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Alomes’ last dance
It seemed quite appropriate, Lou Reed’s Perfect Day thumping out of the Merlin Beach Hotel’s PA system on the lawn overlooking the sea. Two signs announced that a section of the beach was closed in preparation for a wedding in the evening and, from the engineering department, a man was perched precariously on a ladder tying fabric and floral adornments to a wooden, ceremonial gazebo. In front of him, a woman was fixing off-white silk ribbons, knotted in bows, to twenty-five or so chairs and further back, small teams of hotel staff were setting up a floral archway and potted plants, tables for food and a bar, coloured lights, and a small wooden dance floor. It was, perhaps, the hottest day since our arrival and, for the first time in a week, not a sign of storm clouds on the horizon. Indeed, the perfect day.
A cool sea breeze blew in late afternoon to temper the heat of the day and, after a cue that the bride was on her way, the already gathered guests took their seats; family on each side of the aisle and the Western Australian miners in the back pews. Seath, handsome in pale grey suit, white shirt and white shoes, waited only a short time centre-stage for the bride to arrive. Escorted by her father, Nicole looked radiant in a long, flowing, strapless, ivory, raw silk gown and bouquet of cream and green. There was no turning back and certainly no objection from the crowd when the celebrant asked the traditional question of whether anyone knew of any reason why the two should not be joined in marriage. Speak now or forever hold your peace.
It could hardly have been more idyllic, against the beach backdrop and with the sun setting, in a mere twenty minutes Nicole Alomes became Nicole Churton. Then the photographs, thousands of them at a guess, and from every conceivable angle, on the lawn, on the beach and with the various blended, extended and even traditional family shots.
Entrees, Thai dishes of squid, spring rolls, fish cakes and spicy beef, were followed by entertaining speeches from Nicole’s father Peter, Seath’s father Vic and then Kaelene, the mother of the groom, who had firmly rejected the protocol of turning up, shutting up and wearing beige. She claimed naming rights for any prospective children and guardianship of their nationality. Toasts were washed down by the Moet Kaelene had brought at Sydney airport and had resisted sampling in the ten days we had already been here.
The mains comprised Thai curries, delicious seafood and rice, and then there were a few more speeches, including from Josh Cavanagh, who had a suit tailor-made for the occasion, such are the benefits of coming to Thailand. Next was the lighting of the lanterns on the beach. Like little hot air cylinders, perhaps four feet high and heated by paraffin lamps, the lanterns were lit, held until the air inside had sufficiently heated and then, to signify new beginnings, released into the night sky. Last seen, they were floating into the distance, hundreds of feet in the air.
Desert of fresh fruits and the cutting of the wedding cake preceded dancing, drinking, singing and simply settling in and yarning under, by-then, a starry sky. Lou Reed returned on the PA, by then a perfect night.
And then it was over. Next morning, at breakfast, we looked out from the hotel restaurant. Not a sign remained of the wedding, aside from the beach closed signs lying against a coconut tree. More than fifteen months of anticipation and meticulous preparation were over in just a few hours. It was as if nothing had happened, that is apart from the do not disturb sign on the newlyweds door.