We came to learn that it’s a US practice to pursue a license to marry through City Hall – sort of like James Bond, but without the guns.  Not knowing quite sure what a “marriage license” is and knowing that our Aussie and Mexican backgrounds could throw the town clerk a curve ball, we decided to book in early.  And while not a serious matter we decided nonetheless to dress up for it, for if anything it was an opportunity to stretch the celebrations of our nuptials that little bit further.  “YOLO!”

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Turns out that the marriage license is a prudent American tradition. You fill a one pager form that can take you up to one hour of bilateral conversations pondering upon the merits and pitfalls of name changes, and then swear at the request of a deputy of the town clerks dressed in a hoodie and to an ambiguous god that you sincerely want to get married, are over the age of eighteen and not related to each other.

We then took our party to one of our favorite venues La Mar Cebicheria on the San Francisco waterfront where in a about a month we’ll be hosting our parents and SF friends for engagement cocktails.

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