The first place my fiancé and I visited was Calamigos Ranch in Malibu.
If you do a "Wedding Venue Los Angeles" Google search, it's one of the first options to pop up. I'd seen a fair number of photos of it on Pinterest and I was immediately sucked in the possibility of having a wedding with a ferris wheel in the background. Bitchin', right? So carnival love a la "The Notebook."
My fiancé loved the idea of a Malibu wedding because he's a surfer, he digs that drive and, as he constantly reminds me, he wants to make sure wherever we get married isn't in a neighborhood that's sketchy or ghetto. After ten years in Los Angeles, his mother and father have never seen where he lives and he wants to give them the nicest possible impression of the place their son chooses to call home. Smoke and mirrors time, y'all.
We drive up to Calamigos and it's lovely; winding roads, the sea in the distance, a horse here and there, nothing to make out of towners wish they'd packed a Glock in their carry-on. Pulling down their entry road, we noticed a marquee announcing one wedding in one direction, a second wedding in another direction, and The Biggest Loser Resort immediately on our right.
Wedding, wedding, fat camp. It makes sense. Perhaps populated by brides shedding for their wedding?
Arriving at the main reception area, we take the place in for the first time. It's sort of woodsy, there are loud water fixtures everywhere making me really need to make a Number One, and it smells a little of cafeteria food, specifically gravy made from Knorr mix. Not really my cup of Folgers, but, let's see.
As we're ushered into the consultation area and around the grounds, I realize this place is a wedding conveyor belt, one couple arrives, they insert Parts A, B and C, and down the line they go. Next! It feels impersonal and harried.
And that doesn't even speak to the look of the place. My personal hell is dark wood, low ceilings and cruddy carpet. This place has all of that. Perhaps inviting for some, but I'm ready to bolt.
We look at all the available spaces, my anxiety level rising with each, thank them for their time and exit, stage left even.
In the car and out of earshot, I instantly start to unravel.
"That was awful!" I shriek. "AWFUL!"
"I mean, the last one wasn't terrible," Fiancé offers.
"The one that was like an Old West reception hall? With the barrels on the wall and the waterfall over the windows? It was like janky Big Thunder Mountain Railroad at Disneyland. I would die!"
"It wasn't that bad, babe. There were some nice..."
"Don't you dare defend that place! I am not getting married there," I squeak as tears begin to flood my face.
Fiancé puts his hand on my knee reassuringly. "We'll find something, babe."
"I just want it to be cool and modern and us," I whimper. "I want it to have style and be some place we're excited to show our friends. I want it to be...I want it to be...Oh my god! I want it to be this place my friend got married a few years ago!"
Lightning strike! Marvimon! Yesssss! This was perfect.
The "friend" who got married there isn't a close friend nor on the invite list, so no toes would be squashed, it has exactly the vibe we both love, and they have an all-inclusive wedding package that includes everything from DJ to dessert, for about $200 a person, and you get to eat tacos. PERFUCKINGFECT! I love tacos! And and they have a super cute bunny statue in their garden that's their mascot. I love bunnies! I even took a photo with the bunny at the barely-my-friend's wedding.
I dash off an email to Marvimon asking for dates of availability in 2014 and cross my fingers they say something rad like, "Any Saturday in June or August." I have it. I have my dream venue. The tears began to flow again but, this time, they're tears of joy.
The next day, Marvimon responds:
"Thank you for contacting us. Currently, we are only accepting private event clients at SmogShoppe, our green venue near Culver City."
What?! NO! WHY?
With trembling hands and quivering lips, I write back, "That's such a bummer. I had my heart set on Marvimon. Is there a chance you might open up dates for 2014? If not, is there any availability in 2015? Date is very flexible."
They respond: "Unfortunately, Marvimon will not open up dates moving forward. The good news is that our owners are planning on opening up a brand new space sometime in 2014. Let us know if you become interested in SmogShoppe! Our rates are $8000 Friday/Sunday and $10,000 on Saturday."
Bitch, if I wanted SmogShoppe, I woulda asked about SmogShoppe. And whatchu talkin' about ten thousand dollahs?!? Are you outside of your mind? Don't make me get Oakland Bridezilla up in the piece. How the hell is that "Good news"?
Dreams: crushed. I write a sad/angry Yelp review and whimper.
Back to Pinterest and Google I go, typing in "Wedding Venues," "Los Angeles Wedding Venues," "Cheap Wedding Venues," "Cool Wedding Venues in Los Angeles," "Unique Los Angeles Wedding Venues," "Wedding Venues in Southern California that don't suck"...
Several anxious, wrought weeks later, I stumble upon an industrial space in Downtown LA whose exposed brick walls and vaulted 30 foot ceilings speak directly to the little girl inside of me who dreamed of growing up to live in a SoHo Loft like the one with the trampoline in "Big." Clean, elegant, modern and cool. Winner, winner, chicken dinner. I make an appointment and count the days to the unveiling: January 30th.
Last night, I could barely sleep, too amped with anticipation. When my iPhone chimed at 7am, I bounded out of bed, fairly certain the birds where chirping a little louder this morning. Why? Because they were singing a happy song to send me off to see what would be my wedding venue.
And I carried all of that hope and promise with me, until I took the GPS-instructed exit off the freeway.
Hello, Sketchy Ghetto, nice to see you. Good morning, homeless man pushing a shopping cart toward a shanty town by the river. G'Day, prostitute resting her...his (?)...heels on the side of the road. Oh, turn left in 100 feet? Perfect. Thanks.
I park my Prius and question if I should wait in my car for the SWAT team to escort me inside or not.
Naaaah, I grew up in New York in the 80s and Oakland in the 90s; I can walk the streets at 3am and not be nervous (the backwoods with a flashlight is another story entirely). I got this.
I step out of my car, over three mounded piles of what I hope to be dog feces, though that would be a really large dog, walk past the razor wire fence into a parking lot where five white dudes who look like rejects from Slipknot are hanging out, and into an industrial warehouse. Dark greenish florescent lighting flickers, the walls are brownish tan, the place feels like it's caked in filth.
Keep an open mind, I tell myself.
Into the space--the $6500 space--I go. The windows which shone so brightly in the photos are covered by black plastic tarps, a Red Bull bar sits to my left, a plywood skate ramp just behind it. Magical. And then the warehouse's owner informs me nothing is included in the bargain price of almost seven thousand dollar. Not tables, not chairs, not a kitchen, not even lighting.
"There's a plug there," the owner says, pointing to a wood beam about 20 feet in the air. "People rent a scissor lift and string their own lights up."
I have a vision of my 5'6 Jewish father cackling as he haphazardly throws a string of festival lights across the room to Fiancé, outfitted with a T-Square and a look of consternation, a few hours before the ceremony. This can't end well.
For $6500 I get a room with brick walls, the possibility of everyone needing a tetanus shot, but the convenient purchase of crack rock as you leave the reception. Radical. This is not the dream venue photos promised it to be.
As I drive back toward the freeway, I see someone being arrested. It's 9:07am.
My search continues...
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