Hiroshi and Erika were students of mine a few years ago at Snow College, where I teach English as a second language. They first met there. While my wife, Jean, and I were in Japan not too long ago, we ran into them and learned that they were going to be married. Jean and I went to their wedding reception, and it was a trip. This was definitely NOT a Legion Hall reception. Uh-uh. Morning coats, the whole nine yards. But I get ahead of my story.
Hiro and Erika hand-delivered the invitation to us about a month before the wedding, to confirm that we were going to be free on that date (I got the feeling that if we’d said we were unable to make it on that date they’d have changed it), and to make sure we understood how to get to the hotel where the reception was to be held. Hiro gave us a Japanese invitation and a translation into English, together with a map showing how to get to the hotel from Osaka’s main train station. Okay, cool, we’ll go, it’s just another wedding. Nope.
About three weeks before the wedding Hiro calls again, to ask if I would make a small speech at the reception. Sure, no problem: two wonderful young people, bless this union, blah, blah, blah, let’s party. Meantime, I’ve asked some experienced ex-pats for advice on how to act at a Japanese wedding, and they say Jean and I should learn a song because there’s sure to be karaoke singing around the old wine keg. So now I know what to expect. Not!
A week before the wedding Hiro calls again and asks if I have written my speech yet. The “wedding company” wants an advance copy so they can translate it into Japanese for the program director to read after I deliver it in English. This is my first intimation that I’m in a bit deep. “Uh, well, I haven’t written anything. I was just going to, you know, say a few words about you and Erika.” Hiro was very cool. He said that was all right, and I could just jot some notes and give them to the interlocutor at the reception. I took the hint and told him I’d write something and make sure he got it the next day so it could be properly translated. I did, too. Good thing I did.
But first, I started to do some serious research. I asked around at work and learned that there are roughly three kinds of weddings – or wedding receptions – because the weddings themselves are very private affairs and only the families attend. There’s your legion hall reception, your church reception, and your hotel reception, in bottom- to top-of-the-line order.
Wedding gifts are usually money, but how much to give is determined by a complicated formula involving one’s relationship with the happy couple, ages, the venue of the reception, and how much one thinks he/she can get away with as a foreigner. I was told by my main source that we should consider giving at least ¥20,000 and more probably ¥30,000 because of where the reception is being held and all the other factors that I don’t pretend to understand.
No piker, I opted for the top-level gift, involving the equivalent of about $200. My informant bought for us the requisite gift envelope, an expensive, intricately folded piece of paper, and properly wrote the amount of our gift on the back, and our names – in Japanese – on the front. She assured us that, although it was costing us a lot of money we would be getting a lot of bang for those bucks in the form of a sit-down dinner, gifts back to us and plain old entertainment value. “Just be sure to eat everything on your plate, and you’ll get your money’s worth.” Yes!
Then comes the magic day. I dress up in the best I got (a blue blazer with lots of shine, gray slacks and black shoes) and Jean and I haul off to Osaka. We find the hotel with no problem. It’s small and looks expensive, located on the southern boundary of Osaka Castle. We’re about an hour early, both because I can’t tell time very well and because we did not want to be late.
We have a cup of iced coffee in the lobby coffee shop. Two coffees cost us nearly ¥1,000. Yup, it’s an expensive hotel. We look around the lobby while we wait for show time. Very busy. Lots of money walking around. No other foreigners, just us. All the men are wearing black suits with white shirts and white ties. It’s like a uniform. The shine on my blazer has become a blinding glare.
Read Part 2
