About 6 months into wedding planning, richard and I decided we should just “elope”. Not really elope, because it wasn’t a secret, but have a simplified destination wedding. I have Dom Perignon taste on a Natty Lite budget. I was trying to put on a Beyoncé-esque production with dollar tree DIYs. It wasn’t going accordingly, as you can imagine. But alas, my husband was the voice of reason. He was all “it’s about the marriage not the wedding”…. makes since. So in the end we decided to head to the Virgin Islands and get hitched. Because the beach is my happy place, margaritas are my kryptonite, and reggae is the soundtrack of my soul. I know what you’re thinking, budget???? but getting married in the Virgin Islands was extremely reasonable compared to the 25-30k price tags most weddings boast.
My family was coming along and when they got there they were greeted by their travel agent at the ferry dock. The ferry dock can get a little chaotic, with a mixture of tourists, frequent flyers, and locals dispersing and congregating here and there, but thankfully there is Joe’s Rum Hut and they make the absolute best margarita. If you told me there was a better one, I would call you a liar. I could use some colorful adjectives to describe that margarita and the way it touches my soul, but I’ll keep it PG.
Anyways, their travel agent said there was a “little problem” with the rental they had booked. It was infested with bees! My sister is highly allergic to bees. I mean I wasn’t there, but I can see my mother’s face when they said that and I’m sure it was hysterical.
The travel agent said, “well, there’s only one other rental available and so we have to put you there”. They really thought they were going straight to the slumps, but they were wrong…
I’m sure they were all moaning and groaning and eyes rolling as the travel agent drove them to their “make shift” housing. Thinking their vacation was going to be ruined. My mom was probably cussing, sloshing a margarita around as she waved her hands talking smack (I had to get it from someone). I would’ve loved to have been a fly on the wall when they got driven to the top of the cliff in Peter Bay and pulled in to the gated community only to realize they were going to be living like Billionaires for the week. (Okay maybe just millionaires, or hundreds of thousands-aires but for title’s sake, Billionaires)
These lucky dogs get taken to a palace. I’m not being dramatic(for once).
It was a palace.
Y’all, I was waiting for Kenny Chesney to knock on the door and ask to borrow a cup of sugar.
It’s called the Cliff House because, well, it’s at the very top of the cliff with an infinity pool that meets the Caribbean over looking Cinnamon Bay, which is of course the beach we were going to be getting married on. It was the ultimate house on a hill.
This house was one in a million for these small town Alabamaians. I cried over the master bathroom. The fixtures and flooring were made of coral. It was a work of art, but the tears were mostly due to the fact that mine and my husband’s rental house had a compost toilet (not even going there at the moment).
For the remainder of the trip we spent most of our time at the house, because when would we ever spend a week in a house that normally costs $25,000 per week again? Never. Unless we hit the lottery, which my dad says won’t ever happen because all of our luck was spent, thanks to the bees. We sunbathed, danced on the bars, drank from the stocked mini fridge by the pool(okay we emptied that the first night), celebrated our marriage, and acted like the rich fools we weren’t.
Needless to say, I got my Dom Perignon wedding on my Natty Lite budget because the Lord works in mysterious ways and my sister gets hives. The End.