he was saying. The "Wedding March" (choral version) started up, and we moved on down the aisle. At this point it would be customary to make references to it being "The Longest Walk Imaginable" but as I am not prone to exaggeration (sic.), I won't, though mainly because it would take a greater author than myself to promote the 15-foot stroll as such. The choir hardly got time to sing "Here..." before we were.
The sermon was surprisingly solemn, moving and religious, with Jean-Claude making frequent references to "Gerd's 'andboook ze Bib-el". After asking me if I did, he turned to Becky and, reading what she 'ad, I mean "had", written, asked her before asking Nel. Thank "Gerd" they both did too. As he pronounced us badly, sorry, as he pronounced us "Man and Wife and a Family", a CD Elvis helped to push back the tears with his version of "Viva Las Vegas". Amid further tears, congratulations, hugs and handshakes, the photographer (SAS trained) managed to get in, take the 8 photos we were entitled to and leave again without being seen. Unfortunately, he turned out to be a better SWAT member than photographer, but let's not spoil the moment.
Outside we had a few more piccies, though none truly did justice to my beautiful new bride (It's OK, I'm allowed to be mushy sometimes, Jean-Claude said so!). Our favourite, under the neon chapel sign, by now seen by half the Western World is also to be included in an alternative Internet Guide to Vegas that the Chauffeur has under construction. Rather cleverly, Neleh had her copy of "OK" magazine in her handbag, along with the innumerable redundant papers proving we were whom we said we were. We had the same shot done again, OK mag substituting Nel's bouquet in the hopes of getting onto their back pages (as yet no news but no bad feelings either, I mean would you have chosen some overweight tart on a parasail in Marbella over the marriage of the Mafia-sunglassed us!? You would? Oh. We haven't given up hope yet, they're probably saving it for a special edition, one where the Beckhams ARE'NT in it.).
The really weird thing was that everyone we met, passed, saw at a distance congratulated us. It was really lovely and made us feel as special as we were (are?).
We were driven back to the MGM for more congrats and Champagne in the room where, after opening cards and presents from people we didn't even know (!) our virtual best man (a Mr Roger Metcalfe, late of Slovenia - in fact, late of a lot of things- and unable to be there in person) performed a wonderful "Tribute" and made the toast to the Bride and Groom and Becky.
We then set off for a less successful beginning to dinner at the Rainforest Cafe (but, as before, let's not spoil this moment either), culminating in a delicious, champagne accompanied meal (our own, I hasten to add!). As a footnote to this problematic beginning to the repast, I emailed them to complain. I received a polite letter of apology by post, explaining that they answer every letter personally; it began "Dear Mrs Norcomb".
Around 11pm we headed up to bed alone as Becky was spending the night with my parents. At this point, the camera zooms in on the empty plastic champagne flutes and goes to fade.
The following morning, my wife and I (still sounds odd!) headed off Downtown to get the apostille, required by German law to prove you are married, from the German Consulate in East Desert Inn Road. The taxi driver, looking like a lost surf bum, waxed lyrical about the North Gulf Coast of Florida, very pleasing and appropriate, as this was our honeymoon destination. We dropped into the Candlelight Wedding Chapel to pick up the video (YES! The video) and buy, just to round off the modern cliché (Been there, done that, bought the...), two T-shirts (1 for $15, 2 for $25) with "We were married at the Candlelight Wedding Chapel Las Vegas" on the back.
Desert Inn Road was more reminiscent of "Leaving Las Vegas" with Nicholas Cage than of "Love in Las Vegas" with Ann Margaret and Mr Presley. The kind of place where the neighbours talk about you if you're not dealing Crack. The Consulate itself, more like a pawn broker than government office (sorry, "Bureau"). A small room facing the main drag, with grubby net curtains and a selection of artefacts recalling the "Old Country" dotted rustically if not somewhat anachronistically around the place.
The roost is ruled by Frau Sommer a bottle blonde, chain-smoking, hay-fever suffering 50 year-old, weighing at least 3lb less without her jewellery and whose make-up kit must have included a trowel. She was wearing sunglasses. She had a very good command of English, with a penchant for the word "stoopit", which she used freely relishing each extra vowel with every utterance. The apostille was "stoopit", her hay-fever was "stoopit", German law was "stoopit", even Germany itself was referred to by her own personal favourite adjective. We paid our $70 and were about to leave, when a young, trendy, German couple appeared in the doorway also wanting an apostille for the marriage they had celebrated the previous evening. There was a slight problem as the couple had only got the license from the County Clerk; they hadn't actually got married. After some discussion, they were sent packing and went off to finish the job. As soon as the door closed they were added to Frau Sommer's list of the "stoopit". This was probably aided by them asking where they could get married. It's Vegas, the answer was, of course: Anywhere & Everywhere!
The rest of the day we spent in and around Freemont Street. There's Black Jack and Poker and the Roulette wheel, a fortune won and lost on every deal, and the $5 we had each didn't last long However, we did enjoy the free drinks and having our photos taken with a "real Show Girl" - which is US English "for a bored young lady of questionable repute who, having failed the interview at McDonalds for forgetting her lines "and would you like fries with that", decided to take the job in a last gasp attempt to earn enough to supplement her cocaine habit".
Then it was back to the pool before a short nap. I spent this time trying to get Becky's pencils, which had got left behind inadvertently. It took an hour and a half which I spent with "Duane the Slob" from Deliverance county. How did I know his name? It was tattooed on his arm ("Duane" not "Duane the Slob") and something told me that it wasn't the name of his lover. Still, Duane got us a couple of tickets to the EFX show, starring the ever-so-famous-honestly "Tommy Tunes" for the following night.
That evening we went off to see Caesar's Palace, view Venice, peruse Paris and have front row seats in Denny's to watch the Mirage erupt every 15 minutes as we ate.
Back at the MGM we collapsed, ready to enjoy our last "Grand Day" in Vegas before flying across to more calming climes. It was spent blobbing around the pool; the first photos came back, including the one you've seen. After dinner we all headed down to the theatre to watch Tommy Tunes tell us how famous he is, then it was tearful goodbyes as we were to leave early the next morning.
Well, there you have it, see what you missed! The best wedding I have ever had. And how many people leave Vegas with so much more than they came with?
The next two-and-a-bit weeks were spent among pelicans, mangroves, egrets and dolphins, all reached by means of a huge, silver Chrysler Sebring convertible, but that's another story...
ADDENDUM, as of 13th march 2004 (The Chairman's birthday):
and then they bugger off without warning leaving you feeling guilty for their kids.
Flight LH456 left Frankfurt at 10.35 am, CET, with champagne thrown in (served might be more appropriate, actually) by a steward, for Los Angeles International. For those not geographically inclined, LA is a long way from Germany, I mean, you might think it's a long way to Tipperary, but that's just a skip and a jump compared to LA! If on the other hand you're a seasoned traveller, it's merely an inconvenient day out.
What with the stop over there before the connecting flight (UA2560 for the plane spotters among you) we were on the go almost 23 hours before finally reaching the city that never sleeps (oh, no, that's New York), I mean the city that turns day into night-time, turning night into daytime (if you see it once, you'll never be the same again... all join in the chorus!).
Las Vegas (" the fields", though God knows why, there isn't a patch of grass to be seen anywhere!) has done some considerable growing since my last visit. The Strip was almost unrecognisable south of Caesar's Palace with the new hotels that have been sown and blossomed. I heard that it was growing at a rate of 6000 inhabitants per month... PER MONTH! I mean to say, 6000, that's almost as many people squashed onto the 6:43 train we get to work each day!
We stayed at the MGM Grand ("and have a GRAND day!") reputedly the largest hotel in the World, a bed for each of the 6000 new Vegas residents. Where else could your hotel room have a view of the New York City skyline, Mandalay bay and Excalibur? The hotel itself has a river running round outside and more Betty Boop souvenirs than you could wave a stick at.
There was no word from the chapel when we arrived... oh. We spent the Saturday lazing around in the wonderful hot, dry desert air and splashing about in the wonderful cool wet river. An early evening nap ensured Becky's co-operation for the later evening jaunt by monorail to Bally's and the gaudy lights of the Strip.
The next day, traditional Mothering Sunday all but forgotten by the excitement-smothering Monday, we breakfasted by the pool (clock change also forgotten). My Mum & Dad arrived from the Mirage around 10:30. The rest of the day was spent doing lots of nothing in preparation for The Big Day! Speaking of The Big Day, we still hadn't heard from the chapel but there again, what was the panic, after all, we weren't actually getting married for another 24 hours. I decided to ring them:
Me: "Hi, is that the Candlelight Wedding Chapel?"
CWC: "That's right, hi Mei, how are you doing, looking forward to tomorrow?" - How the Hell did they know it was me?! After all, they're the ones with an accent, not us!
Me: "Fine, and yes. We were just wondering about that actually, what's going to happen tomorrow?"
CWC: "You're getting married!" - A joker, great!
Me: "Er, yes, I mean how!"
CWC: "Well the limo driver will give you a ring about 10 minutes before he gets there, about 4.15 p.m."
ME: "We haven't even got a license yet, actually" (notice the Trans-Atlantic spelling of "licence" to aid understanding.)
CWC: "Oh," Here it comes, the dream is over, honeymoon first, wedding after "well in that case, make it 3.45 then, he'll take you to the County Clerk on the way here. Have you got all the necessary?" Ah, no, THIS is it, hopes dashed, shattered on the floor, glittering in the mocking neon of the Bright Light City!
Me: "What necessary do you mean exactly?"
CWC: "Thirty-five Dollars."
Me: "Is that it?"
CWC: "Cash." (Now that must be dodgy!) "See you tomorrow then!" Yeah, sure, and have a Grand day.
The next day, Monday, 3 April, was our zeroeth wedding anniversary. Until 2pm, we spent it by the pool again. Mum kept saying, "This isn't right you know, you're getting married in (6, 5, 4) hours, we should be panicking!". Dad obliged.
We went up to get ready at 2. I noticed a particular dearth of socks. OK, so I had a pair of thick hiking socks (well you never know when they might come in handy!) and a rather fetching white sport pair with blue stripes around the top. So I had the choice, go as Michael Jackson, have very hot feet or the Don Johnson look... I decided to run down to "Studio Walk" and attempt to buy a pair.
Now that may seem a relatively simple task but it was quite a foot, I mean "feat". Either Las Vegians don't wear socks or the tourist don't flock there to buy them. Probably the latter as you don't hear many people talking about having lost their socks at the roulette table, come to think of it. Anyhow, after much frantic searching (and a small round lady's persistent help) the day was saved. I even bought 2 pairs, just in case the contents settled during transit. I got back to the room to see Neleh looking resplendent without her dress and proceeded to put on my silver suit. In the inside jacket pocket were my socks.
Neleh looked marvellous, a dream in pink satin, a cross of pearls decorating her neck. Becky looked very pretty in her Woolworth's dress ("You DID say I could have ANY dress I wanted!") and I guess I looked OK too. Mum & Dad arrived at the door. My father, in his new suit ("It'll do for funerals too!"), probably more nervous than me; my mother wearing what could only be described as "A Wedding Outfit". A deep blue dress, matching shoes, handbag, hat and gloves (well after all, it can fall below 95 F in the Desert!).
3:44 and the phone still hadn't rung! 3:45, the phone rang. "See you outside the main lobby in 10 minutes!" - Cue Mission Impossible music, as the team headed for the exit. (Dum ti dum ti dumdum, dum ti dum ti dumdum, etc to fade).
The Limousine deserved to be capitalised! A hundred foot long, snow white with Mafia-style black windows and gaudy gold writing announcing "Candlelight Wedding Chapel", all done in the best possible taste. I'm not being sarcastic here, I really believe it was the best possible taste, I didn't claim it was good taste, just the best possible!
The driver took us to the Clarke County County clerk where we made our way past the variety of people who always seem to hang around government offices, no matter which country you're in, following the makeshift paper signs to the marriage licence (that T-Atlantic "c" again!) bureau (there don't seem to have offices in the States, I mean, it's not the FOI now, is it?). We "stood in line" (being careful not to "queue" and give away national secrets) after filling out what could only be described as a betting slip (with points such as: "If previously married, give approximate date of divorce.") until it was our turn to meet "Norma". Of course, having lived in one of the most bureaucratic (as opposed to "officratic") countries of Europe, we came prepared with everything from driver's license (UK ones) to birth certificates and beyond. What did Norma want from us? Well, apart from questioning our ability to spell our own names, $35, in cash. And that was that, marital bliss, there we went. The Limo floated over in time to avert another minor heart attack, and we bundled in for the trip to the chapel (Mum looking like an extra from "Royal Garden Party, The Movie" and Dad, by this time, in possession of an unusually large amount of thumbs and unable to operate the video camera). When we arrived I had practically rubbed the skin off Nel's hand through over-zealous comforting. Only the credit card slip left to sign before we were on our way down the aisle.
I rather cleverly recognised that the minister was French due to observing the fact that his French accent was so thick, it was hard to understand what he was saying. The "Wedding March" (choral version) started up, and we moved on down the aisle. At this point it would be customary to make references to it being "The Longest Walk Imaginable" but as I am not prone to exaggeration (sic.), I won't, though mainly because it would take a greater author than myself to promote the 15-foot stroll as such. The choir hardly got time to sing "Here..." before we were.
The sermon was surprisingly solemn, moving and religious, with Jean-Claude making frequent references to "Gerd's 'andboook ze Bib-el". After asking me if I did, he turned to Becky and, reading what she 'ad, I mean "had", written, asked her before asking Nel. Thank "Gerd" they both did too. As he pronounced us badly, sorry, as he pronounced us "Man and Wife and a Family", a CD Elvis helped to push back the tears with his version of "Viva Las Vegas". Amid further tears, congratulations, hugs and handshakes, the photographer (SAS trained) managed to get in, take the 8 photos we were entitled to and leave again without being seen. Unfortunately, he turned out to be a better SWAT member than photographer, but let's not spoil the moment.
Outside we had a few more piccies, though none truly did justice to my beautiful new bride (It's OK, I'm allowed to be mushy sometimes, Jean-Claude said so!). Our favourite, under the neon chapel sign, by now seen by half the Western World is also to be included in an alternative Internet Guide to Vegas that the Chauffeur has under construction. Rather cleverly, Neleh had her copy of "OK" magazine in her handbag, along with the innumerable redundant papers proving we were whom we said we were. We had the same shot done again, OK mag substituting Nel's bouquet in the hopes of getting onto their back pages (as yet no news but no bad feelings either, I mean would you have chosen some overweight tart on a parasail in Marbella over the marriage of the Mafia-sunglassed us!? You would? Oh. We haven't given up hope yet, they're probably saving it for a special edition, one where the Beckhams ARE'NT in it.).
The really weird thing was that everyone we met, passed, saw at a distance congratulated us. It was really lovely and made us feel as special as we were (are?).
We were driven back to the MGM for more congrats and Champagne in the room where, after opening cards and presents from people we didn't even know (!) our virtual best man (a Mr Roger Metcalfe, late of Slovenia - in fact, late of a lot of things- and unable to be there in person) performed a wonderful "Tribute" and made the toast to the Bride and Groom and Becky.
We then set off for a less successful beginning to dinner at the Rainforest Cafe (but, as before, let's not spoil this moment either), culminating in a delicious, champagne accompanied meal (our own, I hasten to add!). As a footnote to this problematic beginning to the repast, I emailed them to complain. I received a polite letter of apology by post, explaining that they answer every letter personally; it began "Dear Mrs Norcomb".
Around 11pm we headed up to bed alone as Becky was spending the night with my parents. At this point, the camera zooms in on the empty plastic champagne flutes and goes to fade.
The following morning, my wife and I (still sounds odd!) headed off Downtown to get the apostille, required by German law to prove you are married, from the German Consulate in East Desert Inn Road. The taxi driver, looking like a lost surf bum, waxed lyrical about the North Gulf Coast of Florida, very pleasing and appropriate, as this was our honeymoon destination. We dropped into the Candlelight Wedding Chapel to pick up the video (YES! The video) and buy, just to round off the modern cliché (Been there, done that, bought the...), two T-shirts (1 for $15, 2 for $25) with "We were married at the Candlelight Wedding Chapel Las Vegas" on the back.
Desert Inn Road was more reminiscent of "Leaving Las Vegas" with Nicholas Cage than of "Love in Las Vegas" with Ann Margaret and Mr Presley. The kind of place where the neighbours talk about you if you're not dealing Crack. The Consulate itself, more like a pawn broker than government office (sorry, "Bureau"). A small room facing the main drag, with grubby net curtains and a selection of artefacts recalling the "Old Country" dotted rustically if not somewhat anachronistically around the place.
The roost is ruled by Frau Sommer a bottle blonde, chain-smoking, hay-fever suffering 50 year-old, weighing at least 3lb less without her jewellery and whose make-up kit must have included a trowel. She was wearing sunglasses. She had a very good command of English, with a penchant for the word "stoopit", which she used freely relishing each extra vowel with every utterance. The apostille was "stoopit", her hay-fever was "stoopit", German law was "stoopit", even Germany itself was referred to by her own personal favourite adjective. We paid our $70 and were about to leave, when a young, trendy, German couple appeared in the doorway also wanting an apostille for the marriage they had celebrated the previous evening. There was a slight problem as the couple had only got the license from the County Clerk; they hadn't actually got married. After some discussion, they were sent packing and went off to finish the job. As soon as the door closed they were added to Frau Sommer's list of the "stoopit". This was probably aided by them asking where they could get married. It's Vegas, the answer was, of course: Anywhere & Everywhere!
The rest of the day we spent in and around Freemont Street. There's Black Jack and Poker and the Roulette wheel, a fortune won and lost on every deal, and the $5 we had each didn't last long However, we did enjoy the free drinks and having our photos taken with a "real Show Girl" - which is US English "for a bored young lady of questionable repute who, having failed the interview at McDonalds for forgetting her lines "and would you like fries with that", decided to take the job in a last gasp attempt to earn enough to supplement her cocaine habit".
Then it was back to the pool before a short nap. I spent this time trying to get Becky's pencils, which had got left behind inadvertently. It took an hour and a half which I spent with "Duane the Slob" from Deliverance county. How did I know his name? It was tattooed on his arm ("Duane" not "Duane the Slob") and something told me that it wasn't the name of his lover. Still, Duane got us a couple of tickets to the EFX show, starring the ever-so-famous-honestly "Tommy Tunes" for the following night.
That evening we went off to see Caesar's Palace, view Venice, peruse Paris and have front row seats in Denny's to watch the Mirage erupt every 15 minutes as we ate.
Back at the MGM we collapsed, ready to enjoy our last "Grand Day" in Vegas before flying across to more calming climes. It was spent blobbing around the pool; the first photos came back, including the one you've seen. After dinner we all headed down to the theatre to watch Tommy Tunes tell us how famous he is, then it was tearful goodbyes as we were to leave early the next morning.
Well, there you have it, see what you missed! The best wedding I have ever had. And how many people leave Vegas with so much more than they came with?
The next two-and-a-bit weeks were spent among pelicans, mangroves, egrets and dolphins, all reached by means of a huge, silver Chrysler Sebring convertible, but that's another story...
ADDENDUM, as of 13th march 2004 (The Chairman's birthday):
and then they bugger off without warning leaving you feeling guilty for their kids.
