Here, just like home.

Every Lao special event must, as a prerequisite, have chest-high floor model speakers pumping out hundreds of watts in bass lines. Riding on the back of To's motorbike, I felt the wedding party before I saw it. I felt the sound eating through the air, stopping only with a slap on my face that bounced into dissipation. Along with a mutual friend Kao, who rode at our side on his red motorbike, we parked in a pack of 30 others. We fixed our hair and checked our teeth in tiny circular side mirrors, and then walked in the direction of commotion.

In the paved front of a colonial style white house, folding metal tables with legs splayed beneath tablecloths of blue were set. Each one had two bottles of water, three large bottles of beer, clear plastic cups, and a tin bucket of ice to chill our drinks that would sweat in the heat of a Southeast Asian April. Slightly deflated balloons hung from tree stems. Clay flowerpots wore their latest fashions in evening glory. Lao girls in traditional skirts and dresses waltzed in with grace and their dates followed alongside in button downs, polos, and slacks.

As we entered, we dropped our invitations and gifts into a box for the bride and groom. A line of greeting stood, making the first stop a platter with two tiny pewter chalices. A shot of whiskey was poured and with a smile from the wedding party we downed our drinks, and we bowed in greeting while liquor slid down our throats with a warm aftermath.

We took a seat near the back with two mutual friends of To and Kao, and in a few words between sips of beer on ice, we watched tables fill. Miniature clouds of flies danced beneath fluorescent rods of light, mimicking in their dance the commuting throngs below. Conversation built, and now, even bashful voices spoke in the mask of music and tone. We talked of relationships, girls, dancing, Lao wedding customs, and the burden of being shy.

With most of the guests assembled, a voice halted the music and announced that two families had now become one. We smiled with applause and I ducked in close to To for a brief translation. But with an abrupt ending, numerous chairs began to back, scraping the pavement as they did so, to make way for the dinner feast.

In the most populous continent in the world, you don't get a place by waiting in an organized queue -- you make your place. At a mini-mart, the first person served is the one who first places his goods on the service counter and asks how much. The same principle applies to parking spots, bus seats, lane changes, and intersections. A meal is no different. You must assertively scoop rice into your bowl and ladle chillies, spinach leaves, pork cutlets, shredded chicken, mushrooms, carrots, basil leaves, potato slices, and hard-boiled eggs into your possession. I think this is just a cultural mannerism, maybe built out of necessity, but still carried out in love. No ill will is held towards those who dipped their spoon first, or who with long arms cutoff the entry of a shorter. With full plates and seats retaken, goodwill replaces a rush as if nothing ever happened.

My palate expresses its pleasure, and I smile at my table companions.

"Sap bor?" (delicious, isn't it?) Kao asks me.

"Sap lai!" (very delicious!), I express between a gulp and a bite.

As the night moves from feasting to dancing, Kao, To, and I take leave of the wedding and move to a Lao nightclub. We now sit on wraparound artificial leather couches with yet another group of friends and acquaintances. Conversation makes brief appearances, but in the dark I contentedly sit and think, watching life unfold in the faces of a world once unknown to me.

In these faces of bronze skin, dark hair, and lovely smiles, I see something that in sound may reveal itself as simplistic, but in sight holds a lasting impact. That is, that the essence of our human existence, though separated by space, is felt with the same measures.

Here, there are people too bashful to dance. Here, there are girls that dance in a group of friends, waiting for a man to make a move. Here, there are broken hearted wallflowers, womanizers falling into their own game, aging party girls feeling weary, and drunken middle-agers who no longer care. Here, there are shy people who can't talk to the girl across the street, bold ones who should probably slow down, straight A students who feel out of place, and academic jokers who couldn't feel more at home. Here, there are dreamers, lovers, quitters, failures, and seekers. And we are all much more alike than different.

Here, is perhaps the greatest evidence for Someone greater than ourselves, and that is, we all hope.

Here, just like home.