Countdown to W-Day: Thursday, May 5

This is the story of the epic (if we may say so ourselves) Ixapa wedding of Edouard and Camelia, seen through the eyes of the latter.

Chapter 6: Last Days & Nights as Bachelor/Bachelorette

Thursday is a big day. Oh, yeah, baby! My bridesmaids are here! Tonight is my real bachelorette party!!! (I already had a pseudo-bachelorette party in San Francisco, with girlfriends who couldn't make it to Mexico, with the very notable exception of Ms. Meghan). Today we have our casual photo session (i wake up worried about what to wear, vanity getting the best of me). And, of course, today arrives most of Ed's family from France. Big day, so a big breakfast is absolutely required. 

We head to the restaurant and play musical chairs for a while until we can accommodate as many people as close to us as we can, and then devour half of the enormous buffet. The other half is kidnapped by the little black birds. Then we all scatter according to priorities: some folks head out to yoga, others to the pool bar, the majority to the beach, where we talk nonstop like chatterboxes that we are, catching up on gossip and East-European politics. Vio and Didi, as the only Romanian speakers, get more than their fair share of Mamma Draga, who is unstoppable when it comes to expressing contempt and spewing offenses towards the Romanian political class. Not that she's wrong, but she's way too intense. So we placate her by slipping her a Pina Colada. 

Later on, we get a massage on the beach, side by side, listening to the waves. Somewhere in the background someone is screaming and I can only hope it's not Ed parasailing. Turns out that as soon as I get out of the tent, he's getting ready to be strapped into the parasailing gear, head-camera already mounted.

Taking off gracefully, as though he was born with a parachute strapped to his back.

I warn him about the difficulties of having a casual photo shoot with two broken legs, but he waves cheerily from 30 feet high and climbing. I try to shoot the ascent, but either I've had too many Pinas, or my camera can't read my thoughts, because it turns out it's not on. I do my best to film the descent in detail, to try to make up for it…

The friendsies, the friendsies are here!!

Slowly the day slips by. More friends arrive, including Mrs. Shannon Moon, straight from Bali, looking hot like a Billabong model. Before we know it, it's almost 7:00 PM and we have to meet the photographer. 

I run upstairs, throw on my white skirt that is too elegant to be worn on the beach, an old red tank top and, because my flip-flops gave me massive blisters - my white tennis shoes. I also dab on a little makeup and I am stunned by the effect. A little bit of tan goes a long way - I'm reminded, as I put on about a quarter of what I would need to look decent on any morning before work in shady San Francisco. To think about it, SF is really the opposite of Monaco: Shady place for sunny people :-). I meet Ed downstairs, who, under strict directions, is wearing nice linen slacks and a cool yet elegant short-sleeved white shirt  that had been kept for the occasion in my dresser. I've seen the man eating before to know better than trust him with a white shirt and no adult supervision :-)) 

As we are greeting the photographer(s) in the lobby, we also stumble upon Ed's aunt and uncle from France, as well as two separate pairs of his Dad's cousins. We get to talking and for the first time I start feeling the pressure of switching between languages. The first few days, Romanian and Spanish were not a big deal; then, English became necessary again, still manageable, especially after a few beers - but now, if you throw in French to the mix - and I do my absolute best, I want to be a good host - things are getting really mixed up in my head. Also, I'm sober, since I'm trying to avoid the usual cross-eyed pose I take in photos when I drink. That is also affecting the quick switch between idioms. Aunt Francoise has many questions and Oncle Henry switches between firedrill French and impeccable Spanish faster than I ca keep track. I'm breaking into a sweat, and that's when i tug (gently, so not to crease it) at Ed's sleeve, to signal that we need to move. Eventually we do, but by then i seriously wonder about the integrity of my makeup. If i look like I'm feeling, we're in trouble, and these photos are for eternity…

We jumped whenever the photographer coaxed us with fresh fish.
No, wait, that was at the Delphinarium.

The casual session turns out to be very serious in the way it's conducted. Edison makes us smile, laugh, roll around in the grass, play peek-aboo amongst palm trees, hold hands, run, duck, dodge and jump. It feels very bootcamp-y. 

Real professional stuff, like rolling in the grass...

And rehearsing the big dramatic kiss on the beach.

And all this time, people stare at us like we're part of a gypsy dancing bear show. One kid even throws a lolipop at us. A lolipop! An hour and a half later, we are exhausted and can't feel our facial muscles anymore. Still holding hands, we go to the restaurant to grab dinner and we are finally faced with that most frightful situation of having to split up and entertain guests. 

Our timing is definitely not perfect: we're both sweaty from camp photo op and starving, while our guests are dressed to the nines, have already had dinner and are ready to party. I find dinner a bit stressful, what with trying to accommodate conflicting attention demands and multiple language tracks, and i also have a small panic attack because I realize none of Ed's relatives knows any of our other guests. So I do what any woman would do in my place: run as fast as i can to lock myself in my room and throw on a nicer dress…. On my way there I bump into my three bridesmaids, who are looking absolutely gorgeous and holding a big pink Victoria's Secret box. We cross paths as they exit the elevator and I (on turbojet mode) enter it, but i try to give them a loving look that conveys how much I appreciate them being there for me. From the look in their eyes I'm guessing what I conveyed is closer to desperation, but the doors close and I'm on my way up. Smart women that they are, they don't follow me, which is great because i get to the room, and for the first time in five days I am alone! Completely alone. Just me, the mugshot of Osama Bin Laden on TV and a swan made out of a towel resting on the bed. I take a deep breath and start the de/re-construction project. 

For this special occasion I had saved a shiny leopard-print number (really, it sounds worse that it is) that my mom had bought for me a long time ago. Luckily, with the weather being what it is in San Francisco, I was never tempted to wear it, so it's practically brand-new - if you don't count that Minoush played Tarzan and Jane in my closet using it as a swinging vine. The damage was visible, but not serious enough to deter me from wearing it. I put on some more makeup and slick my hair back in a tight bun (which I almost never do, but the heat, combined with the sweat and the liquor vapors will make any hair slick anyway, as I learnt last night). I throw in a pair of grey crystal studs that I'd purchased in the Munich airport 5 months ago and the result is - well, or so I think - positively French! Now I'm read to face the lions! So i head back to the restaurant, where, to my relief, everybody is getting along just dandy. Hm, maybe I'm part of the problem and not the solution, after all. 

Ksew is in charge of making sure my glass is never empty. Let's just say she is as consciencious about it as she used to be about macro midterms in college. 

After a few more pleasantries, the girls make me open the VS box, which contains - surprise-suprise - underwear with sequins, a skimpy white "sexy little bride" top that Ksew makes perfectly clear I need to wear in public sometime before getting married. And, of course, a nice little gaudy plastic crown. Clearly, my bridesmaids came prepared. We all head out to the discoteca, where we are greeted by bartenders and cocktail waitresses who expect us to put on a show again tonight - and we can't possibly let them down. 

The gorgeous ladies at the perennial Discoteca

It's sort of a funny situation because my future husband is present and having a grand time on my bachelorette party - which is not lost on Ksew and Eric (whom most of us know as Homes), who jointly decide that he deserves to get drunk. Not just really drunk, or black-out drunk, but happy-baby-posing, butt naked walking around the hotel and knocking on people's doors - drunk. Which they do. For full details, please talk to the two individuals in question, or to Ed's aunt Francoise who had the opportunity to get to know her nephew a little better than she ever wanted to. My lips are S-E-A-L-E-D.

The core team proceeds to play nurses/sushi chefs with toilet paper and Mexican hot nuts

The rest of us party until we are thrown out of the discoteca again (I see a pattern here) by bleary-eyed guards and proceed (mainly me and Ana) to take a dip in the pool, which, again, is strictly prohibited. The temperature of the water is absolutely perfect and the only thing that gets us out of it is the guard telling us that they put all sorts of dangerous chemicals in in to clean it overnight. I' shudder at the thought that I may have to walk down the isle looking green, but, drunk as i am, i quickly shrug it off. A shrunken cohort - namely Monika, Ana, Ksew, Meghan, Kelly, Shannon and Eric - proceed to the grils' quarters and party on till 5:00 am or so, when we finally pass out.

Shhh!.. little leopard is taking a nap.

 I do believe Kelly escorts me to my room - god bless her - because i seem to remember a tall blond angel opening the door for me after several failed attempts on my part. If it wasn't her, I may have had my first episode of liquor-induced dementia. So, i really hope it was her.

This time around, Mom doesn't even register that I came home. I instantly pass out, happy that none of my feet or toes were broken in the process of celebrating my last days as a single woman.