Old Night

Old night is what spanish speaking peoples call New Year's Eve. Maybe that's because it's often the longest night of the year as people tend to stay up until the next day. Or, maybe it's because by the end of the night one feels pretty damn old. I would guess that in most cultures New Year's Eve is a night when one contemplates the passing of time and the possibilities, both good and bad, ahead of us.

Either way, I was feeling old even before the night began and I wondered how on earth I'd make it to midnight. I was sure Luis would share my doubts since he'd worked that day from 3 am to 6 pm clearing snow. But, the thought of not partying the night away didn't even seem to enter his mind. I began to suspect that even contemplating not staying up to celebrate was akin to insulting one's own mother, the biggest no-no that seems to exist in Mexican culture. (It's perhaps not odd that the adoration of one's sainted mother shares such a huge cultural space with a range of insults based on the word "madre." But, I'll save that subject for another day.)

Alejandra had prepared a huge quantity of food for her guests along with about a 5 gallon pot of caliente, a hot drink made of fruit cooked with spices to be drunk with rum or without (for the abstaining women). Every 20 minutes or so Juan would circulate asking each person individually if they needed another drink and the beer flowed and flowed without the slightest thought of how people would drive home later that night. We danced to blaring cumbias, tried to avoid trampling the 5 children playing amongst us, wiped the sweat from our brows, and for the first time in weeks turned the heat down.

After Juan made his fourth or fifth round I told him that he was a very gracious host and thanked him for taking such good care of us. He said that when people come to his home he takes pride in being sure that his guests feel welcomed and happy to be there. He also told me that I should consider this my home, too, and if I was ever alone or lonely I should feel free to to come over. This gesture of hospitality and of welcoming me into their family touched me and I thanked him. But, as usual, I wondered if I was reciprocating in an appropriate way and not missing some cue unseen to me.

Later, I wondered whether Juan's welcome and offer of refuge to me was a recognition of a painful reality most couples and all families here face, the dual specters of separation and return. Juan's acknowledgement of a possible time when I might be alone articulated what him and I had never spoken of, the possibility that Luis would have to go home and leave me behind. The same way people had left behind their spouses, parents, children and their dear friends in Mexico.

Drink summons the barely-hidden sentimentality behind even the most macho of these Mexican men. The thought of one's elderly parents or a beloved compadre living a universe away, separated by a border that takes many thousands of dollars to even hope to cross, will cause the tears to flow after downing a few beers. But, there were no tears tonight.

Although clearly exhausted Luis danced for hours reminding me a little of my grandmother who used to embarrass my brother and I at parties by dancing flamenco, chin held high with a proud, defiant smile daring anyone to make her day. But, I also thought about the way my mother often said that American parties were so boring because nobody danced and had a good time the way they did in the culture of her youth. Luis held his chin high, too, and danced with the bravado and grace of one who'd clearly done his share of partying throughout the years. When two-year old Edwin joined us to dance woodenly, with an endurance that astonished me, Luis cheered him on until two in the morning, surely pleased to be baptising him into the ritual playing itself out.