Two days into 2015, I found myself sharing pre-wedding jitters with a family I just met that day.

“Favor, can you please tell the entourage to come to the lobby now?”

I couldn’t remember who she was but I took directive like it was a task that could save the world from climate change. I stomped Pico Sands Hotel’s hallway in my six-inch wedge sandals, with the purpose of a cadet carrying out a duty. I banged knocked on the door of what I believed was their room. The jabber inside was of hysteria.

“Yes?”, she was panting.

“Entourage needed in the lobby.”, I peered over whoever-that-was’ shoulder.

“They’ve left.”

“Oh.”

Aaand my only role for the day was accomplished.

I made my way back to our room with my gaze fixed on my shoes. I randomly thought, “How the heck do I walk on sand with these?”. In our own chaos of a space, the boys were fussing about cutting stitches to release a suit’s vent. I tousled my locks in front of the mirror while I mindlessly listened to them. It had been a long day, and it was just around three in the arvo.

I started that weekend rousing at five in the morn, awoken by a phone call from fashion designer Santi Obcena which made me jolt up. Santi Obcena. He said they’re on their way. “Whose house is this?”, I was disoriented. For a few seconds I sat still. When I came to, I recalled. I was asked by Ron of fliptravels.com to be his date/photographer/slave at his sister’s wedding and I spent the night at his because of the ungodly-hour start that day. We were picked up at six and just a couple of hours later (thanks to CAVITEX), our van pulled up at the driveway of Pico Sands Hotel in Nasugbu, Batangas.

Now I won’t lie. The mention of Hamilo Coast on Ron’s invite weeks prior made me save the date on the spot. A beach wedding reception to kickstart the year. I didn’t want anything less. When I met Ron’s family in the hotel, I totally forgot about my scheme of dodging their congregation to have a me getaway. I loved their company. And I realized how far my friendship with Ron has developed — from online acquaintances to confidants to wedding plus-ones. It’s rather uhm, disconcerting but equally amazing too. And it was an honor to be the date of the bride’s Man Of Honor (okay, that sounds like a low budget movie about the Vietnam War, or something).

It was a race against time from then on. A hurried brunch, a quickie stroll on the beach (which is a 5-minute free shuttle ride from the hotel), and cram-prepping for the event. For the first time since we met as backpackers, Ron and I were going out together in dress shoes and sky-high wedges. Gone were our usual homeless and hobo-inspired backpacking ensembles that mostly define our character: An affront to the senses.

A coaster provided by the hotel transported us to St. Therese of the Child Jesus Chapel. A splendid, small glass chapel on a cliff. The sun was aburst with amber glow when the wedding concluded. As the guests spilled out onto the steps, I strayed towards the balcony that overlooks the coast and watched the bride’s silhouette elegantly move from one pose to another. She was a vision of sheer beauty. I smiled and recollected how inelegant I was at my own wedding.

What I fretted about earlier that day, materialized in the evening when I teetered on sand in my heels at the reception. The venue was right on the beach and I looked like a newborn calf wobbling to and fro the buffet spread. Ironically, I walked better after the consumption of alcohol. Or perhaps I got too tipsy to care.

I had a good laugh at myself. I had a ball. Despite the lack of sleep. Despite being the stranger in an intimate affair. Despite the cumbersome shoes I was too proud to take off (because I was seated beside a Project Runway Philippines finalist).

Wouldn’t want to start the year any other way.