Barefoot by the Sea

Epilogue

The Vixen of Vacation Vows

Blog Post—August 12

The maid of honor was a dead woman.

The bouquet was a squirming baby.

And the place was so littered with eye-candy, a girl could get whiplash from checking out the groomsmen.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me back up, loyal followers, and explain why I chose to blog about the wedding I just attended in the most dreamy spot called Barefoot Bay.

Do you remember almost a year ago when I visited a Moroccan-inspired resort on the Gulf Coast of Florida? I had been invited for what was, admittedly, a “soft” opening, as they say. Soft? This was more like the squishy underbelly of a fat cow. Gooey like the dozen eggs I dropped in the grocery store parking lot. Limp like that guy I…never mind, you get the idea. They made some beginner’s blunders and I let them have it, V3-style. (Slice and dice with a dash of vitriol and sarcasm.) I left the Casa Blanca resort quite underwhelmed, despite the lovely ladies who run the place and their high, high hopes.

Well, what a difference a little time makes!

It wasn’t easy to get me to go back (there are thirteen thousand destination-wedding resorts in the world and only one Vixen to critique them for you, kittehs!) but some quite influential friends plied me with…er, twisted my arm. The lovely folks at AABC (that’s the American Association of Bridal Consultants, not the a-alphabet) convinced me to attend a wedding as a VIP guest and what an affair it was! I must share all I experienced that day for it was a wedding like no other. Well, it was like many others. Two people got married. They seemed frightfully in love. The sandy stage was draped with pearls and lace and all manner of white stuff.

But it wasn’t the wedding setting that did me in…it was the people who peppered that place that I can’t forget.

Casa Blanca is one of the few mom and pop resorts left on this earth…and let me warn you, I don’t mean Ma and Pa Kettle. Owner Lacey is a gorgeous ginger who not only handles a teenager and a toddler, she has a smokin’ hot “pop” who was the architect for the place. Yikes. Can you say Matthew McConaughey with a wicked drafting pencil? And the Moroccan design was a result of their mutual love of the movie Casablanca. Awww. I know, gives me a cavity, this sweetness. These two are a powerhouse couple and I see great success in their future. (The teenager’s a handful, though. Good luck with that one.)

The owner has an executive staff made up of her BFFs who—get this—have all been gal pals since college. Do you love it, ladies? Jocelyn is the spa manager and former life coach (and Olympic-quality list maker) who is all spit and polish and perfection. She’s married to a carpenter who, I must say, could nail me anytime. (Oh, I crack myself up.) When they’re not organizing and laying, um, carpet, then they are taking care of her doddering ol’ dad who offered to knit me a scarf. A scarf? In Florida? He knit me two. Forgot about the first one, dear thing.

And here’s something they have that I don’t recall seeing at any other destination wedding resort—a hot air balloon so the bride and groom can literally fly off into the sunset. This pristine beach is stunning from any view, but from three thousand feet in the air with the one you just “I do’d”…best photo op ever.

Coincidentally, the wedding I attended was for the woman who owns and flies the balloon, Zoe, who could give any airhead a good name. Can you spell eccentric? Neither can I, so I’ll describe. Our blonde bride carried her newborn baby in place of a bouquet (I told you this one never met a tradition she couldn’t trample) but thankfully did not toss little Maya to any eligible bachelorettes.

While her three besties were bridesmaids, natch, the place of the maid-of-honor was held by a photograph of her great-aunt who went to be with the angels over a year ago. Honestly, the creativity of some people! Am totes stealing that idea if I ever scare up a husband. If I do, I pray he’s tall, dark, loaded, and looks at me like I hung the moon…which, I should tell you, is exactly the doctor this bride married. I might have to hate her. Oh, and the ring bearer was the doctor’s son, a future rocket scientist named Evan who brought his dog and stole the show.

And did I mention the food? I certainly did last year. The kitchen was definitely where the place fell short on my previous visit, but now they have a chef de cuisine (with a to-die-for English accent—tally ho, my lord!) who is married to the organic gardener, offering the all-important “farm to table” experience for the healthy elitists among you. (I know there are plenty!!)

Can I please coo about these two for a moment? Madly in love and running after a matched set of totally adorbs five-year-olds and growing another in their personal garden of Eden. They divide and conquer with the wee boy following Daddy about in the kitchen, nattering about tomahtoes and potahtoes (he’s picked up his old man’s pronunciations). The girlie hangs with her mom, riding shotgun on a tractor and making it look like so much fun, I almost wanted to go all country and redneck and shit.

Then that passed.

So, am I recommending Casa Blanca at Barefoot Bay for your destination wedding? Only if you want perfection on a platter. The atmosphere is elegant, but not ostentatious. The location is tropical, but not tasteless. The food is fantastic, the villas are romantic, the people are precious, and love is in the air.

And here’s the best part—there’s now an on-site wedding planning company called “Barefoot Brides.” Clever girls! And these aren’t your plain vanilla planners, friends. These ladies are former board members of AABC, so they know their business and their business is getting a bride down the aisle in style.

Arielle handles decor, Gussie will dress you fine, and Willow feeds the hungry guests. I know you’ll love them.

Full disclosure: these planners are (drinking) buddies of mine. I’ve followed them around the country as they visited resorts to recommend to their colleagues and I know a little bit about how they work. Their standards are as high as the bar tab when I’m in tow. So high that I understand they’ve made some kind of pact to never get married. You know what they say—always a wedding planner, never a bride.

What? They don’t say that? Well, let’s see what happens next in Barefoot Bay, hmm? I understand you can’t help but kick off your shoes and fall in love. (Oh, shut up. They paid me to slip in the slogan.)

Vow to be happy!

Vix