“Where’s all your food? You have to start expanding beyond cereal and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, H. You aren’t five.”

“Need I remind you that it’s not even four? Be nice.”

Fitz blasts the heater and the radio, which streams a playlist from his iPod that I’m familiar with. He plays it on days we’re having success in the lab; it’s his happy, upbeat music that makes his head bounce and smile beam as he sings along. I smile from where I’m curled up against the door with my jacket covering my legs that are folded against my chest as he hits every note of the song without thought.

“What are you smiling about over there?” he asks, turning his attention from the road to glance at me.

“I’m glad you’re bringing me with you.”

Fitz nods a couple of times and then reaches forward to turn the radio down a few decibels. “Is your family disappointed you aren’t coming home?”

“I think they were sort of expecting the news.”

“They’ll all be together today? You once mentioned that they live close together, right?”

“Yeah, my two oldest sisters live less than ten minutes away from my mom, and my middle sister lives just outside of San Diego, about fifteen minutes with good traffic from both my mom and Kendall, who lives near the college.”

Fitz nods, looking lost in thought. His jaw clenches and releases a few times as though he’s working to say something more, but after a few minutes he turns the music back up and returns to singing. I nod off.

“Alright, H, time to bundle up.”

My eyes blink several times to rid the sleep, and I instantly feel the loss of heat as Fitz turns off the engine. We’re in a dark parking garage, surrounded by large pillars and several other small cars.

“We have to bundle up to go inside?”

“We have to bundle up because it’s not even twenty out yet and the wind is terrible. Add another sweatshirt before you put your coat on.” Fitz pulls out a couple of blankets and a bag, and then unloads some camping chairs.

“What are you doing?” I ask curiously, trying not to allow my hopes to sky rocket.

“You said you wanted to see Santa.”

My scream echoes in the vast space as I jump in the air. The hat and scarf I’m holding fall as I race around the car and throw myself at Fitz in an aggressive hug. “We’re going to see the parade?”

“Here I was worrying you wouldn’t be nearly as excited as you had said you’d be.”

“This has been on my bucket list since I was like five!”

“Well, time to cross it off. Lots of layers, it’s cold.”

I anxiously move around, pulling my gear on with a new sense of energy.

The wind hits us like a slap in the face. Although the top half of me is decently warm, my legs feel frozen. But the excitement of what we’re going to do lessens the sting, and we follow dozens of other parade goers to the Upper West Side.

We stake claim to a spot on the far side of a small coffee shop that already has a line winding along the brick front. Fitz suggests that I pile on the blankets and get comfortable to sit for the next five hours while he gets us some breakfast.

We spend the next three hours drinking coffee and eating brioche as we wait for the parade to get underway. Waiting turns out to be an experience all on its own. A woman from South Africa sits on one side of us with her nine-year-old son, and a large group of Germans sit on the other. We take turns going in small groups to find restrooms and refills, and converse easily. One of the Germans, a girl about my age named Anna, is thrilled to learn that I’m from California after I relay a question to Fitz and explain that I’m from the West Coast. She asks me several questions about rappers and music. I think she’s disappointed when I know few of the answers. We discuss customs and traditions, and by the time the parade is about to begin I feel like I’ve known all of them for years.

When you watch the parade on TV they cut to commercials and commentators so frequently that sometimes the parade seems to last far longer than it really does. Being here, it feels like only seconds before people are standing and cheering loudly as Santa emerges.

“I never realized just how big the floats are!” I say in amazement as we watch Santa descend down the street.

“Santa is such a funny name. And having him wear red? It makes me laugh,” Anna says as we remain seated and watch the crowds begin to disperse. “You guys combine Saint Nikolas and Krampus.”

“Krampus?” I ask curiously.

“Your Santa gives presents to the nice children and coal to the not-so-nice ones. Well, Saint Nikolas, delivers gifts to nice children on December sixth, and he places them in our shoes. But Krampus, or Knecht Ruprecht, visits the not-so-nice children, and he puts them in his bag. Then on Christmas Eve Christkindl visits.”

“Our red suit sounds a lot easier to orchestrate,” Fitz says with a smile, standing as several of the others do. “And a little less traumatizing.” Although I’ve loved hearing the stories and differences in cultures, I can sense Fitz is eager to be back in the car, ready for some solitude promised with the couple-hour drive to get to his mom’s.

“And the reindeer?” Anna adds. “What is that all about?”

“What does your Saint Nicholas arrive on?” I ask with a smile, linking my arm with Fitz as he balances our chairs in his other hand.

“A horse!” Anna cries.

I can’t help but laugh in return, and she seems to understand the humor shortly after and joins in.

By the time we arrive at Fitz’s mom’s, it’s after three. She lives in a small, quaint house in a neighborhood that shows no reflection of the city that we just emerged from.

Thanksgiving at my house has always been a day packed with people, food, and noise, but when Fitz opens the door, the only sound is soft classical music drifting through the air, carried by the aroma of food.

A woman pokes her head around the corner from what must be the kitchen, and Fitz’s cheeks widen with a smile as he greets her.

She starts speaking in return, her words flowing faster than water from a hose, and my eyes widen with the realization that I have no idea what language she’s speaking. Fitz laughs and then replies just as fast, and I feel like the world’s worst friend because I had no idea Fitz spoke any other language, let alone that his mother seems to only speak whatever it is. She pats her hands on the white apron tied around her wide waist as she makes her way to where we’re both standing with the door still open, allowing the cold to seep into the warm house.

Fitz says something again and gestures with his hands from me to the woman and I smile, hearing my name in a flourish of words. I turn to look at her, keeping my smile on my face and she walks closer to me. She’s several inches shorter than I am, and her hair is the color of midnight, woven with some gray hairs that frame her face. Her eyes are wide and a dark brown, similar to my own, and they’re glossy with tears. I look to Fitz for some sort of interpretation or clarification and feel her tiny hand wrap around my chin with an impressive strength. My eyes widen as they move back to her. She either misses my confusion, or ignores it, as she moves my face in several directions, clucking her tongue and using her other hand to brush loose wisps of hair out of my face. She presses a kiss to each of my cheeks and then starts pulling up the sleeves of my sweatshirt before inspecting my hands and sliding her hand up and down each of my arms, squeezing a few times as she goes. I move my eyes to Fitz in alarm, and his brown eyes dance with laughter.

“Harper, this is my oma. My grandma, Alala.”

I turn my eyes back to her and try to smile again.

She releases me and throws her arms around my waist, hugging me and speaking at a much louder voice with her face raised to the ceiling. I look back to Fitz for direction, and he shakes his head a few times.