Happy New Year!

I have always loved the idea of the New Year’s Bash. I imagine the “When Harry Met Sally” version: Champaign, fancy clothes, great music, and a balloon drop at midnight. Sounds delightful. Never done it. My tribe doesn’t do big parties, really. There is no line in my budget for formalwear. And I don’t recall any kids around when Harry kissed Sally. A U.S. New Year’s party is decidedly age segregated. While some Americans ring out the old in this way, many of us greet the New Year drooling on our pillow.

Venezuelans consider New Year’s a central holiday. It is as important as Christmas, if not more so. When I tell them that my family will not be together on this night, and some will not be awake to even recognize the changing year, they give me looks of pity and surprise. Venezuelan New Year’s Eve is a family affair, and it involves dressing up. Generations spend the evening together, sharing good food, music, and, among adults, alcohol.

One of my most vivid and fond memories of my exchange student year in Maracaibo was a night of Champaign, dress-up and celebration on December 31, 1987. So much did I want to relive this event with my family that I planned our winter vacation dates around arriving in Maracaibo for “The 31^st,” as the holiday is called. After a tearful goodbye to my in-laws and recovery from the eight hour drive (at 30 miles an hour – a topic for another time), I began my anticipation of the evening.

I prepare the kids for a late night beyond their wildest dreams. Most U.S. parents treat bedtime the way the NFL treats the football schedule. Perhaps a major terrorist attack might create a delay, but not much else. I have hosted and attended many U.S. parties where parents depart because they do not want to violate the sacred bedtime hour. Venezuelans do not let some calcified schedule interrupt a gathering. Once again proving that culture often trumps biology, this does not seem to phase kids a bit here. My Venezuelan niece does not take a nap to prepare for the late night, nor does her family worry about or even mention that she would be “up past her bedtime.” My gringo daughter has not had a lifetime of late-night family gatherings, so we nap in preparation.

Around 7:30 pm, we lose half of our revelers when Anson fell sick with a sudden flu. He and Victor spend the evening at my host sister’s apartment with Direct TV. Disappointed but anticipating the evening, Risa and I dress in our best and head out.

As Venezuelans spend the evening with family, couples negotiate

how to split the evening, using techniques deployed by partners in U.S. Christmas. My host sister’s husband spends the first part of the evening with his wife, then leaves with his father to arrive in time for ringing in the year with siblings and mother. My brother and his wife for the past twenty years have spent the evening with their mothers, with their children following the pattern. Tio Nerio has been the annual host for my maracucho family’s New Year’s Eve for over two decades. A business owner living in a spacious home with ample help to cater the party, he hosts with Champaign and gracious rooms to spread and spend the evening. For several hours, Risa plays with her cousin Cami while I pinch myself, unable to believe that I have returned to this family after twenty years, and that they have welcomed me back with such grace and affection. We talk, drink Champaign, and take pictures.

Close to midnight, the grapes arrive at the table. Each guest tries to eat twelve in the last minutes of the year, making a wish for each. Risa and I work on our grapes together. Her wishes: a horse and “horse equipment.” My wishes: health, a book manuscript, continued family joy. My host mother, who loves Barack Obama as passionately as I do, wishes along with me for his success as president. Our wishes made, we begin waiting. We count down to midnight. Risa and I give the first hug of the New Year, followed by hugs and kisses for EVERY person of the twenty-some guests who spent the evening toegehter.

We rush to the street to watch the fireworks being shot out across the neighborhood. “There is some major money being shot out here,” comments more than one guest. The girls look giddy (see left) as across the entire horizon, in the dark of Venezuela’s second largest city, fireworks explode. The delight on Risa’s face as she hugs her cousin and watches is the moment I will remember always from this night.

After the business of welcoming in 2009, it is time to eat. Women from the family have brought the must-serve Venezuelan holiday dishes, including hallacas, turkey, pork, Russian salad, and a version of lasagna. Tio Nerio’s cook and house manager of twenty-eight years also provides fantastic food. To top things off, my host sisters own a high-end, by-commission-only bakery, Delicious…, so my sister also bring one of the country's most traditional dishes, quesillo, and a fabulous lemon pie. The girls have already eaten, and move straight to dessert. Other guests arrive. We take turns at the table enjoying this bounty. It almost replaced the Thanksgiving we missed this year. The only thing missing were my two guys, stuck at home thanks to the flu.

My family considers their New Year’s party to have an early ending. “By 1:30, we’re done. It’s time for bed,” my mother tells me over and over. No problem for the gringos! I remember concerts and dances lasting all night when I lived with them in the 80s. Other friends in our hometown Merida reported festivities lasting until three or four.

At the end of the meal, the party is over. We say goodnight to each person with a kiss, and walk into the sultry night, just Risa, my host Mom, and me. Risa chatters in Spanish about the night, the food, and how tired she is. She clearly feels proud of her ability to stay up so late! I carry her to bed and tuck her in around three. Despite no balloon drop, it was a magical evening for us both.