Juliana Navidad A La Colombiana Chiva Culiona Apr 2026

At the first stop—a shack on a misty hillside—an old woman named Doña Clara hobbled out with a basket of empanadas . “Ay, Juliana,” she whispered, kissing her cheek. “You came back. But the chiva… she has no guasca . No fire.”

Juliana laughed. Not a nervous laugh. A real one. It had been four years since she’d laughed like that. Four years since she’d left Medellín for a sterile apartment in Toronto, chasing a promotion that left her with carpal tunnel and a curated loneliness. Her abuela’s final words echoed in her head: “Mija, la navidad no se vive en un celular. Se vive en la chiva culiona.”

At midnight, they rolled into Jericó. The whole town was waiting, not for Mass, but for them. The new mayor—a slick, university-educated fool—had tried to cancel the chiva’s parade. But there was La Espantapájaros , grille covered in tinsel, speakers blasting “Lista en Medellín,” and on the roof, a woman in a torn designer shirt, holding a bottle of aguardiente like a scepter. Juliana Navidad A La Colombiana Chiva Culiona

“No,” said Doña Clara. “But you’re a calculadora . You solve problems.”

The engine coughed. Farted blue smoke. And roared. At the first stop—a shack on a misty

Don Pepe crossed himself. “La patrona,” he whispered, looking at Juliana. “She has returned.”

She hadn’t understood then. Now, bouncing between a man playing a ragged accordion and a woman balancing a tray of natilla and bunuelos , she began to. But the chiva… she has no guasca

The culiona —the big, beautiful, ridiculous bus—groaned. The accordion player struck up “Fuego a la Jeringonza.” The drunk uncles pushed. The grandmothers pushed. Juliana pushed until her Toronto-trained lungs burned with the thin, sweet air of home.

“Merry Christmas!” Juliana yelled, and the crowd yelled back, “ Juliana! Juliana Navidad! ”