Marathon sprint to the tinsel finish line

It’s not because I’ve become bored with my surroundings. Nor is it because I’m too lazy. Nor can I say that I have nothing to write. Blogging is a strange thing. I’m yet to pinpoint exactly who I write it for, though I’ve realised that I certainly benefit from it as I’m finding it hard to get a good ‘overall’ picture of what I frittered away the month of December’s time and salary on. Committing observations to this colourful, virtual page in what may seem a pedestrian and trivialising way helps to keep me grounded, and as far as I can tell, helps let some people know that I haven’t been swiped by drug smugglers yet. It’s not an exercise in literary technique, but if I’m ever discovered as the next big thing in the printed word then I suppose it will be something to show for my misspent youth.

I’m still recovering from what Cosoleacanecos affectionately call the ‘Maraton Guadalupe-Reyes’, the 3 week period between the celebrations for the Virgin of Guadalupe on the 12^th and Epiphany, the 6^th December. This ‘marathon’ is an excuse to party every day for long enough to pickle your organs, become severely lacking in sleep, and need another holiday after the ones you’re already afforded. My philosophy of never saying no to any invitation made my days largely busy and often intense, from primary school end-of-year shows to gatherings of friends until the early mornings. Every grouping of colleagues, students, friends and families put on their own ‘posadas’ which traditionally is a sung re-enactment of Mary and Joseph going round the houses of Bethlehem looking for a place to kip. Some of these are highly religious, like the one I accompanied Mama Cali to, where half of the preachers stand outside the house and the others inside, and there’s a lot of singing, a lot of tamales, and a dangerous amount of candles and fairy lights. Others are just an excuse to party, and involve piñatas with 5 protruding horns, representing sins (not sure why), and music and food a-plenty. In my school the kids put on a talent show, and were rewarded with tacos and cake, followed by free-for-all dancing in the classrooms. Everyone got an eyeful of teacher Claire dancing. I’ve got no shame in admitting that I felt slightly uncomfortable when the scantily-clad teenage girls seemed to be grinding against their teachers, but I appreciate being in a country where a classroom can be turned into a tropical dance floor on a Wednesday morning. I also accompanied Enrique to an end-of-year do put on by the big bosses at Pemex, pretty powerful, big cheeses, which made warbling away on the karaoke with them even more ridiculous. However, I wasn’t complaining when I carried away the first prize in the raffle, and got my grubby peasanty mitts on 20 year old bubbly, good French and Italian wines and Spanish nibbles, not every day snacks here.

The lights I spewed over my house, the tree and nativity scene which invaded the living room, the festive jellies and pastries we churned out day in and day out and the presents I lovingly bought for the family were all a forerunner for the big day, the 24^th. Not the 25^th as I’m used to, but the previous night, which we spent in the family bakery, eating the tamales I helped to make, singing carols and being merry until the early hours, when we went home for our own Christmas dinner of meat, meat and meat. The tears I shed at 2am, as the fireworks lit up the droplets falling out of the corners of my eyes as I stood in what I thought was a secluded corner, were a result of sheer happiness in where I was but nostalgia for Christmases spent in sunny Barnet, ‘en famille’. Christmas is very much a family time, and like in any household, there’s the rituals, the unavoidable customs, and I had endless appreciation for this family who opened their home to me on a day when I was far from my English home, but felt very much at home in my surroundings.