A Philippine Wedding... or “How Jonathan’s Social Awkwardness Crosses Cultural Lines”

Please give a round of applause for my guest blogger, Jonathan!



I was recently invited to attend the wedding of a friend and co-worker here in Manila. Honoured to be invited, I made plans to attend.

As an introvert I view any wedding with a certain degree of trepidation as it is a long party which inherently includes people who do not know each other. As we’re in a new country and culture my potential for social ineptitude is multiplied by a factor of ten. As a result I took extra care to see to details for this wedding.

My first challenge on this front was timing. As being late is never appropriate for a wedding (unless you are a bride or groom) my standard strategy is to arrive ridiculously early. However, this carried extra risk for this wedding as I knew only fellow guests from work, and my lack of Tagalog skills could make small talk impossible with other guests. So, I had to follow a goldilocks approach and target an arrival that was “just right”. Complicating matters more, I would be arriving via taxi, as we have not yet found a car of our own. Taxis are fickle things sometimes arriving immediately when called, and sometimes making you wait for an hour.

But, despite fretting over such matters, the taxi showed up promptly as I stepped out in my best suit, and I was on my way right on time. The wedding was held in a central garden space of a nice neighbourhood. Neighbourhoods here frequently have hundreds of houses sometimes surrounded by a wall or fence, with security guards at any entry streets. I had wondered how the guards would handle a stream of wedding guests, but this too was no problem as I showed the guard the invitation and he carried on a conversation with the taxi driver (in Tagalog) about how to get there. The taxi driver took a wrong turn but after another Tagalog conversation with a local resident, we arrived at the venue. I paid the driver and got out.

The location was called “The Mango Grove” and was covered with a canopy of tall mango trees. There were tables set beautifully in the same purple as my invitation. I quickly surveyed the gathering crowd looking for familiar faces. I didn’t see any. I had once again arrived a little two early as there were 20 minutes until the wedding and the group of about 60 sharply dressed people were chatting and taking photos over hors d’oeuvres as others were arriving. I walked through the group looking for a place to hide until my friends showed up.

Hiding is difficult for me here. In addition to regularly being the only “white guy” around I also am routinely 6-12 inches taller than everyone else. To give you an example today I was in the grocery store. All of the cashiers were in high heels and wearing 6 inch tall hats as part of their uniform. I was still easily 2 inches taller than the tallest one.

So, feeling very conspicuous I send a friend from work a text:
“Let me know when you get here. I don’t think I know anyone yet . . . lol”

To my relief he quickly replies back sensing my panicked tone:
“Hi there, We’re here now actually. Just fixing the girls hair at the parking. Hang on there. Lol”

His daughter was to be the flower girl. I gave a sigh of relief and then shortly decided that a stroll through the parking lot sounded good. Unfortunately, I didn’t see my friend or his car on the trip, and quickly found myself looping back to the central courtyard. A waiter waved me in and handed me an ice tea. I thanked him and then strategically placed myself behind a mango tree shielded from most guests, and with a view of any new arrivals. I killed another 5 minutes drinking tea and trying hard to stay out of the other guests’ photos (or eye contact).

With the sense of panic returning, I noticed the registration table and thought I could at least drop off my card and sign in. I look through the guest list and don’t see my name. Before I can check the next page, the hostess asks me my last name. I tell her and then show my invitation and say “I don’ t see my name on the list”. I see her scan her guest list (which clearly does not have my name). She looks up without missing a beat and says “table 7” and hands me a bag of party favours. My momentary relief crashes when I notice my friend’s name is also not on the guest list, and it hits me . . .

I’m at the wrong wedding. . . I’m at the wrong location, the wrong couple, speaking the wrong language . . . with no car, no one to turn to, and no idea what I’m doing. The previous list of “right’s” (time, colours, neighbourhood, and dress code) only serve to make this moment more horrible.

I ask the hostess to check the name again, “I think I’m in the wrong place”. She quickly and politely confirms I have no idea what I’m doing. She also doesn’t provide any immediate solutions. Not that I hang around long. I quickly find my way out of the courtyard, walking in the general direction the servers are coming from.

I find someone not dressed for a wedding and explain my trouble. I ask if there could possibly be another wedding nearby. I show him my invitation. He says “hang on” and then disappears . . . with my invitation. He returns shortly and says yes this is the “a-sir-name-I-don’t-remember-due-to-stress” wedding.*thanks* I think to myself. But then he proves more helpful. “Do you have a phone number?”

“no”, I say, but then remember my friend. I pull out my phone and shoot off a text asking for his location. While waiting for a response, he begins walking me out of the mango grove and back to the street. He hints that there is another location nearby where a wedding could be. It turns out that there is another garden one block away called “The Orchard”. It actually shares a wall with the mango grove. There were two weddings, at the same time, in the same neighbourhood, with the same colours. He walks me to the gate, when my friend calls to confirm the wedding is in in “The Orchard”. I arrive a few minutes before the start of the wedding and am happy to see many familiar faces.

The wedding itself was beautiful and very enjoyable. I’ll tell you about it sometime, but the story pales in comparison with my experience as a wedding crasher.