December 25^th is finally here.

At nine in the morning, I have my hot cocoa cooling, my “Santa Baby” song playing, and my red dress on. For the first time in my life—twenty-two years—I’m going to celebrate Christmas. I know what to expect because I’ve seen it in the movies.  

Yearly, I’ve constructed Christmas in my head with what I’ve learned from films. And I’m not talking about those flicks in which people want to escape the holiday tradition to go to the beach or get drunk somewhere, that’s ludicrous. When I imagine this special occasion, I see a wide-smile-family decorating a real pine tree, children opening presents, a table set with a feast like those shown in seasonal magazines, and everyone gathered around the fireplace wearing a Santa hat and talking merrily while listening to carols and eating dessert.

The last image is bleary because I don’t know what a Christmas dessert is like, but I imagine it’s sweetlicious.

But listen, it’s not that I had a sad childhood or that my parents didn’t want to celebrate la Navidad, it’s that the Cuban government didn’t allow it for political and economic reasons. Reasons I won’t bore you with.

When I turned five, however, my Spanish-born Catholic grandparents tried to teach me about baby Jesus and Christmas, and grandma gave me a wonderful dollhouse that she, herself, had played with as a child. She had kept it in excellent condition for her future daughter, but when her daughter didn’t like to play with dolls, she saved it for her future granddaughter—me.

The following year, my Cuban grandma decided that she, too, wanted to give me Christmas, and somehow (certainly illegally) bought a living turkey five days before the festivity.

On the morning of December 24, Cuban grandma announced that we would be having turkey for dinner. Without warning, she grabbed the neck of the bird and twisted and twisted and twisted, and feathers levitated around us, and I can’t remember if the creature made a sound because my screams deafened my ears.

And then, she chopped its head off.

I ran directionless until my dad captured me and took me away from the house until dinnertime. So, I know what turkey meat tastes like.

Later, my parents agreed that celebrating Christmas was dangerous, not because of the violent-death-of-a-bird-trauma I still carry, but because if I had mentioned “turkey,” “gift,” or “baby Jesus” at school, I would have been bullied by teachers and peers and my family would have been reprimanded by co-workers and neighbors.

Thus, the holiday season became a collage of plagiarized images in my head.  

Then, at age twenty, I left home and moved to Dubai for work and freedom of festivities—little did I know Emiratis didn’t celebrate Christmas either.

It’s been two years since I made the move, but that doesn’t matter now, for I’m about to go to my friend’s house to experience “the most wonderful time of the year” with her family and a handful of acquaintances. I imagine English people are experts at fulfilling such traditions.

Earlier today, a text message confirmed that Secret Santa would begin at eleven. I want to get there earlier because my British peeps (“peeps” being my newest English word) are always punctual.

My friend’s parents came to the United Arab Emirates back when rules were strict and salaries bountiful. They live in a seven-bedroom-eight-bathroom-two-story villa. As I arrive, I count fifteen people of various ages gathered in the living room with an alcoholic beverage in their hand. There is no fireplace. There are no children. There is an enormous artificial pine tree covered in expensive-looking ornaments that oddly enough complement the rest of the house décor: vintage furniture, buddhas, African masks, Indian tapestries, Persian carpets, khanjars—curved daggers from Oman—and fancy knickknacks.

A slender English gentleman in a crisp grey suit is smoking apple-flavored shisha, and the sweet aroma blends in with the warm smell of roast meat and cinnamon candles.

I only know six people, but everyone greets me as if they’ve known me for years, and before I get a chance to place my gift under the tree, I’m holding a vodka-tonic-with-a-dash-of-lemon-juice in my hand and cheering to a “Merry Christmas!”

Alcohol is legal to have and consume at home for ex-pats who possess a liquor license. Licenses must be approved by the Ministry of Interior and can only be given to non-Muslim UAE residents. The newer generation of ex-pats rarely bothers to get permits because we’ve always had easy access to alcohol—just Uber to the corner where you’ll find a hotel or mall with a bar indoors—but the older generation had to taxi a little farther, perhaps cross a bit of desert, to consume an alcoholic beverage in a male-dominated bar inside a business hotel.

So, they got into the habit of hoarding alcohol at home.

Gift exchange begins on time and soon turns into a frenzy. Everyone is opening their presents at the same time while making emoticon faces with the occasional “oh, thank you.” My secret Santa—a soft-spoken lady wearing a green jumper with an embroidered poinsettia—gives me a medium-sized bag. Inside is a onesie—I’m a grown woman holding a onesie covered in tiny Rudolfs and expected to be delighted. I smile splendidly. 

Soft 70s music the likes of “Stayin’ Alive” by Bee Gees plays in the background.

After the gifting kissing and hugging, we sit at the dining table which has been lavishly set by a team of hired help—mostly Filipino ex-pats who exit the house giggly.

My pictured banquet had a pillow-size turkey in it, but today’s tangible menu consists of roast beef, sliced roast turkey, cranberry sauce, chestnut stuffing, pigs in a blanket, roast potatoes baked potatoes mashed potatoes, brussels sprouts, Yorkshire pudding, and gravy.

Everyone drinks their preferred alcoholic beverage accompanied by a glass of red wine (to go with the meat) and a champagne flute filled so that bubbles dance in the air as we toast and stare into each other’s eyes (to avoid seven years of bad sex).

Table manners are a must. Both my grandmas taught me to eat everything on my plate. I wonder if that applies here.

“Sara, dear,” calls the lady with the red bowler hat, “would you be so kind as to pass me the gravy?”

“Yes, of course,” I answer with a Cuban accent that I only notice for the first time.

“Wonderful. Thank you.” She pours gravy over her Yorkshire pudding and I tell myself to do the same when the viscous sauce comes around.

I try to remember what the medium-sized fork is used for but soon realize that everyone is eating as if it was their last day on earth, and no one is paying attention to my medium-sized fork.

So I feast.

As a rule, no one leaves the table until the last person is done eating. I’m on my third glass of wine. The man with ginger hair offers champagne.

Nearly three hours later, the host brings in the dessert (hear the ice cream truck tune in your head) mince pies, shortbread biscuits, warm plum pudding with brandy sauce, and trifle.

My eyes like what they see. My nose is pleased. My palate and tongue go to work.

The pudding is an acquired taste, says the palate.

The sweetness of the mince pies confuses me, but I eat them with gusto, says the tongue.

The feast ends with a digestif cherry liqueur.

Imminent, omnipresent lethargy.

Around five thirty, we’re jolted back to life by the Adhan—the call to prayer that cuts through every home by means of a loudspeaker and a muezzin or crier. In Abu Dhabi, mosques are conveniently located on every block.

Instantly, my friend’s boyfriend leaps out of his seat and replaces the 70s music with Pop House.

We drink, play party games, play drinking games, smoke shisha, dance, try on onesies, nibble on leftovers, and nap in between. Every now and then, one or two people disappear into the second floor and reappear an hour later looking either rested or disheveled. 

In the evening, the weather is pleasant at about 23°C or 75°F and the party moves to the terrace. My friend’s parents and someone else’s parents jump in the pool.

It’s my turn to choose a drinking game. I recall the movies in my head and propose beer-pong. An Irish couple in their fifties swears they invented the game and join us to prove it. They lose, and drink, and argue they’ve won because the whole point is to drink.

Another couple, a petite French woman with coal-black hair and red lipstick, and her six-foot-plus British-Mauritian husband announce they’ve been taking salsa lessons and change the music to Cuban.

They look at me.

I tell them I’m too full to move because if I say that I don’t know how to dance, it will create confusion and disbelief followed by questions I won’t know how to answer. Apparently, being Cuban and not knowing how to salsa is blasphemy, so I lie.

Every fifty-year-old starts to spin. “The best instructor,” they say, “is a Lebanese guy who teaches at the Hilton.” “If you’re interested,” they kindly continue, “his wife offers belly-dancing lessons for beginners; she’s from Lithuania but speaks Spanish.”

The couple’s sons—one happy and overweight, the other skinny and high on hashish—are smoking Marlboro Red and taking turns to hit on the blonde with coconut-size breasts.

I hear a nice-looking couple in their forties tell the grey-suited man that they’re “swingers.” The blonde girl explains to me the meaning of “swinging.”

A new English word is added to my vocabulary.

Someone’s dad or friend or both, a gastroenterologist wearing a Rolex and shiny burgundy shoes (he works for a Sheikh he’s not allowed to name) insists on putting his hand on my lower back.

I move away.

He comes close, again, and talks to me as if nothing, as if that wasn’t his hand feeling my back. I tell him, “te voy a lanzar a la piscina,” as if nothing, as if throwing him in the pool wasn’t a big deal.

He gets it. The hand goes looking for a whisky glass to hold.

I try to think of traditional Christmases, but an inebriated spirit possesses me and I hear myself say: “I have an idea! Let’s drink shots inside the pool!”

Although barely an idea, everyone applauds. Those wearing a swimsuit grab a bottle and jump in. The rest dip their feet in the blue water and hold a glass in each hand. This is not the Christmas that I had pictured, but it’s an improvement from the frantic body of a turkey running without its head. And the mood is indeed merry.

I pour myself a shot of Baileys, seize the iPod, play “A Holy Jolly Christmas” and embrace the non-tradition while making a mental note: HOST THE NEXT CHRISTMAS.

– Marah Reinoso Vega