Grapes, Suitcases, and a Costa Rican New Year’s
It is quarter to midnight in San Jose, Costa Rica. I am scrunched next to my cousin Nana, her usual curls now thermally straightened and burnt smelling, courtesy of the hairdresser down the street. My slightly tipsy Tio Sergio shows off his English skills, or lack of, by belting out “Weelcowm to thee hotel Caleefornia” on karaoke. Forty caffeine and liquor-infused Hispanics sit on each other’s laps on the worn-out, freshly vacuumed couches lining my grandmother’s small living room. It’s the living room my mother played cards in as a child: the living room I have spent every New Year’s Eve in since I was born.
“Faltan dies para las doce,” the radio voice warns from the stereo like the voice of God. Ten minutes left. I feel like I know this mysterious Radio Man. The way he rolls his rs like a deep-voiced mariachi has become as familiar as my uncle’s karaoke singing.
My mom realizes she has forgotten to wash the New Year’s grapes and shrieks “ayyy, las uvas!” as she rushes into the kitchen. She passes the bag of grapes around and we each grab twelve, a family tradition to wish for a prosperous twelve months.
The whistles blow, the fireworks erupt outside, and Radio Man leads our countdown: “Five, four, three, two, one…Feliz Año Nuevo!” With my mouth full of grapes, I join the tornado of strangling hugs and wet kisses that is making its way around the room.
Mid-hug, all I can think about is the suitcases: my favorite part of the night and the reason I wore my comfy flats. I shuffle through the flailing limbs to my cousin Meli and shout, “Las maletas!” We snag our suitcases and lead everyone into the cloud of firework smoke in the street outside. We sprint down the cracked and gum-covered sidewalk surrounded by crowded homes with metal gates and tin roofs. We roll our suitcases behind us and holler “Feliz Año!” to the neighbors clapping at the feet of their driveways. To outsiders, we are a stampede of confused and hyper Hispanics running late to catch a bus to the airport. To our neighbors, we are just the Arguedas family doing our yearly suitcase run in the hope that the farther we run, the farther we will travel this year.
I beat my cousin to the corner. “I’m going to Mexico!” I yell. I run to the next block, and the next, and the next. I see the coast of France in the distance. I run to India. I run to China. I check out the kangaroos in Australia and the penguins in Antarctica. When I am out of breath and realize that I am already three blocks from my grandma’s house, I turn around and pass on the suitcase to Tia Cynthia. She will most likely only get to Nicaragua, judging by the three-inch heels on her feet.
