Twelve Lucky Grapes

Of all the Spanish traditions I have written about in my blog, I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned about eating the twelve grapes on New Year’s Eve, our “Nochevieja.” Spaniards eat each grape as the clock strikes midnight in order to have good luck in the coming year. Depending on whom you ask, the twelve grapes symbolize the months of the year. Supposedly, the tradition started at the turn of the XX century, to emphasize that some provinces in Spain had a very good harvest and they all have been eating grapes since then. Being as it may, the custom continues all over the country with huge gatherings in places like the Puerta del Sol in Madrid. All major radio stations and later Televisión Española in 1962 started broadcasting the event. Something like New Year’s in Time Square Spanish style!

Needless to say, I have continued the tradition wherever New Year’s Eve finds me. Who wants to have an unlucky year when it can be solved so easily? One year I almost had a tragedy. I was at the Jersey Shore and I had forgotten to buy grapes. I called my father, who loved a good drama, in a frantic state. Oh, he said, do you have raisins? Calamity averted; it seems that raisins work, because I don’t remember what exactly happened that year, so it couldn’t have been that bad. Other times I cheat big time and I eat the grapes at 6:00 PM in Philadelphia, which is midnight in Spain, and I don’t worry anymore about any bad luck.

I have a family photo from 1959; we are in Madrid at my godfather’s home; I think it is NewYear’s Eve. There are eighteen of us, counting the photographer, who must have been Manolín, Lolín’s brother. If the cliché says that a photo can tell a thousand words, this one is particularly chatty. It’s amazing how much it tells about Spanish culture back then.

My father is the only serious person and with glasses, not looking at the camera, in the middle back row. He wasn’t an intellectual for nothing. He is holding a cigar in his right hand. To his left is my beautiful, smiling mother with her Majorica pearls on, echoed by her best friend next to her, Doña Lolita, another Spanish beauty. My parents had moved to Madrid from Valencia earlier and their relatives and friends followed little by little. They all moved to the same neighborhood next to the Retiro Park, some in the same building, that’s how close we were.

Doña Lolita’s husband, Manolo, is squatting in the front row, on the right. He’s also smoking a cigar and is dressed up with coat and tie for the occasion. Their daughter, Lolín, was my best friend; she is on the bottom left. Children were often named after their parents; names evolved from Lolín to Lolita, she is Lola now. Behind Manolo’s right was the maid, notice the black uniform with a white apron required on holidays. I love the little curl on her forehead. Her boyfriend is at Manolo’s other side, dressed more casually, but still with a tie to show respect. We were liberal enough to include the maid and her beau in our festivities, but bourgeois enough to need her help at parties.

My handsome godfather was my mother’s brother; he is standing in the back, also smoking. My father used to say that my mother’s siblings—she was the oldest of seven—had big heads, but I could hear her say, sotto voce, that it wasn’t true. Her brothers had lots of wavy hair and they were not bald like my father. My brother Juan Luis also inherited the full head of hair, but without the waves; he’s on the second row. The funniest thing now is that I see the same wavy hairline in my grandson, Jake, and the same curls as my mother in my granddaughters, Dinah and Djuna.

The hostess, Aunt Elena, is in the middle with a very happy smile. She was always one of my favorite relatives, full of mirth and gossip. My cousin Guzmán sits in front of his mom and Elenita, his sister, is below him. All the children are drinking with the adults except the littlest one, not because of her age, but for worry she may break the fancy crystal glass. Another cousin, also named Elena, holds her glass high. We were the same age, but she always looked and acted older. I wonder if she is still looking older than me now.

Every photo seems to have a sad story hidden within. Luisita, Elena’s older sister, is next to the maid. She was already famous; her professional name was Luisa Fernanda Martí, one of the first female radio announcers in the country. She would be the first to marry and was the first one to die in my generation, prematurely, of some short illness. From then on, she was our chronometer; we would always say “before” or “after” Luisita died to mark the time.

I am the one laughing out-loud in the middle, bottom row; it looks like I already had a wacky sense of humor and I was making trouble sharing my glass with Elenita. I was still Conchín; I didn’t become Conchita until we emigrated to the United States and Concha as soon as my mother passed away. It’s interesting that I have an identical set of glassware, which belonged to my mother, in Brigantine. How did I bring it without breaking it, I have no clue. I must have brought it in my carryon bag along with all my remembrances of a happy childhood.

Wishing you all the best for your holidays and a very lucky new year, whether you celebrate with twelve grapes or not! Love, Concha

This entry was posted on Wednesday, December 10th, 2025 at 9:53 pm by conchaalborg and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.