I had been traveling for 20 hours, and I was tired and sneezy (I think I’m allergic to airplane blankets.) I found my way through the airport, to my gate, and to the ladies room across from my gate - the gate out of which my fellow travelers and I would fly to Manila. We had about an hour before we would board.
Inside the ladies room, I took to the precarious task of parking my things out of everyone’s way, finding my toothbrush, accessing the sink, guarding my things, and letting others coming from the stalls access the sink. Not easy.
I don’t know if it was something I did, but a purse slid off a piece of luggage that was parked next to my carry-on bags. I tried to catch the purse but ended up knocking the whole suitcase over.
“Oh, God, Oh,” I stammered through my toothpaste. “I’m so sorry.”
A blonde woman in her late forties rushed over. “That’s okay, honey, nothing’s gonna break.” She has that sweet southern-ness about her.
We got to talking. She was coming from Tallahassee and was also going to Manila. Her son was getting married there in a couple days.
“I’ve never even met my future daughter in law!” she said.
Their family could only afford to send one person to the wedding.
“He said, ‘I’d like to have dad here, but, you’re the mom, so I think you should be here’,” she said proudly.
For me, this was a gentle introduction to a common phenomenon: men from the US marrying (usually much younger) women from the Philippines.
I left the ladies room and found myself a seat, hoping to close my eyes for 40 minutes or so before we boarded.
“Excuse me,” said another southern voice, this one male. "I heard you sniffling. Would you like some Zyrtec?”
“Oh, no thank you,” I said, feeling very much the cold and distant northerner. “I brought my own.”
He went on the start a conversation with a big giant man sitting across from him. The big giant man had a booming voice. My eyes were closed, but I heard him say, “What brings me to the Philippines? My Philippine wife!”
“Is she traveling with you?”
“You better believe it. You can’t trust me in the Philippines without my wife! I mean, I’m trustworthy, but I’m not that trustworthy!” Yuk, yuk, yuk.
He talked about how he owns a resort outside of Cebu. It was always his dream to own an oceanfront resort, but he could never afford it in the States, so he and his Philippine wife spent two years looking for just the right spot.
“It’s great! My girls take real good care of the place when I’m in the States.”
His girls?
“You mean you’re daughters?” the other guy asked.
“No the girls that run the place. I call em my girls. I treat em real good. Pay em real well. They’re like family.”
“Excuse me,” said the first guy to me, “If you don’t mind my asking, what brings you to the Philippines?” I opened my eyes and sat up, resigned to the fact that I wouldn’t be sleeping just yet.
“I'm traveling for work," I said.
“Have you ever been before?” asked the first guy.
“No, this is my first time.”
“Whoa, your first time! You’re gonna love it.” The conversation meandered through the things I’d have to watch out for: smog, traffic, the lack of toilet paper and soap in public restrooms (and that I should carry my own).
The big man talked about how he can’t stay longer than three months in the Philippines because he starts to miss Outback Steakhouse and Lowe’s.
In fact, he was traveling with carry-on suitcase full of salami and doorknobs.
We were getting cordial when a third man came and sat next to me. He was tall and skinny with a ruddy face and white hair. I couldn’t tell how old he was.
“What brings you to the Philippines?” asked the conversation-starter.
“I’m visiting my girlfriend,” he said.
“That’s the way to do it,” said the big fat guy, gesturing to his wife. She had since come back from wherever she was. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties. She had a pretty face and wavy black hair.
The big man gestured to her.
“She’s lasted longer than any of my other wives. But I’m not going to kid you; there are cultural differences that make it tough. Seems like there wouldn’t be with Filipinas, cause they’re so passive, but, believe me, there are.”
He talked about how he encouraged his son to marry a Filipina, and that his son has taken his advice.
“He’s doing it through a company called Cherry Blossoms,” the big man said.
“What’s Cherry Blossoms?” asked the first guy.
“It’s one of these Filipina love connection companies that is supposed to help you meet women. He didn’t meet her through Cherry Blossoms but they are helping him process the paperwork. I had to co-sign on her visa,” said the big man, “cause my son doesn't make enough money, you see. So I had to back him up.”
I was starting to feel like I knew this man from every account I've ever read of a person traveling to the Philippines. As though every writer met this very same man: his handlebar mustache and the way his belly hung down through his legs, they were so familiar to me. And here I was meeting him too.
He addressed himself to the man who had just sat down, the one visiting his girlfriend.
“You should just take her back with you,” said the big guy. “It’s cheaper. You could do it on a fiancée visa. That’s what I did. That’s what my son’s doing.”
The other man, the new guy, looked pretty nervous. He didn’t say anything.
“That’s assuming you plan to marry her,” I said, dismissively. I was trying to give him an out, because if someone suggested such a thing about my relationship I’d be that uncomfortable too.
“Well actually,” he said, finally, “that’s kind of the purpose of this trip.”
He was so genuinely nervous that I felt really genuinely excited for him. “Congratulations!” I said, “that is so huge!”
He pulled out the ring and showed me. It was a half-carat, in a simple setting.
“She can change the setting if she wants,” he said. “I didn’t know what she’d like.”
“It’s really pretty,” I said.
“And I’m trying to learn Tagalog,” he said. He pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket. On it was penciled “Will you marry me?” in the local language. He practiced saying it out loud.
“I think she’ll appreciate that," I said.
“My wife will tell you what a romantic I am,” interjected the big man.
We turned our attention to him.
“When we got engaged I said, ‘I don’t love you and you don’t love me. But if you want to come back to the States with me and work on this relationship I’ll pay for everything.’” Yuk, yuk, yuk.
I looked at her.
She put her hand to her mouth. “It’s true,” she said, laughing.
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