The wedding video.

For all our family and friends who couldn't make it to our wedding in Las Vegas (particularly since most of you couldn't travel to the states on short notice), here is a video of our wedding ceremony at A Special Memory Wedding Chapel, a quintessential Vegas wedding chapel, just a few blocks off the strip.

The ceremony was surprisingly quick, but the important part where Simon finally makes an honest woman out of me is in there.

Our wedding was really fun, which is what we wanted. As you all know, we aren't much for pomp and circumstance. In fact, rather than a civilized sip of champagne for our toasts, we did shots of ouzo (to honor our meeting in Greece and to get drunk cheaply and efficiently)!



So I am now Alicia Irene Getchell Dearn. And Fitzroy is now Fitzroy "the Fuzz" Dearn. He's lost a few names and I've gained one.

Fun fact: the wedding immediately after ours was for a couple in a biker gang. Unbeknownst to the chapel, the rival gang had a wedding immediately after that. The two rival gangs decided that being in the same church at the same time justified several stabbings. Awww, the romance. (And the irony! I'm sure God really likes it when people stab one another in church.)

Also for fun: a picture of me doing a little work before the wedding. Because a lawyer can always be billing. (Just kidding. I was working on wedding stuff.)

Simon the Monkey-Slayer.

Have I ever told you about the time when Simon was bit by a monkey?

He was driving in Thailand on his motorcycle when a gaggle of monkeys jumped out of the trees and onto a group of school children walking along the road in front of him. Most of the kids were able to fend off their rambunctious attackers, but one little girl with a clubbed foot and a banana in her sack was getting the worst of it. Simon jumped off the motorbike and grabbed the monkey by its tail, freeing the sobbing and frightened little girl.

The monkey turned on him, screeching, clawing and biting. It chomped down hard on Simon's forearm and wouldn't let go. Despite seeing his blood mixing with monkey spit and running down his hand, Simon calmly poked the dirty beast sharply in the eyes. The monkey let go and ran back into the woods. The children cheered him and began calling him, "hua petong nga whi," which is Thai for "Big white monkey slayer."

Simon suffered a severe a case of monkey fever about a week later, but has lived to tell the tale (which he leaves entirely to me, as he is too modest to brag about it). Indeed, Simon is so shy and modest about his celebrity status in Thailand, that he will almost certainly deny it to anyone who asks.

How did I learn about it, then? Simon told me once, over a static-y Turkish pay phone, "I got bit by a monkey." My mind scrambled to understand how he got bit by a monkey in Turkey.

"You got bit by a monkey!?!" I repeated incredulously. "Where? In Thailand?"

"No, I got bit by a mozzie. A mosquito." Simon laughed.

"I distinctly heard you say that you got bit by a monkey," I replied. "You can't take a statement like that back."

Several conversations later, I put together the rest of the monkey story.

Simon has a new monkey that he is slaying right now, which is what prompted the telling of this story on the Chronicles. He quit smoking a week ago. I'm very proud of him as he gets this monkey off his back. Admittedly, it has not been the easiest thing. Anyone who knows Simon at all, knows he loved his "rollies."

So, I need two things from all our friends and family: First, root for his success, please. We need all the support and silent good wishes we can get. Second, for any of our smoking friends, please note that Polar Bear is a strictly non-smoking boat, at least until Simon is safely beyond the danger of relapse.

Thanks!

Retro Chronicles: Camping in California

You haven’t lived until you’ve camped amongst the California redwoods in November.

Simon and I drove up from San Diego, through Sonoma Valley and into the Armstrong Redwoods during early November 2007. We came equipped with our three person tent, down sleeping bags, fruit, water, eggs, hotdogs, and a bottle of whiskey, all stuffed nicely into my rucksack. The weather was misty and overcast, but it stayed at a comfortable 60 degrees Fahrenheit. The drive up the mountain was beautiful as we left cell phone reception behind and curled slowly around massive trees.

We arrived at the state run campsite around 3 in the afternoon. The campsites were abandoned and we were able to choose the plot that we felt gave us the best view. There were no rangers in the stations and we paid our fees by leaving money in the appointed box in a damp envelope. I was surprised that we were able to pull my car straight into a space next to our site, as I’ve always had to hike into small campgrounds like this one before. I was also happy to see bathrooms with running water toilets and sinks. We had our camp pitched in about twenty minutes. The camp had a raccoon locker for the food, but no signs of bears. I hid the food away, but wondered if there were also going to be bears in the night, if they hadn’t started their hibernations.

As we put the finishing touches on Casa Getchell-Dearn, a forest ranger pulled up in a truck. “Are you going to camp tonight?” he asked, unable to hide the incredulity.

“Yes,” Simon replied. “It looks like we are the only ones, though.”

“Yeah, it’s not a busy time of year. We get a lot of people during the summer, but not in November. Just so you know, tomorrow morning at around 8 a.m., we’re going to start chipping these piles of wood.” The ranger pointed at piles around the campground of gathered debris from the forest. “It’s going to be an awful noise.”

“That’s OK. We need to get up early, anyway.”

The ranger headed back down the mountain road and we decided to hike up to a clearing, to watch the sun set. The place was silent except for our footfalls and conversation and the occasional bird twittering. After a short hike, we sat along a grassy, craggy clearing above the canopy of trees and swilled whiskey from the bottle. The sun set over the mountains, but was largely obscured by mist around the various peaks. The shadows around the mountains turned the air into deeper and deeper shades of blue and the air grew crisp. We decided to head back to camp and make fire.

On our way back into camp, I noticed a sign that asked that we not gather firewood from the forest, but rather purchase it from the rangers. We had not seen any rangers at the stations, however, and we needed to eat. Conveniently, the rangers had gathered wood up for us and left them in piles for the wood chippers. “We ought to help them out,” I suggested and we used a pile of chipping wood for fire. The fire quickly roared to life while we whittled sticks into points for hotdog roasting and fried some eggs.

Our peace and contentedness was supreme up in the mountains, miles away from anyone else. We shattered the silence by playing David Gray in my car stereo, loudly enough to hear while we stared at the fire and talked about random things, smug in the knowledge that the music could echo off the trees without anyone else hearing it. Falling back into silence, we sashayed off to an early bed.

Our deep, peaceful sleep in the mountain air was punctured only by the frisky chittering of raccoons, who were unable to get our food, despite their best efforts. That is, until the wood-chipper roared to life. Simon and I prefer our mornings to start late and with coffee. We grumbled at each other about the noise and buried our heads deep into our bags. Shockingly, despite the industrial screech of the chippers, which went on for two hours, we both fell back to sleep and did not rise again until after 10. Well rested, we broke camp and headed back down the mountain and into San Francisco. The last 24 hours had been sublime.

Retro Chronicles: Alicia and the Greek fishing boat.

An honest chronicle cannot have just the tales of heroism, triumph, awe and curiosities. They must also include the other, ubiquitous travel archetype: the tale of drunken shenanigans that might land you in a Turkish prison. For the sake of the Chronicles’ integrity, here is the story of Alicia G. and the Greek fishing boat.

The evening began like any other midsummer’s evening in Pythagoras, a small town on the island of Samos in the Dodecanese, Greece. It began with pre-dinner cocktails. Pre-dinner cocktails led to wine with dinner, which led to cocktails after dinner and then to shots. Alicia G. and her merry cohorts were enjoying the hot, dark night in an outdoor bar along the town’s marina just feet from the water. Opposite to them were boats of every kind moored up, side by side.

Late into the evening, Alicia’s dear friend, Liz F., handed Alicia a shot and said, “I bet you $2 that you won’t jump onto that fishing boat and bring me back the net.” She pointed to a small vessel a few feet away. Alicia G. carefully considered this proposal. Her pride had suffered enormously over the past year because Liz routinely proffered $2 bets that Alicia would not perform various feats of jackassery; Alicia always declined, causing Liz to regularly mock and taunt Alicia for lacking balls. On this occasion, however, enough liquid courage had been consumed for Alicia to surprise Liz. “OK,” she said, and marched immediately over to the boat.

Alicia G. gauged the distance between the small boat and the concrete quay to which it was tied. It appeared to be approximately two feet, with the boat rocking gently. Knowing that she was drunk and wearing high-heeled shoes, she endeavored to pull the boat closer using the mooring line. She tugged with all her weight and succeeded in bringing the boat slightly closer. However, as soon as she let go of the line, the boat drifted back out. She stood up again and wondered whether she should jump. Visions of falling into the water and cracking her head on the concrete danced in her brain. She stood up and shrugged at Liz, thinking that perhaps she would give up. But instead, in a sudden rush of bravery, she took a step back and made a flying leap into the boat.

Landing safely, relief flooded Alicia. She stood up and looked at her group of cohorts at the bar, who were all now watching intently. She leaned over and began gathering the fishing net, which turned out to be massive. Dropping the net and preparing to disembark, she shouted at Liz, “It’s too big.” Her words were barely out of her mouth when she saw a man sprint out of the darkness towards her and spring onto the boat. Stunned and nervous, Alicia put her hands up in a defensive gesture, gasping, “it was just a joke.”

The man, who was speaking Greek to her, used the opportunity to grab both her wrists with one hand and the mooring line with the other. He started to undo the mooring line with quick movements. He shouted in Greek down the quay. Convinced she was about to get arrested and tossed into a Greek prison, and realizing that she was caught in his strong grip and that escape was unlikely, Alicia tried to explain. “I wasn’t going to do anything. I was just kidding.” The Greek man laughed at her and continued shouting down the quay and pulling up the mooring lines.

Feeling helpless, Alicia was relieved when a dashing English sea captain emerged from the darkness and stood on the quay before her. Simon D. held his hand out to her. The Greek man let her hands go, still laughing. Alicia gratefully grabbed onto Simon and stepped out of the boat. It became apparent to her then that the Greek man never intended to apprehend her, but was enjoying the joke, too. She began to laugh sheepishly.

As she stepped off the boat, the crowd across the sidewalk erupted into applause. “You are bad ass,” Liz praised, running up to her. “That was awesome.” But she never paid Alicia her $2.

Epilogue: Some days later, Alicia G. learned that there was some debate amongst the bystanders about whether Alicia’s breast had come out of her top when she was grabbed by the Greek fisherman. Alicia has remained silent on this topic, until today, but would like to end the speculation. While Alicia was wearing a dangerously low-cut top (it was hot in Greece), her breast did not make an appearance. It did come amazingly close, but stayed in by about a centimeter. Photographic evidence shows that Alicia remained fully clothed, if barely. Similarly, direct-witness Simon D., who stood only a couple feet from her, confirms that there was no inadvertent flashing.

Retro Chronicles: Liz, Adam and I rafted and survived.

Although Simon and I aren't yet on the high seas, we are having some adventures in London which still need chronicling. In fact, we are taking an impromptu trip out to Suffolk this weekend to see a used Nauticat for sale named... the Polar Bear II! I'm working on those posts over tea and will update soon. In the meantime, I will entertain and amuse you all with YouTube clips from when Liz, Adam and I went whitewater rafting on the Illinois River in Oregon in May 2007.

This first video is of one of our guides, Kaitlyn, scouting Green Wall rapid, the most difficult of the rapids that trip. We ran it successfully a few minutes after her and Liz didn't even fall in. Way to stay in the boat Liz!



This second video is what happens when 30 year old men relive their glory days as 13 year olds, also known as atomizing grease to create a fire ball. I can't say much, though, since I was right there laughing and commenting, "That's awesome." Fortunately, no one lost any eyebrows... probably due to the tin foil armor. We like to be prepared.



PS - Horsing around in the woods rules!