A Very Merry {Spanish} Christmas

So, you may think this post, having a title with the word Christmas, seems a little out of date considering it is already January and certainly by all retail standards the Christmas season is already weeks over. But by Spanish standards the holidays have just recently come to a close. 

This might be a shocker to some but…. brace yourselves… most Spanish children don’t believe in Santa Claus. I know this might go against every Christmas movie and story we’ve ever heard growing up in America but it’s not so catastrophically anti-Christmas-spirit as you might think. Spanish children actually have not one, but three generous gift givers to thank for their Christmas haul. And if you listened at all as you practiced for your role as the sheep in the church Christmas play you already know who these characters are…  the three wise men: Melchor, Gaspar and Baltasar (And everyone has their favorite ;) Here in Spain the three wise men, or reyes magos, stop by the houses of expectant children on the night of January 5th, or the morning of the 6th, to leave presents inside and around the children’s shoes.

Melchor, Gaspar and Baltasar

Coming back to the point, this post isn’t that belated after all (so there ;).

I’ve really enjoyed learning about these Christmas traditions and I’ve even gotten to participate in a few. Thanks to a couple of my very generous friends I was invited to the American equivalent of Christmas Eve and Day at their families’ houses about 30 minutes from my own in Linares. 

After leaving my parents at the Madrid airport on January 4th (see the Great European Hawkinberry Adventure) I was, let’s just say, a little worse for wear. I am quite used to being the one leaving to get on the plane and, as I found out, it is much harder to be the one left behind (as my mother reminded me as she started through security: it was, indeed, a taste of my own medicine). Luckily, instead of having to take a train back to my empty apartment that evening and brood over my loneliness, I was able to go directly to Jaén where my friends were waiting with open arms to welcome me into their Three Kings Day festivities.

View from the cathedral in Jaén

Just like any good American on Christmas Eve, the following day we set out to finish some last minute shopping for gifts. I even got a glimpse of one of the three kings posing for pictures with children at the mall (some things are just universal). Afterwards, I finally got to try the much talked about migas that are so infamous in this region. They are a type of Spanish stuffing filled with anything leftover you can find in your fridge and, of course, made best by Spanish grandmas. For dessert there was roscón de reyes, is a type of cake in the shape of a ring, topped with dried fruits or candies and filled with cream. Inside the cream are hidden two figures, a muñeco and an haba. The person who gets the piece where the figure of a person is hidden (the muñeco, oftentimes one of the three kings or baby Jesus) will have good luck for the entire year. The person who finds the bean, haba, has to pay for the roscón for everyone.

My first roscón de reyes

Later that night, I was told, we would see the most anticipated event of the season: the Three Kings Day parade. And the main attraction of this particular parade? Caramelos. That’s right, candy. And lots of it, thrown by each of the three kings as they pass by on their floats. So we gathered our plastic shopping bags (we would have taken our umbrellas for a wider catching range if they hadn’t been banded in years past based on eye poking hazards) and bundled up to stand in wait on the Avenida. After what seemed like forever (yes, I whined in anticipation along with every other anxious child in the crowd) the first king finally appeared. I thought they might have exaggerated but they hadn’t. It rained hard candy. So much so I had to wonder where it all came from… until I saw the van traveling behind and men running back and forth from the floats with cardboard boxes brimming with the sweets. Even without the umbrella, we walked away with quite the stash that night.

The next morning I woke up early, as is to be expected on any American Christmas morning where there is a child younger than 12 in the house, to the excited sounds of my friend’s younger sister ready to open the gifts the three kings had left downstairs. I watched as she tore through the wrapping on her presents and smiled, remembering home videos of my sister and I ripping through our presents at that age as well. Despite the fact that I’ve spent my whole life believing in Santa Claus the three kings apparently hadn’t taken offense because they had left me something there as well. To say I was humbled would be an understatement.

The Three Kings must have known my bedroom
walls were looking a little sparse. 

The fact that I was able to spend the weekend anywhere but in my empty apartment was enough of a blessing for me. Throw in that I was able to take part in the most intimate parts of the family traditions during that holiday weekend AND presents on top of it… I was so thankful I was speechless. So after a few “thankyousomuch youreallydidnthavetos” I just sat there to soak in the moment and count my blessings. Because I realized, no matter where you’re at and no matter how you celebrate it, that is, truly and universally, what Christmas is all about.