I may be young, but this I know: this backyard lawn’s expanse of ten-person rounds, their white tablecloths flapping in the breeze, doesn’t equate with “casual barbecue.” Not where I come from.

I’m here to attend a wedding in this opulent version of Oz. A yellow brick road obstacle course awaits me, luncheons and brunches and teas, oh gawd. I mean, by what gauge is this a barbecue? Orchid-festooned tables, carefully coifed women in wispy sundresses and stiletto sandals. Men in crisp slacks and crisper shirts. Not a burger or potato chip in sight. A tuxedo-ed bartender works a full-service bar. White-hatted chefs grill chicken and steaks daubed, okay, with red sauce.

And there I stand in my vintage jeans and groovy-daisy t-shirt.

I’d asked the hostess what to wear. “It’s casual!” she declared, she who now greets me in a skinny white dress that could pass for lingerie, gold bracelets jangling on her wrist. Clearly, she’ll play no role in preparing – or even eating – anything as dangerous as barbecue sauce. Unbidden, I imagine a pea-sized splat hitting that pristine bodice, and I smile.

I’m not angry or embarrassed. I’ve done no wrong. But this soiree confirms what I’ve known all my life. These people may be family, but a lot more than 3,000 miles separates us.

My hostess moves on to greet the next guests. I won’t be the one to tell her about the tendril of toilet paper clinging to her slender, skyscraper heel, a white wake picking up bits of detritus with each step.