Every Sunday during my childhood until I turned 15, we had lunch at my paternal grandmother’s house, Abuela Rika. It was an obligation disguised as a tradition, and I enjoyed it. My grandmother was a great cook, and I usually got to choose the meal. Everyone in the family attended these lunches—all the aunts and uncles. Being the oldest grandchild living in Bogotá, I was the only child present for four years. We would all sit around a long, sturdy rectangular table made in Louis XVI style, topped with glass and covered by a beautiful embroidered tablecloth that we had to keep spotless—even when blackberry juice was the drink of the day. There was no separate table for adults and children, even when my siblings and cousins eventually joined these gatherings. I don’t recall what was discussed at the table; after the meal, we all took a siesta. Another great tradition. On one particular Sunday, when I was about 5 or 6, we were sitting in the living room after the siesta—all except my dad, who was still asleep in one of the rooms. I still remember where everyone was seated when he walked out, looking dapper and ready to go out.
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