I’ve never been awoken into Christmas morning by a rooster, bombarded by the harsh snaps of endless cohetes and bombas (firecrackers), with small chicks chirping for food around my feet as I walk downstairs to greet the family. I’ve never had a Christmas morning like this until now: my first Christmas away from home.

Since I interviewed for this gig in November 2015 on Skype in Melli-Beese Strasse in Frankfurt, I asked the interviewee Heather, Can I come home for Christmas? Hoping not to sound too unprofessional as the words squeaked out of my mouth. I’ve been telling my friends ever since: “Yes I’m joining Peace Corps but I can’t come home for Christmas” letting one day overshadow 2 years. Eventually I came around to the fact that it would be okay. “Maybe this will be a new earned stripe in my independence. Maybe I won’t even be sad..” I reasoned. Away from the consumerism, from the hustle and bustle of Christmas and most of all, far from the living room where Nana celebrated her last Christmas with us. Maybe it’s a blessing to be so far away, tortillas in lieu of turkey and ham could just spare me.

Feliz Navidad is a popular song in the States ‘round Christmas time. The phrase was made popular by a horribly catchy Christmas song, we all know it. Almost worse than The Song That Never Ends, how many times did my poor mom endure that blessed boon during carpool? Feliz Navidad was always just a silly song to me before this Christmas, almost ironic. Now it’s an honest greeting as I walk down the street.

Now it’s the title of a most unusual December. My first Christmas from home.

The season isn’t what it’s ever been. I don’t see Christmas trees like I’m used to, hear carols except for O Come All Ye Faithful from the annoying light set outside, and I haven’t bought my US family any presents. At heart, I am a lover of Christmas! Natalie means “Born on Christmas” or “Christ Child” and while I wasn’t born on Christmas, I’d say my spirit is reborn every year on this special day. I love decorating the tree, sitting around the fire, sipping hot chocolate or apple cider, gripping those wildly overpriced drinks at Starbucks and planning my gifts for my friends and family. On Christmas Eve, we usually go to a big church service followed by a fancy meal out. The last few years, I’ve taken Nana to Mass and my mom, dad and sister go to my dad’s church. Afterwards we meet for dinner. My parents spoil me and my sister with an outright litany of presents and stuff our stockings full. My sister likes to rip open each gift and I like to take it slow, savor the moment.

Christmas morning is an opportunity to celebrate all with which you have been blessed. En cambio, I got to site on December 7, so everything is new and unusual and different. I know there are rich blessings but they haven’t sunk in. But it hasn’t felt like Christmas at all here which I actually prefer.It’s not even chilly, though the Guatemalans disagree, so how could it feel like Christmas? If I have to miss it, I want it to feel like I’m at a tea party in Jamaica. I don’t want it to feel like Christmas.

Now I’m in a new family, I’m learning about new traditions.

I’m living in the second story of a house on the corner ensconced in a rural soundtrack and peppered by the voices of the locals on the street. When I walk out of my room to go to the bathroom, the neighbor kids can see me and often yell up “Natalia! Jugando!!” I’m not shielded from the street unless my sheets are hanging to dry and I can dodge behind them. The town folk must be thinking “The gringa’s going to the bathroom again.”

One night the power went out and I heard my host mom within five minutes, worried for me. I told her I had a flashlight on my phone. She said: “I’m going to buy candles in case this happens again!” “What’s that small thing on your desk called? Is it a como-se-llama…?” she asked one day during lunch. “It’s a computer” I confirmed with a smiling nod. And she said “Oh yes! The lady from Cuerpo de Paz came here to meet us with one of those. She put it right there on the table.” I’m not in Microsoft country anymore, Dorothy.

My host Grandmother, Clarita, is a delightful 89 year old who prefers to speak in K’iche’ but can get by with me in Spanish. Once I came downstairs to the sound of a chicken call. I quickly realized it was my grandmother, coaxing the chicks and chickens under the basket where they eat. She brandishes a stick when she sees the cat come in the kitchen while we eat. This is a wonderful place, it is also nothing like my home.

Over lunch, my host sister was eating the feet of the chicken. Honest to God, she had one of the ligaments in her mouth trying to extract the meat. It was one of those snapshot moments I wish I could share with someone else: do you see what’s happening? Even though there’s nothing weird about eating the feet of the chicken, it’s just like eating a chicken wing right?, but it’s still foreign.

On Christmas Eve, we made tamales. All day we made tamales.

In the morning, I went to José’s house to thief internet. “Come in, come in Natalie, sit by the kitchen where it’s warm” says Doña Cecilia his host mom. I call my family on FaceTime, Doña Cecilia walks by and gives me two bananas. She must think I sound like I’m speaking Greek, talking in English with my relatives as they pass me around the living room in Mobile. I send voice-texts to several friends “Merry Christmas! I miss you and you are wonderful!” I sat in the beige plastic chair and piled up all my blessings like a stack of dirty laundry so high you have to carry it in two loads. The richness and depth of the friendships I’ve been lucky to find in these 30 years is truly remarkable and the resplendence I feel from 5 months in Alaska is a richness I can’t deny. I bask in the moments from the last year: Alaska, Alaska, my sister’s wedding, Cate’s Wedding, Nana’s Funeral, Guatemala, and again I say: Alaska. I got to do a play after 7 years off the stage! I got to see killer whales, drink delicious lattes, catch halibut, sing karaoke and walk through an island to buy my overpriced groceries. And now I’m in Guatemala where I bought 4 pounds of produce for $1.25.

The mountains accompanied me from my country to another country, and it feels fine.

Tamales call for the following: recado (sauce), pollo, red bell pepper, a maiz mixture, and hojas de Maxan (giant green leaves).

The recado was the most complicated part. I sat above the stove slowly toasting a heft of pumpkin seeds and Clara toasting sesame seeds: ajonjolí (a very fun word to say and impossible to remember). Think Angelina Jolie about to slip on ice skates. Ajonjolí.

After we make the recado, during which I’ve left the house several times- to buy Christmas wrapping paper, to buy additional trinkets for my host mom, and to buy I don’t remember what else- I get back and the ingredients are set-up for tamale-making. The leaves are washed and ready, the maize has been cooked, the meat cooked, the recado (rich sauce) combined in the liquador.

Throughout the day I kept leaving to buy more stuff. I kept wondering if my family would surprise me with one and I was nervous I wouldn’t have enough for them. They kept saying: “you’re leaving again?!” but I needed to buy wrapping paper for my presents and also get an extra gift for my host mom. They have been so, so good to me and all I want is to make sure they know that. I also have to give gifts on Christmas, it’s a physical impossibility for me to not wrap something on Christmas Eve because that would make me feel too sad to consider.

We did have a Christmas tree: Clara set it up on Christmas Eve. It made me sad seeing it, even though it was beautiful. It was a short thing with lights on it and a gorgeous bouquet of pascuas my host mom cut and arranged. There was a picture of Virgin Mary behind it and a candle burning on the floor.

That afternoon, 5pm, we still hadn’t finished the tamales but Host mom and I left for mass. Clara couldn’t go, her eye was giving her trouble- red and pink. So Doña Rosario and I sat together. Everyone (and by everyone I mean all the women) covers their head at church, it’s not what I’m used to so I find it odd. But really it’s quite pretty. We sat in the overflow section behind the church, so we couldn’t see the preacher but hear his words. We made it through each phase. The songs, the prayers, the words from the preacher, the collection of the offering and the communion. This is my third time to La Misa in Santa Clara so I know what I’m getting into.

But I wasn’t prepared for the last step, a Christmas Eve Tradition. As we left the church, I stood in a line with my host mom. At the head of the line was a plastic baby Jesus wrapped in material. Everyone leaned down, one by one, and kissed this figure on the cheek and threw money into a basket. I was so unfamiliar with this concept that I was too turned around to kiss the baby. I dared myself: Do it, do it, everyone else is doing it, kiss that baby. But I could feel my own culture inside my head saying “What are you doing?” and my friends and family laughing at/with me as I leaned down. I couldn’t kiss the baby. And what I found more odd is that DoRo put money in the basket after. I thought- shouldn’t I be getting paid for kissing a plastic baby? I’m so confused. Thankfully I survived this rippling of culture clash and made it out of the church in one piece.

We got home and finished the tamales around 9. Before you know it, a family walks in to greet Abuelita! They’ve brought tamales and we send a few with them. All 8 of us are in the kitchen sitting on tiny wooden chairs, chatting. They only stay for 20 minutes, just coming to say hello. That’s unusual for Guatemala. Then we ate tamales and I went to sleep. We got back home, my host mom gave me an aguacate (it’s like a midnight snack) and I go to sleep. We are supposed to stay up until midnight to hear the fireworks but I went to sleep at 10. Fireworks on Christmas Eve huh? I wrapped my presents, put them under the tree, read some of The Silkworm and sunk into dreams.

Christmas Morning:

The next morning I wished Abuelita a Merry Christmas, Clara, Clarita (the other granddaughter) and Doña Rosario. There are 3 Claras in the room. We eat tamales for breakfast. We eat tamales for lunch. We eat tamales for dinner. Some of the tamales are our handiwork, others were given to us by other families. You can tell the difference because each family does it differently, some of them for example had large raisins baked inside. We reheat them on the plancha and eat up. They’re pretty good but it’s no ham and sweet potato casserole.

And it’s at lunch time that I realize: they don’t give presents here. That is not a Christmas tradition, I guess? And I proceed to bring out my gifts. Cookies, Hershey’s kisses (spendy here) nail polish, hair clips, and specialty chocolates. They thank me and Clara gives me two apples! Eat these! Take these with you! And I say thank you and I will.

On Christmas Afternoon, I heard the excited voice of Clarita climb the stairs to tell me something!

My 38 year old host sister comes upstairs to tell me we need to go ‘downtown’ after dinner. There is going to be -something- dancing in the courtyard later tonight.

When we arrive and to my surprise, there is a complete live band booming Latin rhythms across The Plaza with LED screens injecting color into the Christmas sky. I’m into it, but what I find totally odd is the collection of 30 costumed people, dancing, in the middle of the square. When I say costumed, I mean they are wearing giant mascot suits- a giant Easter bunny, Captain America, Mickey, Minnie and Fat Albert. I wondered how old these costumes were? They look like they get a lot of use. We all gather around, watching, listening to the music and observing the dances. Mickey Mouse and Wonder Woman are Salsa Dancing. After lots of tunes, some of which I know, they announce something and my sister says: “they’re going to disfracer sus moros.”

That sounded poetic “They are going to remove their masks.” They remove their masks one by one and dance across the courtyard, holding their masks, wearing sweatbands across their foreheads. This takes about 30 minutes because they announce each of the dancers in pairs. “Jose Suc and his mom, Juana!” and Jose and Juana remove their heads and keep walking and dancing to the beat, with serious faces. This was a cultural phenomenon and no one was even drinking except the street bolos. Grown adults were just standing, watching these moros do the same dance moves across the screen.

Somewhere between (almost) kissing plastic Jesus, watching the moros and getting walloped with a mound of tortillas, I experienced my first Guatemalan Christmas. In this moment, my experience of Christmas was forever redefined: no consumerism, no Macy’s commercials or even Ellen’s 12 days of Giveaways. Instead I sat in a small kitchen around a wood-burning fire and ate tamales and sipped ponche and enjoyed the company of my new 3-generation female family. Even the Mix (pronounced meesh which is the cat) seemed happy.

Now that I’ve been in Guatemala for 3 months, I realize that the best gift of Christmas is the rest. The fact that you aren’t working, that you can take a nap and enjoy the stillness of a day of rest is the richest gift of Christmas in Guatemala. That, the visitors, and all the tamales.

I incorporated this stillness into my own tradition. I sat on Christmas Eve and thought of all the richness of this past year and the incontrovertible blessings that will come in 2017. My health, wealth and happiness never rang in more clearly. Feliz Navidad, to you and yours.