Eurochristmas Part II

Christmas eve 2008

LOCATION
Onex, in the city of Geneva, Switzerland

CAST
Me
Trajtenberg family:
- Liliana (aunt, i.e. my father's sister, currently living in Montevideo)
- Mario (uncle, married to Liliana, currently living in Montevideo)
- Cecilia (cousin, native Genevoise, currently living in Madrid)
- Michel (cousin, native Genevoise, still living in Geneva)
Anneliese's family:
- Anneliese (friend of Liliana's and Mario's, apparently knew me when I was teensy-weensy, hard to imagine, I know)
- Stefan (first son of Anneliese)
- Vincent (son of Stefan, grandson of Anneliese)
- Laetitia (daughter of Stefan, granddaughter of Anneliese)
- Fanny (daughter of Stefan, granddaughter of Anneliese)
- Joachim (a.k.a. "Jojo," second son of Anneliese)
- Wolfgang (Anneliese's boyfriend - also, potential name for my next puppy)

LANGUAGES
French, Spanish, and German

I was inordinately grateful to Stefan for having the good sense to start the night off with three bottles of champagne (and a couple of bottles of non-alcoholic cider for the kids). I don't usually drink 2 and a half glasses of champagne before dinner, but paired with foie gras, it set a festive atmosphere right off the bat. Nothing like champagne on an near-empty stomach to get me smiling and feeling at ease. Also, nothing like watching Fanny, a round faced 11-year old, work through about a half kilo of pistacchios in 10 minutes flat to get me feeling, well, something.

Three months ago, Fanny took a nasty spill off her scooter, the traces of which are still evident on her face.

Cecilia: What happened to your face, Fanny?
Fanny: I feel off my scooter.
Cecilia: But how? Did you try to brake?
Fanny: I forgot to brake.

She still has a bit of a black eye, and her left cheek is still slightly chubbier than the right one, lending her an air of someone older and perhaps wiser, someone who's taken a beating but fought back.

Let me interrupt, for a second, and explain that Fanny, Laetitia, and Vincent have, in fact, taken a beating this holiday season. Stefan, too. Just a couple of weeks ago, his wife left him for another man. The whole family, Anneliese included, has taken it very hard. Joachim's wife also left him a few years ago, so you can imagine that for grandma Anneliese, these have been trying times.

But the kids are such troopers. It could be because Stefan and his soon to be ex-wife have worked out an arrangement where the kids stay put in the same house while the parents rotate weeks living with them. This may be a temporary arrangement, but you get the intention: to make sure the kids feel the least possible disrruption and the least possible instability under the circumstances.

No matter what the parents do, though, the fact remains that they are separating. And as a child of divorced parents, let me emphasize how much this sucks. It sucks a lot.

And yet, the kids were cheerful and gracious, Fanny especially ebullient after she received her Christmas present - a small, fold-up futon, for general lounging and having friends sleep over. I watched them all night for familiar signs of resentment, of anger, of depression, and was relieved to see none. Even Stefan seemed to have a good time, for which I was very glad. He jovially offered to refill my wine glass about ten times throughout the evening, and when the wine ran out, he brought me a white Swiss beer, none of which I could possibly refuse.

We sat down to dinner after opening the presents. Yes, even I got presents! I made out pretty well, if you ask me: a box of Lindt truffles, a ring from Mexico, a hooded shirt, a wheel of Spanish turrón, and a bottle of perfume (courtesy of Wolfgang, who used to work as a chemist for a perfume company - the perfume he gave me happened to be the exact same one I almost bought in Lisbon when I was bumming around the airport's duty free shop - talk about lucky).

Dinner began with lemon-soaked lotte (monkfish) served on an avocado mousse. Following, we tucked into the honey and orange infused Christmas ham and gratin dauphinois (one of my favorite dishes from this area, essentially just a whole bunch of sliced potatoes baked with gruyère and béchamel sauce). At this point, the evening became a blur with a few distinguishable moments. I'm sure I could have remembered more if I had drunk less, but what's the fun in being the only sober person at a Christmas party?

I remember my aunt, increasingly talkative and animated as the evening passed, prompting me to talk about my days of competitive horse-back riding. I have no idea why it occurred to her that this might be an interesting topic to me and to everyone gathered at the table (although in retrospect I think it may have been because Laetitia, too, is passionate about horses).

The only cogent contribution I muster for the conversation was, "Moi, j'adore les chevaux."
Me, I love horses.

To which most of the group added, "Oui, j'aime bien les chevaux!"

All but Wolfgang, who announced very amiably, "Moi, je mange mes chevaux."
Me, I eat my horses.

Everyone burst out laughing, me especially, and I observed Wolfgang through my wine-goggles. Wolfgang is, well, he's a catch. At least I think so. Granted, he is 68 years old. Not in my target age range, not by any means. But he's got one of the most magnetic personalities I've ever seen in a near septuagenarian. Always smiling, always joking. And he has aged as gracefully as one can hope to age: he still has most of his hair, a shock of white, which he wears on the longer side, letting it cascade over his weatherbeaten brow and frame his crystal blue eyes. He is fit, too. An avid outdoorsman for whom a visit to the Grand Canyon last year was not complete without hiking down the Canyon. One of those people who tells you that you only get one go at life, and by the look of the deep creases on his face, wrinkles caused by smiles and laughter, and his air of being at peace with the world, he's made his count.

But enough about Wolfgang.

The kids' black-and-white kitty made an appearance towards the end of the night, after we'd all finished our second helpings of mousse au chocolat. The kitty was picture perfect: black all over save for his white belly, and a perfectly symmetrical white triangle down his face. He immediately (instinctively, one might argue) made for Michel, a self-proclaimed cat-lover.

Michel: I love cats. And they always seem to love me.

Michel works as an aeronautical engineer. He loves extreme sports. He has every issue of National Geographic that features sharks. He is one of my most badass cousins. I still remember two years ago, when I was last in Uruguay, he came out on my uncle Mauricio's boat with some other family members. On leaving the dock, Michel somehow managed to slice his index finger almost neatly in two with a wire. He turned a bit pale, drank some whisky, and clamped down on the mangled finger until he could treat it with some first aid materials. And that's about it. Not a peep of agony.

It's with this finger, and its neighbors, that Michel set to work on the kitty (forgive me for not remembering the cat's name and referring to him as "kitty"). Scratching gently behind his ears, down his spine, under his chin. The kitty never looked so happy and at ease. Watching Michel, with his rough, veiny hands, caressing him so tenderly and so sweetly, I have to say I felt about the same as the kitty. Happy. At ease.

Merry Christmas, everyone.