TWO

I ran from the plane all the way through the airport to the immigration lineup, not just to get away from Chad, but because I knew every step brought me closer to Laia.

The immigration officer scanned my passport, checked that I looked like my photograph, wished me Bon Nadal (which I knew from my attempts to learn Laia’s language was Catalan for Merry Christmas) and waved me through. I smiled at Chad at the next counter—he seemed to be having some sort of difficulty with his passport. He gave me a smile and a thumbs-up. I hurried through to collect my bag.

My travel backpack was the last item to tumble onto the baggage carousel, and I paced in mounting frustration as cheerful, chattering holidaymakers, many wearing red Santa hats, grabbed their luggage and disappeared through the customs door. I had convinced myself that my bag had been put on the wrong plane and was halfway to Azerbaijan when it finally slid into sight. The only other piece of luggage going around was a very expensive silver hard-shell suitcase that I assumed must belong to Chad, who still hadn’t shown up from immigration. Either he was trying to convince the official to invest in one of his schemes or he really was a spy. I strapped on my pack and rushed through customs and into the busy arrivals area.

The moment I stepped through the doors, Laia’s arms enfolded me in the best hug of my life. I returned it and stood breathing in the scent of her hair, giddy with happiness. Mentally, I wished Mom, DJ and the others a Happy Christmas, but this was where I wanted to be. In fact, I would have gladly stood there all day, but I noticed Laia’s mom standing to one side, watching us, a slight smile on her lips. Laia kissed me, and then we stepped apart.

“Hola, la senyora Aguilar. Bon Nadal,” I said to Laia’s mom, summoning up the Catalan I’d been learning.

“Hola, Steve,” she replied, her smile broadening as we shook hands. She switched effortlessly to English. “But please, no formalities. You must call me Sofia. It means wisdom, so I must be very smart.” Before I could say anything, Sofia went on. “But let us not spend Christmas in the airport. Follow me.” Sofia headed off through the crowded terminal and Laia and I trailed behind her, chattering happily.

“I am so glad you could come,” Laia said as we walked hand in hand. “Was your mother very disappointed?”

“A little,” I said, “but the cruise with her sisters is taking her mind off it, so I think she is okay.”

“And DJ?” Laia gave me a mischievous smile. She knew all about my relationship with my brother.

“I think he’ll be all right,” I said, returning her smile. “The cousins, all except for me and Rennie, are going to Grandfather’s cottage by the lake after Christmas.”

“Are they going to have another adventure?”

“Not unless it keeps snowing and they get trapped for the winter,” I said.

“Like the old explorers in your Canadian Arctic? Will they have to draw straws to see who becomes dinner for the rest?”

“Dinner?’ I asked, slightly shocked by the image.

“I have been reading Canadian history,” Laia said. “Did not Captain Franklin and others have to eat the bodies to survive?”

“I guess so,” I said, “but my cousins will be fine. They certainly won’t have to draw straws—DJ will probably decide who to eat.” We both laughed. “I think Grandfather’s will gave us all the adventure we can handle for a while,” I added.

“I’m glad it did,” Laia said, squeezing my hand. “I have a busy holiday planned for us. There is much to see in Andalusia—Seville, Cordoba, Granada—too much for a short visit, but my father knows the history, so he will tell us the best things to see. It will be a wonderful time.”

“It will,” I agreed. As far as I was concerned, as long as I was with Laia, whatever we did would be wonderful. Grinning like an idiot, I followed Laia’s mom out of the airport to the taxi rank.

The Plaça Catalunya was very different from the last time I had seen it. In the gathering dark of evening, every building around the huge square was bedecked in multicolored, twinkling Christmas lights. In the center of the square, families skimmed around the ice of a vast open-air rink beneath a towering decorated tree, accompanied by a choir singing carols. Stalls selling food, ornaments and gifts were scattered round the edge.

“We thought you might like to walk through the square to get into the Christmas spirit,” Sofia said as we got out of the taxi.

“And we have a special Catalan tradition to share,” Laia added with a grin.

With the end of the school semester and all the preparations for my trip, Mom’s cruise and DJ’s excursion to the cottage, it hadn’t felt much like Christmas at home. Now, strolling through the bustling, happy crowds, it did. We bought marzipan candy, nibbled on dried fruit, watched the skaters and listened to the choir. The one thing missing was Santa Claus.

“How do you get presents if there’s no Santa Claus?” I asked.

“Santa Claus is for cold countries,” Laia explained. “How would his sled land where there is no snow? We have the Three Wise Men, who arrive on January fifth bringing presents for the children.”

“So, no presents on Christmas Day?” I asked, wondering when I should give them the presents I had in my backpack.

“Oh yes,” Sofia said. “We have presents on Christmas Day. Tió de Nadal brings them.”

“Who’s Tió de Nadal?” I asked.

“You’ll meet him soon,” Laia said, and she and Sofia laughed. “But first, there is someone else you must meet.” Laia headed over to a small stall at the entrance to a side street.

“We have different traditions here,” Sofia said. “I hope you are hungry, because we have the Christmas meal tonight.”

“Do you have turkey?” I asked.

“Of course, turkey and truffles. I have been preparing it for two days.”

“Merry Christmas.” Laia handed me a small box wrapped in tissue paper. Inside was a small porcelain figure. He was dressed in black pants, white shirt, red belt and a red-and-black hat. He appeared to be crouching down.

“He’s very nice,” I said, confused.

Both Laia and Sofia burst out laughing again. “Turn him around,” Laia said.

I did and almost dropped him. The little man’s pants were down, and he was…taking a dump.

“Say hello to Caganer,” Laia said. “He represents equality—everyone from the greatest king to the lowest peasant must do what he does. He is always placed in the corner of a Nativity scene to remind us we are human. He will bring good luck for the coming year.”

“Thank you,” I said, wondering where I would put Caganer in my room when I got home and thinking I would have to get one for DJ. “I will treasure Caganer.”

“Excellent,” Sofia said. “Now that you have been introduced to our Catalan humor, let us go home and prepare for dinner.”

Christmas Eve dinner was turkey, but not the golden roasted bird I was used to and had been expecting. Sofia had spent two full days making a stuffing of the turkey meat, truffles, pork, veal, brandy and sherry and then sewing it into the turkey skin. The roll had then been cooked and pressed flat. We ate it in slices with apples, plums and fruit sauce. A host of rich side dishes and caramel custard followed. By eleven o’clock, it was all I could do to stay awake, so Laia and Sofia taught me Catalan songs until every church bell in the city tolled midnight. Then it was time to meet Tió de Nadal.

“Tió, meet Steve. Steve, meet Tió,” Laia said, gesturing to a log lying on the floor in front of the fire. The log had a cheerful cartoonish face painted on one end and was covered by a large red blanket. “We have been feeding him candy for two weeks,” Laia explained. “Now you must hit him.” She handed me a stick.

“Hit him?” I said. “Why?”

“He has been well fed and must now be encouraged to give up the presents,” Sofia said.

I tapped Tió on the back.

“That won’t work,” Laia said. “He must be encouraged.”

I looked at the smiling log. The blanket stretched out behind the log and covered several oddly shaped lumps. I began to get the idea. “I will in a minute,” I said and headed back to my room to get the presents I had brought for Laia and Sofia. “I think I need to get to know Tió a little before I encourage him,” I said, crouching down between the log and Laia and Sofia and slipping their presents under the blanket.

I stood up. “There. We’re friends.” I hit the log hard, twice.

“Perfect,” Sofia said, whipping the blanket off Tió. There was a pile of brightly wrapped packages behind the log. Like three excited children, we distributed the presents and began unwrapping them. I had bought Sofia some First Nations art from the west coast. Laia had been tougher to buy for. She had told me she would like something about Canadian history, but I had wanted to get her something more romantic. DJ had suggested a book about Canadian spies that he was reading, but I didn’t think Laia was into spies. After a long search, I had settled on a book of photographs and quotes called Canada: Our Century, which gave an idea of Canada’s history in the twentieth century, and a pair of silver First Nations earrings.

Sofia gave me a Barcelona Football Club shirt and a book of poems by some guy called Federico García Lorca—fortunately, an English translation. Laia gave me a beautiful history of the Civil War, with hundreds of photographs from the time Grandfather had been in Spain.

I felt part of a second family and went to bed deliriously happy. Before I sank into a deep sleep, I managed to email Mom to say I had arrived safely and text DJ to wish him a Merry Christmas and tell him I hoped the snow wasn’t too deep.