It was beautiful. It was everything we had wished for and more. We picked the places, the clothes, the words, the rings and sent out the invitations.
We were blessed with the weather, the skies were blue, the birds were chirping and the air was warm. We had fallen in love with this place when we first visited two years before. A magical place, over mountains and into a valley below.
But this magical place was not exactly convenient. It wasn't exactly the sort of place where they did weddings like ours often. In fact, we were the first. It wouldn't be easy getting the florist, the cake, the champagne & even the guests to this breathtaking place. But we knew it would all be worth it in the end. And to make it even more challenging, we were going to do it twice. One European wedding, one Moroccan wedding - within 3 days.
We had beautiful Moroccan roses. Morocco is famous for its roses. They lined the path, they lay on tables and they hung from the sky.
They encircled the Moroccan lanterns.
And we were surrounded by olive trees. We decided to use them too.
The food was delicious.
And cooked to perfection.
There was music.
And bellydancing.
And cake.
Chocolate mousse cake to be exact.
But it didn't all go as smooth as that chocolate mousse
cake.
Earlier on in the morning, in Bridal Headquarters, we were anxious, but on time. Hairdryers, curling irons, blusher brushes and cups of coffee in hand. Until there was a power cut. The sound of whirring hairdryers died away. Sitting in my dressing gown with sopping wet hair, I realized for the first time what it meant to get married in the mountains, far away from "modern civilization". Hmm, maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all? The power returned. No, it was going to be fine - we continued on. Then another power cut. Followed by a return, followed by another cut. I can get married with wet hair right? Somehow we got our hair dry, styled and make-up applied. And finally in Bridal HQ we were good to go.
We took the last of the ubiquitous black-and-white bridal photos as we prepared to get the show on the road.
Then we got a call. Bad news. At the time it seemed like the worst news in the world, okay that's an overreaction but I was on the verge of getting married and the bridezilla that lurks in each of us, just burst out uncontrollably when I heard - My fabulous Mr. T had not been so fabulous. He had forgotten his trousers! My sister recalls how she walked in, trying to find out what the hell was going on, to find him standing there in his shirt, tie, suit jacket, socks and boxer shorts - looking very sheepish and well, a bit scared. And rightly so!
We were an hour away from home. The guests had arrived and we needed to start. Getting married so far away in the mountains was now definitely starting to look like a bad idea. Did my irritation with him make me question whether or not we should get married? It certainly crossed my mind. Especially when I was asked if he could go ahead in jeans. However, after some creative suit swapping between his groomsmen and one of the guests my Dad had picked out from the crowd, he finally had a suit to wear, complete with trousers. I never imagined our something borrowed would be my husband-to-be's trousers.
So we eventually made it to the ceremony in all our finery, borrowed or otherwise.
There we met across the water. We made promises. We exchanged rings.
I forgot about the trousers.
We were pronounced husband and wife. We kissed.
And then we danced the night away.
A day later we were doing it all again but this time with henna.
And decorative wedding chairs.
And Moroccan caftans.
And Mr. T's trousers.
This is the story of when we got married that I hope one day we'll be able to tell our kids. The story of the Moroccan wedding in the mountains and the forgotten trousers.
