Love American Style

Ah, Rome - the eternal city - the city of seven hills and narrow streets, with its gelato and old-school accordian music. Romance leaks from every Venusian antiquity.

Oh, New York - the city that never sleeps, where carts of roast chestnuts perfume Rockerfeller Plaza; where Central Park steals your heart and only gives it back on a 100th-floor observation deck.

<sigh>  Paris - the aspiration of every heart-sick romantic and enraptured poet. All of Cupid's converts while away the languid hours dreaming of the Seine, of croissants and the Champs-Élysées.

Those lost in love may be among us in the flesh but they are not with us in spirit. Their bodies may be here, slumped apathetically, ambivelantly, their eyes raised, gazing at the moon. But their hearts are not. They are there - somewhere - somewhere out there. Those who can rarely linger in their malaise, but take up love's prompting and journey to where their hearts already abide. But those without the means or freedom, those of us who can't just jump an Air FROHNSS to gay PAH-REE, need not despair. Love in all its many incarnations lies near and waiting - a mere 5 hours away. Viva Las Vegas! 

N, getting into the Vegas spirit

About a month ago (but who worries about time when love is in the air) Stacy's cousin Laura finally made her long-time beau Allan a respectable man. The two cinched the deal in our covetted Paris de l'Ouest and the whole Harris clan converged to be a part of it. The wedding was on a Saturday, so we drove up on Friday and had most of the afternoon to kick back and relax.

The ceremony was held in a grotto at Caesar's Palace with an en-templed Venus and Apollo looking on benevolently. Laura was beautiful, Allan dashing. The assembled crowd could have been mistaken for a Roman Senate subcommittee, we all looked so dapper. (We just all needed togas to tie it all together...)

After the ceremony the reception gathered at "Strip Burger," named, I assure you, for its location rather than its waitress's proclivities. Here the love of a man for his wife was aptly echoed by the love of a man for things made with beef. It was a large and vivacious crowd and the open air patio was an ideal locale for L and N and all the mini-cousins (an energetic lot) to attack and destroy - like Visigoths upon Rome, or perhaps like men with barrets and baggettes singing on Parisian barricades.

To have and to hold, from this day forth...

Cousins, cousins, everywhere!

It was a very enjoyable reception - evidently for some more than others. Cupid, having wrapped up his earlier responsibilities with Laura and Allan, seems to have realized his case load was a little light and decided he needed to stoke up his business. Being invisible, we never actually saw them, but it is clear from empirical evidence that Cupid's arrows were indeed flying thoughout the course of the reception, and striking their targets with deadly precision.

Awww, dude!!!

On Sunday we resisted the Harris obsession with getting up at the crack of dawn to hit I-15 back to L.A. before the rest of L.A. does, and took advantage of the opportunity to explore the local sites. Hoover Dam seemed the perfect combo of engineering geekiness for me, and height-induced panic attacks for Stacy to be the ideal day trip!

Gooooooooooooooaaal!!!

The Harris early-morning flight instinct is not without its merits. We wrapped up what I will refrain from referring to as our "best dam adventure ever" around noon and after a surprisingly appealing Taco Bell midday siesta, began our long journey home. The roadpack was pretty dense and we got about a 45-minute look at the world's largest thermometer as we stewed at a stand-still in Baker. (That was only about 44.8 minutes longer than you really need in Baker.) Finally traffic started up again and soon was cruising at a jaunty 10 to 15 miles per hour. As soon as we edged clear of the final Baker exit - yes, for some inexplicable reason there really are more than one - L reminded us she is a girl with all the various bladder timing fiascos that go along with that gender. "Hold on L," we assured her, "we'll stop at the next exit." Forty minutes (and probably four miles) later as we were getting full-on thrash dancing in the back seat we finally found an off-ramp. There was nothing remotely hospitible on either side of the freeway, but hospitality is vastly overrated when you're seven and tanked up on an all-you-can-drink Taco Bell beverage bar. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.