A Funeral with Chandeliers, Coffee and Empanadas

I still remember the first time I attended a funeral in the Philippines. It was Lizz’s grandmother who had passed away at a very advanced age, and her body was laid out for viewing at Cosmopolitan Funeral Homes in Davao City.

Now, I must admit, I had absolutely no idea what to expect.

Lizz had explained a few things to me beforehand, but somehow it all remained a bit foggy in my head. Maybe because, in my mind, the word funeral immediately created dark colours, heavy silence, whispering voices and that uncomfortable feeling of not knowing where to look or what to do with your hands.

I was also nervous because I had never really experienced a funeral properly before. When my father and my grandmother died, I was still too young to attend and was spared from it. So this was new territory for me — emotional territory, cultural territory, and also the kind of territory where you silently hope nobody notices how clueless you are.

But I knew one thing: I had to be there for Lizz. I had met her grandmother during my first visit, and this was family. So, scared or not, awkward or not, I went.

Lizz and I took a taxi to the funeral home. During the ride, I imagined all sorts of things. A dark building, perhaps. A quiet and sad place. Maybe people dressed in black, sitting stiffly in corners, in a silence so heavy it makes even your breathing feel disrespectful.

Then the taxi stopped.

And there it was.

Not a dark, gloomy building at all, but something that looked more like a palace. A white, flat building with grand pillars, big doors, chandeliers and names of Italian cities above the entrances. I half expected someone to hand me a menu and ask if I wanted pasta.

Behind each of these large doors was a funeral room.

I walked with my head slightly lowered, partly out of respect and partly because I still did not know how to behave. But I could already see people sitting outside the rooms, talking, laughing quietly, and generally behaving in ways that didn’t match the tragic film scene I had prepared in my head.

Slowly, we approached the room where Lizz’s grandmother lay.

And that is where my astonishment truly began.

Outside, a few uncles sat around a table, drinking beer and playing cards, not in a wild party way, but in a cheerful, relaxed way. Gossip, laughter, and that special uncle energy exist in every country, but it seems even stronger in the Philippines when beer and playing cards are involved.

I was shocked for a second.

Then, strangely, I felt a sense of relief.

The atmosphere took away some of the pressure. Nobody was standing there like a statue of tragedy. No one looked at me like I had to produce the perfect sad face on command. Life was still happening, even in the presence of death.

Then we entered the room.

Inside, it was bright, elegant and surprisingly comfortable. There were chandeliers, air-conditioning, padded benches, flower arrangements, tall candleholders and, at the far end of the room, the white coffin. Around it were bouquets with ribbons and names written on them, sent by relatives, friends, and probably people who knew that, in the Philippines, flowers at funerals are almost a language of their own.

The coffin was open.

That alone was something I had to process. In Germany, or at least in my experience, death is often more hidden away. Here it was visible, present, accepted. The family sat nearby. Some talked, some laughed, some ate. Others quietly looked toward the coffin. It was dignified, but not painfully stiff.

And then came the food.

Of course it did.

Within minutes, I was offered a soft drink, empanadas, cake, coffee and several other things. I was also invited outside to drink beer with the uncles. Apparently, grief in the Philippines does not mean you should suffer on an empty stomach. And to be fair, that is a philosophy I can support.

At first, I found it impossible to eat or drink in front of the coffin. My European brain could not quite handle it.

“Surely this is not allowed,” I thought.

But after the third or fourth offer, my resistance weakened. In the Philippines, refusing food too often can start to feel like an international incident. So I accepted a piece of cake and a coffee.

There I was, sitting in an elegant funeral room, sipping coffee, taking a bite of cake, and looking at the coffin.

It was one of those moments when you realise culture shock doesn’t always hit you like a thunderstorm. Sometimes it sits next to you politely and offers you an empanada.

The room was full of family members who had travelled from all over the country. And Lizz’s family is not exactly small. Her grandmother had twelve children, which means that once you add grandchildren, cousins, aunties, uncles, in-laws, neighbours and people who are somehow related but nobody can explain exactly how, you have enough people to start a small municipality.

The men were mostly outside, drinking beer, playing cards and gossiping just as much as the women inside — only pretending they didn’t. Many wore shorts, shirts, and flip-flops. Nobody seemed to think this was disrespectful. It was simply normal. They were there. They had come. That mattered more than wearing uncomfortable shoes and looking miserable.

Then came something I was absolutely not prepared for: people posing for photos in front of the open coffin.

Smiling faces.

Family pictures.

And yes, even wacky poses.

That was another culture shock. A big one. My first thought was, “You cannot be serious.” But they were serious — and also not serious at the same time. It was not mockery. It was not disrespect. It was a way of keeping a memory, of saying, “We were all here. We came together. This was part of our family story.”

I had to remind myself that my way of understanding grief was not the only way. What felt strange to me was normal to them. And the longer I stayed, the more I began to appreciate it.

Because honestly, death is already sad enough.

Why make the room darker than it needs to be? Why make everyone sit in silence, starving, thirsty and afraid to move? In that funeral room, sadness was there, yes. But it was not alone. It had company. It sat together with coffee, cake, gossip, family stories, laughter and the occasional uncle shuffling cards outside.

The next day was the funeral.

After the funeral mass in a church near the funeral home, the procession began. A long line of cars formed, filled with relatives, friends, and flowers. At the front was a long American-style hearse, followed by the family vehicles.

Two police motorcycles led the way, clearing the road towards the cemetery. I learned that the funeral convoy shouldn’t stop, and nobody should overtake it. Overtaking such a procession is considered bad luck.

And honestly, even if you do not believe in bad luck, it is probably wise not to test Filipino funeral traffic traditions. Some things are better respected than investigated.

The procession rolled through Davao City, slow and solemn, but also somehow grand. Cars followed one another like a moving ribbon of memory. People on the roadside noticed. Some paused. Some looked on quietly. The whole city seemed, for a brief moment, to make space for one life that had ended.

After a while, we arrived at the cemetery.

They prepared the grave, and above it stood a large open tent, big enough to shelter many people from the sun or rain. In the Philippines, this makes perfect sense because the weather often seems to have its own dramatic personality. One minute it is blazing hot; the next, it opens as if someone upstairs forgot to turn off the tap.

And once again, food and drinks were offered.

Even there.

Even at the cemetery.

By this point I had stopped being surprised. If a Filipino family gathers, food will appear. It does not matter if you are celebrating, mourning, waiting, travelling, discussing something, or simply standing somewhere looking slightly confused. Food will find you.

But then came the saddest part.

The moment of final goodbye.

All the laughter, the food, the cards, the gossip, and the soft drinks couldn’t soften that completely. When they lowered the coffin, the atmosphere changed. The reality became heavy. This was no longer the bright, chandelier-lit funeral room. This was the final resting place—the last act.

People cried. Family members held each other. Some stood in silence. Some looked down, lost in their own thoughts. I saw grief in its raw form, but also something very strong: togetherness.

Nobody was alone.

That is what stayed with me most.

In my own culture, grief can sometimes feel private, hidden, almost lonely. You dress properly, speak quietly, attend the service, shake hands, and then everyone goes home with their sadness neatly packed inside.

But here, grief was shared. It was noisy at times, yes. It confused me at first. It involved beer, cards, cake, photos and enough relatives to fill a small hall. But it was also warm. It was human. It allowed people to cry and laugh in the same hour without feeling guilty about either.

I went there afraid of emotional distress, afraid of doing something wrong, afraid of facing death in a way I had never done before.

I left with a new understanding.

A Filipino wake is not just about death. It is about family gathering from near and far. It is about keeping watch. It is about remembering stories, feeding visitors, praying, laughing, crying and making sure the person who passed away is not left alone on their final journey.

For me, it was a culture shock — but one I came to appreciate.

And, to be honest, there was something beautiful about it.

A funeral with chandeliers, coffee, empanadas and uncles playing cards outside may not have been what I expected. But it taught me that mourning does not have to be dark all the time.

Sometimes, even in grief, there can be light.

And sometimes that light comes from a chandelier in Davao City.