When I was growing up, in a secular Jewish family in what was then a very Christian city, Christmas was my least favourite time of year. It was the time I felt most excluded and lonely. Some readers, especially those who have grown up in more diverse times, may have trouble understanding this, but here’s how it was:
First there were all the weeks building up to Christmas. The excitement for an event I wouldn’t be celebrating, the Christmas carols at school that I felt uncomfortable singing, the gift wish lists my friends were writing to “Santa” – long past the age when they knew Santa wasn’t real, the Santas Anonymous dances where we were all told to bring gifts to be given to children who wouldn’t get any otherwise. Heck, I thought as a child, I wasn’t going to be getting any gifts either, so why should they?
On Christmas Eve nobody was around to hang out with; they were all with their families. Sometimes my parents took us out for a drive around the city to look at the Christmas lights. I liked that part. But it also brought up the embarrassing matter of us not having lights on our house. We were the only ones on the block who didn’t have lights.
Christmas Day was the absolute worst. In the morning, there was nobody to play with. There was nothing good on TV. Nothing fun to do. Eventually, in the afternoon, other kids would head out onto the street to play and show off their gifts. They were all excitedly telling each other what they’d got. Then they’d turn to me.
“What did you get?”
How could I tell them that I got nothing, and still somehow save face? Should I lie and pretend I’d got some fabulous gifts? Or should I acknowledge that we didn’t celebrate Christmas, and endure the barrage of questions about why not? Should I tell them about the one present I’d got from a colleague of my dad’s, and claim that the little book or stuffed animal was really my favourite gift, when they all talked about their new toboggans, and toys, and clothes?
I was determined that my kids would not feel that way at Christmas, so my goal was to get them away from our city over the holidays. Sure, people in Mexico or California celebrated Christmas, but at least my children didn’t have any friends there to compare with.
This is a long introduction to say that I wasn’t quite sure what to expect of Christmas in Peru.
Although I’ve spent many Christmases in warm climates, this year felt really strange. I guess it was because we had missed the miserable cold, increasingly dark months leading up to it. Instead, we’d skipped from the end of summer in London to spring and the start of summer in South America. So it just didn’t feel like it could possibly be Christmas time.
My fitness trainer, Diego, had told me that the main event takes place during the transition from Christmas Eve to Christmas Day. In the past, of course, many people would have gone to church for a midnight mass, but nobody I’ve spoken to here does that any more. However it was clear from our Peruvian acquaintances that everybody who possibly can goes home to have a Christmas Eve dinner with their parents and siblings. Turkey is eaten, champagne is drunk, pannetone is consumed, gifts are exchanged.
Christmas Day is not as big a deal as Christmas Eve, although the stores and museums are all closed. Hardworking Diego, however, had three clients scheduled on Christmas Day.
On the evening of December 24 our first set of visitors headed out to the airport, and my son (who had arrived from Sweden the night before) and I settled in to await his girlfriend and his sister, who would both be arriving in that Christmas Eve to Christmas Day transition time. (Read, in the middle of the bloody night!) DH, early riser that he is, went to bed.
Around 10:45 p.m. I noticed fireworks in the distance. I love fireworks, so I was happy to see them. Then, a few minutes later, there were more. From a different spot on the horizon. And then still more… We are blessed to live in an apartment with a view to the horizon over much of the city. Soon, fireworks were coming from all directions.
The intensity picked up as we neared midnight. On the stroke of midnight the city went wild. Church bells pealed. Fireworks lit up the skies from every direction. It was amazing!
Even more amazing, it went on and on. I’m not just talking dime store firecrackers here; I’m talking about full fledged colourful fancy fireworks. And not just in the rich districts; there were a lot coming from the barrios as well.
Although the intensity did slow down after around 1:00 a.m. there were still fireworks going off until after 3:00 a.m. Unbelievable!
Today I read this last line in a Peruvian news story:
“Although prohibited by law, fireworks were heard and seen on the streets.”
Talk about an understatement!
