Seasonal Traditions, Old and New

Christmas is not a huge celebration in our house. We don’t trim a Christmas tree, bake holiday cakes, or hang colorful lights around the eaves. There are no milk and cookies waiting for Santa to come barreling down the chimney, hungry and thirsty from his sooty exertions. But before you get the idea that we’re a couple of Scrooges who do our best to ruin the joy for everyone else, let me reassure you that Christmas doesn’t pass us by entirely unnoticed. We have a rather eclectic set of holiday traditions, mixed and matched from my childhood memories and my husband’s Persian culture.

So even though Christmas is fairly low-key around here, we still manage to get into the holiday spirit. Here are my favorite ways to celebrate this joyful time of year.

My favorite ancient Persian ritual:

A few days before Christmas, we celebrate Shabeh Yalda, a winter solstice celebration whose roots go back to ancient Persia and its Zoroastrian rulers. (I blogged about it here last year.) On this longest night of the year, we stay up late eating pomegranates, preserved peaches, watermelon, and pistachio nuts, while reading Persian poetry, usually Hafez or Rumi. There is something about eating summer fruit in the deep freeze of winter that makes me think of people long ago who hoarded fragile produce as an offering to the sun god in hopes that it would give him strength to overcome the darkness and bring back spring. In our modern age, with our confidence in science and knowledge of the ways of nature, it doesn’t hurt to remember people who lacked such certainty yet paid greater attention to the world around them.

My favorite holiday meal:

Christmas dinner at our house is a far cry from the meal I grew up with. My mother used to serve a ham baked with pineapple slices and a brown sugar glaze. After the feast, the bone and remaining scraps of meat would go into a German-style split pea soup that would last us well into the new year.

Ham is not a big hit in my household today, so I make javaher polo instead, a Persian dish whose name means “bejeweled rice.” It may come from a culture that doesn’t celebrate Christmas, but I can think of no more festive dish to serve on a holiday table. The white rice sparkles with ruby-toned barberries, slivered green pistachios and creamy almonds, glistening orange peel, and a splash of golden saffron. No matter how much I prepare, this dish never lasts as long as my mother’s pea soup did, but paired with a roast chicken and served with a glass of sparkling wine, it looks and tastes just like Christmas should.

My favorite holiday decoration:

I may not deck the halls with boughs of holly or my house with garlands of lights, but my one nod to the neighborhood decorating frenzy is that I hang an evergreen wreath on my front door. I love wreaths of all kinds – herbal ones in the summertime, fragrant with mint, lavender, and thyme. Fruit wreaths in the fall as a tribute to bountiful harvests. A circle is such a comforting shape, with no beginning and no end.

My favorite family tradition:

Throughout the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve, I slice up a Christstollen, a dense German cake filled with dried fruit and almonds and iced with melted butter and powered sugar. Arranged on a special plate along with a few decorative rosemary sprigs (which are usually putting out their tiny blue blossoms at this time of year), it makes a sweet addition to breakfast.

This tradition started many years ago with a crotchety old aunt of mine. She lived in Dresden, a German city that at the time lay well behind the Iron Curtain in the German Democratic Republic. This aunt despised my mother (and, by extension, my sister and me) and never wasted an opportunity to criticize everything we did, from the way we dressed (not fashionably Parisian enough – and this from a dyed-in-the-wool Communist) to where we lived (in the decadent heart of Capitalism). But she saved up her kindness for one act of generosity at Christmas, when she’d send us an authentic Dresdner Christstollen, purchased from a famous bakery whose holiday confections were intended only for export. You had to have serious political connections to buy one in its city of origin.

The pastry arrived in a metal box with a picture of a medieval city sketched on the side, and it took metal cutters, a hammer, and a chisel to pry the container open. But the treat inside, a gift from one of the most unpleasant people I’ve ever encountered, always reminded me that everyone, no matter how nasty they may be, has the capacity for kindness. Isn’t that what the holidays are all about?

One Step at a Time

For more than a century, Argentina and Uruguay have butted heads about where the first tango steps were taken. They’ve also spent many decades arguing about the birthplace of Carlos Gardel, one of tango’s greatest crooners. But in 2009, the two countries kicked aside their differences and joined forces to persuade UNESCO to list the tango as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. Tango lovers around the world celebrated, happy their beloved dance and music will forever be protected. This massive achievement is especially impressive for a little dance that had some very dodgy beginnings.

The first time I saw tango dancers was in the quaint neighborhood of San Telmo, Buenos Aires. On a cobblestoned plaza, amongst a crowded antique bazaar, a woman in a sequined dress and gentleman in a designer suit danced with an intensity and passion that captured the onlookers, including me. That was the moment I fell in love with the tango, and I’ve been fascinated with its history ever since. 

Back in the 1800s, Argentina and Uruguay opened its doors to immigrants. They came from Africa, Spain, Italy, England, Wales, Poland, and Russia and each brought their own music and dances. Eventually, the African rhythms mixed with the South American milonga music (a fast-paced polka) and new steps were invented. This was the first foray into tango.

Most immigrants were single men hoping to make a fortune in their new country. Destitute and desperate, they gravitated toward each other in the brothels and port-side bars, wallowing in their sorrow and longing for the people and places they’d left behind. This remorse and mourning is the basis of most tango lyrics. I advise you not to listen too closely unless you’re ready for a good cry or want to spiral into a pit of depression.

As tango was initially danced by people who couldn’t read or write, there is no documentation backing the tango’s history. Of course, people are happy to give their own version of events, even though they happened over a century ago. It is well known that men first danced the tango together, but no one knows exactly why. Some historians say it’s because the men got bored waiting for their turn in the brothels. Others say men practiced their steps so they could woo the woman of their dreams through dance. I have my own idea, but that’s a whole other post I promise to write at a later date. Or maybe you’ll have to wait until I finish writing my tango mystery novel.

Argentine and Uruguayan high society looked down their noses at those dwelling in the brothels, even though their well-to-do sons were not averse to slumming it every now and again. Word of the tango spread, and by the beginning of the twentieth century, the tango became popular with everyone apart from the elite.

The wealthy sons traveled to Paris and introduced the tango to Parisian high society, which embraced the risque moves. The year 1913 saw the tango become an international phenomenon in England, France, and the United States, although the dance had been modified slightly. The “ballroom tango” had less body contact, though many were still shocked by the obvious passion compared with the tame waltz. High society Argentines and Uruguayans, who had rejected this dance and music, were now forced to accept it with national pride and gathered to dance in ostentatious dance halls, complete with crystal chandeliers.

In 1926, the Italian-born Rudolph Valentino starred in The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. He performed the tango in wide trousers and leather chaps (as worn by a gaucho—an Argentine cowboy) and had a carnation in his mouth and whip in his hand. This visual brought the Argentine tango to the attention of the cinema-going public, despite the fact that gauchos didn’t dance the tango. Probably the most famous tango scene ever on film, Valentino’s performance cemented the Hollywood future for all tango stars at the time to wear gaucho attire. 

By the 1930s, Argentina was one of the world’s ten richest nations and the arts flourished. Carlos Gardel, one of tango’s most famous singers, made his mark in Hollywood until he was tragically killed in an air crash in Colombia in 1935. His legend still lives on, with millions of his recordings and paraphernalia sold the world over. 

Carlos Gardel

The 1950s saw Argentina’s economic situation take a dive. The country was in political turmoil with military dictatorships banning large gatherings. The tango went underground but still managed to survive. Small, unpublicized venues were frequented by the people, reflecting the drive and passion behind the music and the dance. 

With the advent of rock and roll, the tango declined even further until the mid-1980s when a stage show, Tango Argentino, hit the stages of Paris. Once again, France became the springboard for the tango’s worldwide popularity. 

In last week’s blog (here), I mentioned the amazing talents of Astor Piazzolla, a man who has mastered the art of tango’s main instrument, the bandoneón. Born in 1921, he spent decades paving the way for Tango Nuevo, a style of tango that incorporates jazz and classical music. Piazzolla wrote 3,000 songs and recorded around 500, and even though he died in 1992, his death is still mourned by tango lovers around the world. 

Tango today is changing again. The Argentine and Uruguayan youth that once thought of it as a fuddy-duddy dance now embrace it. Musicians are mixing the old with the new, dancers are creating more complicated steps, and the two countries are uniting over a shared passion for a dance with a very colorful history. 

I’ll never play a bandoneón like Piazzolla, sing like Gardel, or be a cast member of Tango Argentino, but what I can do is appreciate the skill and dedication it takes to create a style of music and dance that tells stories of love and heartache. In a way, the tango is a reflection of the turbulent history of Argentina and Uruguay. 

And for your viewing pleasure, I present a couple of brothers who can not only dance, but will make you laugh; Rudolph Valentino at his finest; and a couple of dancers who will amaze you. Enjoy!

As Shaky As A Fiddler On The Roof?

For me, the word tradition is synonymous with Fiddler on the Roof. It is the song the musical opens with, and it is the theme that permeates the entire story.

 

“Tradition!” sings the chorus of Anatevka’s boys, girls, mamas, and papas, as Tevye the Milkman explains the rules of the small Jewish shtetl. “Here in Anatevka, we have traditions for everything... how to eat, how to sleep, even how to wear clothes. For instance, we always keep our heads covered and always wear a little prayer shawl... You may ask, how did this tradition start? I'll tell you - I don't know. But it's a tradition... Because of our traditions, everyone knows who he is and what God expects him to do."

The famous Broadway musical is based on the stories of Tevye the Milkman, written by the Yiddish author and playwright Solomon Rabinovich, known better by his pen name of Sholem Aleichem (Шолом-Алейхем). Sholem was born in Ukraine in 1859 and later immigrated to the United States as part of the Jewish exodus from the oppressive tsarist Russia. My family owned a full collection of his works, so I grew up reading his stories, novels, and plays, which I viewed as my historical heritage. Of course, I had to see Fiddler on Roof! But, like many staged productions, and especially Broadway shows, Fiddler on the Roof had interesting twists on the Jewish traditions, which were a bit different than what I'd heard from my grandparents and other elders as a young girl. For starters, I was surprised to see that the fiddler’s depiction of the shtetl was a patriarchate.

(Tevye & Papas)
Who day and night
Must scramble for a living
Feed the wife and children
Say his daily prayers
And who has the right
As master of the house
To have the final word at home?

Growing up, I don’t think I knew a single Jewish family in which the father had the final word at home. I knew some families in which fathers didn’t have any word at all – but certainly not the other way around. In my knowledge of a traditional Jewish household, moms ruled the world. Moms defined rights and wrongs, moms made decisions, and moms laid out plans. Dads were kept posted. For the most part.

The second surprise was when it came to family planning.

(Daughters)
And who does mama teach
To mend and tend and fix
Preparing me to marry
Whoever papa picks?

When it came to matchmakers, the moms I knew would never trust their inept husbands to pair up their beloved offspring! I could always tell moms were up to something when they gathered behind closed doors in the kitchen, discussing something in low, whispery voices.  It usually meant that someone had a daughter or a son old enough to tie the knot. And their parents wanted to see them wed to a Jewish spouse.

It didn’t always work, but the moms, aunties, and grandmas always tried. The modern Jewish moms and dads had one thing in common with the Anatevka mamas and papas: they both wanted their children to marry their own kind – and stay Jewish. That was one tradition they felt strongly about. Luckily, they didn’t banish their rebellious offspring from their sight like Tevye did his daughter who chose to wed outside her faith. Otherwise, quite a few young folk from my generation would end up not talking to our parents ever again. Myself included.

(Tevye)
"Tradition. Without our traditions, our lives would be as shaky as... as a fiddler on the roof!"

What would you say? Does tradition preserve the best of the past or stunts new growth? 

Cotton Candy Dreams

I just returned from a week-long trip to Disney World with my family. Before I go soak my sore feet and unpack the cheesy souvenirs and several loads of laundry, some quick thoughts on a true American tradition.

Disney with the kids was pure magic. My little one thought the sun sparkling on the water came from pixie dust, and she heard music when she brushed her teeth at night. My almost-nine-year-old who rolled her eyes at the thought of princesses made sure to get autographs from all of them. She didn’t let us leave the park till we stood in yet another line to get one last one from Pluto.

The magic of smart phones made it more convenient for this generation of parents as well. We used an app to check out wait times for popular rides, made meal reservations online, and pinged each other when we split up for different activities.

It was a lot different when I went as a kid. There was no Epcot then. No American Idol. No Pixar. No Fast Pass tickets. No cell phones. No cable TV. New technology and new media have changed the landscape entirely. But there was one tiny symbol that brought it all back for me, and it doesn’t involve mouse ears. When the kids begged for cotton candy, there was a bit of discussion from the other adults about its lack of nutritional value and whether it was worth the splurge. But it reminded me of my first trip to Disney. Decades later, who knows what tchotchkeys I’d come home with, but the memory of strolling past the magical castle with a stick of the pink fluffy stuff symbolizes a tradition I’m pretty sure my kids will continue.

The Last Dance

Photo by Pavel Krok

Whenever I hear tango music I conjure up visions of dapper men in sharp suits, hats tilted to the side, wooing women in fishnet stockings and low-cut dresses clinging to sensuous curves. The couple sway to the rhythm of the music, a soulful bandoneón dictating their every move. Most onlookers focus on the dancers, barely giving the orchestra a second glance. But if you can take your eyes off the Tango dancers for long enough and concentrate on a bandoneón player, you’ll notice the passion that pours from his soul and into the instrument. There is an undying love and obvious connection between the player and his bandoneón, not unlike Tango dancers and their partners. Unfortunately, the bandoneón is under threat of extinction and without it, Tango music as we know it will change forever.

Today there are only two bandoneón repair shops in the world, both in Buenos Aires. Originally made in Germany in the 1800’s, the bandonion (as it was called in Germany) was used for religious music in German churches. In the 1850’s the German and Italian sailors and emigrants brought the instrument to the shores of Argentina. They incorporated the bandoneón into a new music and dance that started in the brothels of Buenos Aires—the Tango.

Thousands of the instruments were sent to Argentina from Germany, but production stopped when the manufacturer closed down during World War II. These days only a handful of the original instruments remain, there are no spare parts and their legacy relies heavily on the craftspeople continuing a century old tradition.

Even though the bandoneón may look like it’s related to an accordion to the untrained eye, they come from completely different families. The bandoneón is part of the concertina family and doesn’t have the piano-like keys found on an accordion. Instead, a bandoneón has buttons on both sides of the instrument and has two-voice notes--when a note is pressed, another one plays at the same time. There are over 70 buttons on the bandoneón, giving the instrument a diverse range and adds a richness and depth to the music that is recognised worldwide as an integral part of the Tango. 

With the resurgence of Tango over the last decade, Tango musicians and collectors bought up the bandoneón’s and would pay up to U.S.$7,000 per piece. But the Argentine government recently passed a law that prohibits anyone other than an Argentina musician on tour, from taking an original bandoneón out of the country.

Argentina has produced new versions of bandoneón’s, but according to Tango aficionados, the sound is less authentic and doesn’t have the soul of the originals. One of the reasons it is lacking the original sound is because the German-made bandoneón’s had their wood aged for ten to fifteen years before being hand-made into an instrument.

With the originals dying out, the sound of Tango will change. The love and care this instrument has received over the years is not enough to keep them alive forever. Even with the proper care, it is expected the originals may only last for another fifty years. Let’s hope someone can find an answer to this problem and save the world from the loss of something that is as Argentine as the Tango.

And of course, I need to share some music with you by one of Tango’s greatest, Astor Piazzolla:

Next week I’ll be covering some interesting developments in the world of Tango and UNESCO.

A Slice of History

From a distance, the ancient village of Abyaneh looks like a collection of crude buildings hacked from red rock. Up close, it seems as though time stopped a thousand years ago, leaving the place stuck in a preindustrial time warp. Nestled in the foothills of the Karkas Mountains of central Iran, the village is a tangle of narrow, sloping lanes and red brick houses topped by timber, clay, and thatched roofs. Staircases, rough-hewn into the mountainside, climb between buildings and offer close-up views of Abyaneh’s distinctive lattice terraces and decorative brickwork. Wooden doors with traditional brass knockers—a heavy, rectangular one for men and a lighter, circular one for women—guard the entrances and alert the residents to the gender of the visitor at the door. Many also sport ornate carvings or lines of poetry.

Tradition is strong in Abyaneh, whose history stretches back 2,000 years. It took the Abyunakis (as the villagers are called) nearly a millennium to abandon their Zoroastrian religion, converting to Islam only during the reign of the Safavid King Ismael II (late 1500s). The villagers speak a dialect that is closely related to 4th-century Parthian Pahlavi and still wear distinctive traditional clothing: white capes over richly embroidered tunics and calf-length skirts for the women, loose-fitting trousers and round caps for the men.

Abyaneh’s history is written in its architecture. The village has a Zoroastrian fire temple, eight mosques, historic houses dating back to the Safavid period, an imamzadeh (Shi’ite shrine)—and a permanent population of 250. For like rural communities everywhere, Abyunaki youth follow a well-beaten path of migration to the city in search of jobs and an easier life.

I visited Abyaneh on a warm Friday in October, making the long, dusty drive through the desert from Isfahan with my husband and his sister. The road wound into the mountains through a landscape of fields and farms then leafy green forest. We parked outside the village walls, next to one of the mosques, and at first it felt as though the place were entirely deserted. Only one old woman selling bags of pistachio nuts met us on the narrow lane that led into the heart of the village. For the price of one of her wares she divulged the news that everyone was in the mosque at Friday prayers.

We arrived in the center of town just as the Abyunakis emerged from the mosque’s wide doorway, women first in their colorful cloaks, followed by the men in dark suits and finally a white-turbaned cleric in typical loose robes. Even now, several years later, this image is burned in my mind: the pure white, rose, and red of the women’s clothing against the rust-colored walls of the mosque, and overhead a turquoise sky.

Farther down the road, a woman beckoned and invited us into her home. She offered to dress me in Abyunaki garb so we could take a picture—for a fee. My sister-in-law considered the asking price a rip-off, and when negotiations failed to lower it to her satisfaction, we settled for a quick look around the place. And I learned another Abyaneh tradition: a smooth blend between human habitation and the environment. Abyaneh homes have a “summer” room and a “winter” room, each situated to take advantage of the season’s sunlight and offer either cooling in hot weather or warmth in frigid temperatures.

Before leaving Abyaneh, I stood on the terrace next to the imamzadeh and gazed out into the green landscape. Behind me, two Abyunaki women were hawking handwoven bags and dried fruit, while before me lay orchards and fields of grazing cattle. The village has managed to straddle a fine line between vanishing traditions and the modern world, selling its past to tourists while maintaining an ancient way of life in the present. How long Abyaneh will manage to maintain this balance is anyone’s guess, but for now visitors flock to this unique Iranian village and come away with a slice of history.

Sibling Sacraments

Like clockwork every year for the past couple decades, two of my husband’s cousins mail him elegant, gold-embroidered raakhis, collections of threads woven together in different patterns and designs to form slim, colorful wristbands. Along with each, come their messages of love and blessings for his continued success, happiness, and well being.

The age-old tradition of sisters—for female cousins are considered sisters—tying the raakhi around their brother’s wrist is known as Raksha Bandhan, literally meaning “bond of protection.” In return, brothers—including cousin-brothers and often good friends—are supposed to shower their sisters with gifts and promise to protect them. This filial custom is observed by Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs in India, and to a lesser extent, in Nepal and parts of Pakistan.

The raakhis themselves are like little pieces of jewelry, from ornate to simple, colorful and plain, made from simple cotton threads to elaborate ones, sometimes with mirrored, sequined, or bejeweled pendants. They can be handmade or purchased in nearly any Indian shop the world over at a certain time of year. The festival itself takes place on the full moon day of the Hindu calendar month of Shravan, which falls sometime around the last part of August.

There are various interesting accounts of this tradition:

• When the Hindu god Krishna lived on earth as a man, he became injured in a legendary battle recorded in the epic story of the Mahabharata. Draupadi, the wife of his friends (side note, she was married to five men, the Pandava brothers), tore off a piece of her sari and wrapped it as a bandage around his wrist to staunch the bleeding. Legend has it that Krishna was so touched by her concern and affection that he became devoted to her as a brother to his sister and spent years trying to pay back the debt. Historians have confirmed that this battle took place in 3,067 B.C., so if this bit about Krishna and Draupadi is true, the Rakhsa Bandhan custom is truly ancient.

• When Alexander the Great invaded India in 326 B.C., his wife Roxana (Roshanak) sent a raakhi to one of Alexander’s nemeses, King Porus, asking him not to harm her husband in battle. Supposedly, when Porus was about to deliver the final blow to Alexander on the battlefield, he saw the raakhi on his wrist (his own wrist) and ultimately restrained himself from killing Alexander. (You have to wonder how that decision went over with his troops.)

• In the 15th century, as the Portuguese were expanding their empire in India, the various medieval kingdoms of the Rajputs, Mughals, and Sultans fought numerous regional skirmishes to protect their territories and gain others. At one point, the widowed queen of the Rajput kingdom of Chittor sent a raakhi to the Mughal Emperor Humayun when she realized she could not fend off an invasion by the Sultan of Gujarat. The emperor was so touched by her gesture, he abandoned a military campaign to come to her rescue.

• During India’s independence movement in the 1930s and 1940s, people of either gender tied raakhis to each other in a show of unity.

Other legends documenting the raakhi through history abound, and the custom has taken on countless regional names and variations depending on where it’s practiced.

There’s another similar tradition called bhai dooj or bhaubiz. It occurs during Diwali, the festival of lights, which takes place around late October or early November. On that particular day (either the second or fifth day of Diwali, depending on region), brothers are supposed to visit their sisters, who perform small prayer ceremonies so that their brothers lead long, healthy lives. Women who do not have brothers are supposed to worship the moon god instead.

They may not know it, but my husband’s sisters have been carrying on a 5,000-year-old custom passed down from gods and royalty. Not a bad legacy.

Feliz Navidad

I spent my first Christmas away from Australia in South America. I had figured it wouldn’t be dissimilar from the Land of the Long Weekend. After all, South America was in the same hemisphere, and experiencing 40 degrees C on Christmas Day wasn’t unheard of at home either. Catholicism was common in Australia, as in South America, so really, how different could things be? You’ve got it—our traditions were poles apart. I was living in Peru at the time and had the pleasure of celebrating with friends from various parts of the globe, including many South American countries. We decided to group together our Christmas traditions and make it one big cultural mash-up. And here’s what I learnt:

Colombia: The nativity scene is made of clay figures, known as pesebres. The Mary and Joseph figurines wear traditional Colombian attire, such as a poncho, fedora hat and shawl. El Dia de las Velitas (Day of the Candles) is held on the seventh of December and that’s when Advent prayers start. On 16^th December is the start of La Novena de Aguinaldos, a prayer that is said over nine successive days up until Christmas Eve. These prayers tell what happened during the nine month pregnancy of Mary and Joseph. This Colombian tradition dates back to the 1700’s and little has changed since the first prayer was said.

Peru: Nativity scenes are called retablos. Historically, priests carried small altars from house to house with a nativity scene similar to the one in Colombia. Nowadays priests use portable boxes instead (I guess their muscles got tired). Dances and plays are put on throughout the festive season and traditional Peruvian food is served during these celebrations. As an act of good will, churches and generous people make choclotadas (cups of hot chocolate) and give gifts to those to the less fortunate.

Venezuela: On December 16, families display their pesebres. (They’re called the same in Colombia.) At dawn, church bells chime and firecrackers explode to wake up all the worshippers on Christmas Eve. On the 5^th of January, children leave out hay and water for the camels of the Magi (the wise men) and in the morning they find their offerings are replaced by gifts. If the children wake up and have a black smudge on their cheek, they believe that Balthazar, King of the Ethiopians, kissed them while they were asleep.

Ecuador: Children write letters to baby Jesus and place their shoes on their windowsill on Christmas Eve. The next morning, the children usually awake to find noise-making toys in their footwear. Firecrackers, brass bands, and dancing in the streets are popular and most families attend Midnight Mass.

Brazil: Christmas is influenced by the Jesuit monks. But, over the years, Brazil has adapted many North American traditions, which means the old traditions are falling by the wayside.

In South America, the commercialism of Christmas is no way near the frantic extent it is in other parts of the world, and to be honest, it was a welcome relief. The focus was on family, friends and celebrating beliefs, which at times, are a combination of modern-day religion and the traditions of their ancestors. Santa and presents is not the be all and end all. For me, I found the true spirit of Christmas in South America.

The mother of my “adopted” family in Peru did a great deal of volunteer work for the children’s hospital and a psychiatric home for children in Lima. On Christmas morning, she invited me to join her in her own Christmas Day tradition—handing out presents to children at the hospital and psychiatric home who either had no family or were so poor their family couldn’t afford gifts. Armed with sweets and books we set off. I had no idea this particular morning would be the one that changed my whole view of Christmas. Previously I had thought it was one commercial rip-off. But in that moment, when I was surrounded by children who just wanted a hug and were happy to see someone show them some love, I finally got what it was all about.

How about you? Through learning about another culture have you changed the way you view a familiar tradition?

Cutting Ties

Growing up in Australia, I’d been to many weddings, mostly the traditional white-poufy dress and penguin suit affairs. I thought I’d seen it all, but nothing prepared me for a wedding Brazilian style.

I’d been backpacking through Brazil and had made some friends with the locals in the coastal city of Rio de Janeiro. A melting pot of cultures, Rio had enthralled me from the moment I set foot on the sandy beaches. Anywhere that you can order Brazil’s national cocktail, caipirinha, while sunning yourself on a city beach has to be appealing, right? And as is the South American tradition, new friends are always invited to family milestones and this one happened to be a wedding.

Although the bride and groom lived in a bustling, modern city, they hailed from the north-eastern coast where a lot of Brazilian traditions are still observed. Bumba-Meu-Boi is when the groom has to tame an unbridled donkey to prove his worth as a responsible husband. And if he’s successful, he can marry the daughter of the man who owned the donkey. There were no donkeys at this wedding, but I loved the image all the same.

We made it to the church just in time to see the priest lead the procession, with the groom and his mother following. In place of a flower, his buttonhole had a tiny Brazilian flag pinned to his lapel. Following the groom were the Padrinhos, couples who are relatives and close friends of the groom and bride. It doesn’t matter if they are married, boyfriend and girlfriend, brother and sister or friends, the important thing is these Padrinhos serve as wedding attendants.

The bride took her time. So we waited. And waited. And waited. I knew she had to be at least ten minutes late due to tradition, but I was beginning to wonder if she was stretching it out, thinking the longer she made the groom wait the better luck they would have in their marriage. It turns out the maximum time a bride can be late is 30 minutes and I am sure the bride rocked up with one minute to spare.

90% of the population of Brazil is Catholic, so there were no surprises this was a Catholic ceremony done with a Brazilian flavor. The rings were tentatively exchanged, both parties making sure their nervous fingers didn’t fumble the shiny bands of gold and drop them. For if they had, it would be have been a bad omen and the longevity of their marriage would be at risk. When the traditional prayer in Portuguese was read, there were many teary eyes, including mine. I had a minimal understanding of the words, but it was the heartfelt way it was said that made me well up. The church was filled with so much love and adoration it was about to burst.

When the ceremony finished, everyone broke into song. I couldn’t figure out the words but the tune was familiar. It took a while to sink in, but when it did, I realized it was the Brazilian national anthem. All those hours spent watching Brazil playing in the World Cup soccer had finally paid off.

The reception was where the real party began. And boy, do Brazilians know how to have a good time. A river of caipirinha flowed, the bride and groom danced the pagode, a samba originating from Salvador and Bahia. It’s commonly used in celebrations and with the way things were turning out, it was going to be one big party.

It worried me a tad when one of the groomsmen brought out a pair of scissors and started wielding them like a machete. He strode over to the groom, grabbed his tie, pulled him forward, then snip-snipped just below the knot. The groomsman chopped the tie into tiny pieces and started selling off the remnants to the guests to help alleviate some of the wedding and honeymoon costs. With the rate of reales flying through the air, there was a good chance they could afford two honeymoons.

Instead of table numbers, seating arrangements were identified by Brazilian cities. But no one sat for long. People ate finger food on the go, dancing from one group of friends to the other, shouting greetings, hugging, and laughing. This went on for hours and it wasn’t until the food ran out, a tradition that signifies the end of the wedding, that the guests got ready to leave. Everyone was handed casadinhos, Brazilian marriage cookies made of two short-bread like biscuits and joined with jam or fudge.

Brazil has a wonderful blend of African, Portuguese and Indigenous cultures. Celebrations are colorful, loud, happy, and full of love. The atmosphere is contagious and it’s easy to get caught up in the pure joy of celebrating the milestone of someone’s life with old friends and new. And by the end of that night, I’d made a bunch of new friends that I felt like I’d known forever.

Have you ever experienced a celebration from another culture? How did you feel and what did you learn?