On New Year’s Eve, our friends Carlos and Daniela invited us to spend the evening with Carlos’s Mexican grandmother.
She lives in a quiet colonia north of the city, and so we drove up and hung out with Carlos’s father, little brother, aunt, uncle and a few cousins. The grandmother, who I’m going to call Lila (I think that was her name but I don’t entirely remember), had prepared a big feast: spaghetti with tomato sauce and cheese, bacalao, pork loin in achiote sauce, creamy apple salad with pecans, and romeritos with mole.
We munched on strawberry ate and cheese and crackers, and sat down to eat around 9:30 or 10 p.m. We talked about the difference between New Year’s Eve in Mexico and in the U.S., and how in the latter, the night’s mostly built around partying with your friends.
At midnight, we each got a small plate of grapes.
“Make a wish for each one you eat,” Lila told me.
I did. Then we poured champagne, and Daniela took off her wedding ring and slipped it into her glass.
“For good luck,” she said. I did the same.
After that, we walked out the front door and took turns tossing a cup of water into the front yard, to signify less tears in the New Year. We threw coins on the sidewalk, for financial stability. Then, Lila gave us each a tote bag, and we walked into the street.
“Córrele!” she said to me, smiling. Run!
Carlos, Daniela, Crayton and I ran down the street with our tote bags, all of us trailing behind Lila, who is very spry.
The longer we ran, the more exotic locations we’d travel to in 2010, or so the thinking went. Since Crayton and I are already planning to go to India, Carlos joked that we’d have to run 16 blocks. I made it maybe one and then came back.
Next New Year’s Eve, I’m wearing more comfortable shoes.
