2003 Year in Review Letter
We approached a nearby shopkeeper, who was leaning in a doorway with his arms crossed, looking expectantly at the old church dominating the square, and asked him what was going on. He explained that the daughter of the owner of Chateau Cheval Blanc (one of the top two wine chateaux in the region) was marrying that day. Her pere, we later learned, is one of the wealthiest men in Belgium at a worth of approximately $1 billion.
The townspeople (dressed in their Sunday best) were converging a around the church courtyard, so we joined them. The spectacle that followed for the next hour -- the wedding guests emerging from their hired cars and mingling before us -- was five-star entertainment.
The hats! Big hats. Loud hats. Hats with feathers. Hats with veils. Hats with rhinestones. Every woman flaunted a hat, and apparently the more ostentatious, the better. Some ladies were absolutely gorgeous and sophisticated; others appeared to be in drag. The jewels were amazing as well (some were as big as the hats).
There stood Kari and I in the midst of the display, snapping pictures, laughing, and commentating on everyone's outfits á là Joan and Melissa Rivers, despite the fact that I was in a wrinkled Banana Republic t-shirt, clamdiggers, and sensible, low-heeled walking sandals and Kari was no fashion model herself. A sweet elderly village woman adopted us, pointing out France's most eminent personalities, such as Madame Chiraq (wife of the prime minister) and Bernard Arnault (owns the entire country).
The bells chimed promptly at five o'clock, at which point the mack daddy of Rolls Royces, bearing the bride and her father, rolled into the courtyard. The paparazzi swarmed the vehicle in a frenzy. The bride stepped out: she was approximately five-foot eleven, blond, thin, impeccably dressed in a custom Dior gown, and stunning. We hated her.
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