Juliana Navidad A La Colombiana Chiva Culiona May 2026

“A la izquierda, el pasado. A la derecha, la gloria.”

And every Christmas Eve, as the chiva rounds that cliffside curve, Juliana leans into the wind and shouts the only prayer she needs:

So Juliana did the only thing she knew: she improvised. She tore the hem of her linen shirt—a stupidly expensive thing from a Yorkville boutique—and wrapped the hose. She borrowed a woman’s hairspray to seal a leak. She convinced a teenage boy to sacrifice his bicycle’s inner tube for a belt. And when the battery whimpered its last, she ordered everyone out. Juliana Navidad A La Colombiana Chiva Culiona

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.”

“Merry Christmas!” Juliana yelled, and the crowd yelled back, “ Juliana! Juliana Navidad! ” “A la izquierda, el pasado

“I’m not a mechanic,” Juliana said, pulling out her phone. No signal. Of course.

“No,” said Doña Clara. “But you’re a calculadora . You solve problems.” She borrowed a woman’s hairspray to seal a leak

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.