Hallacas made by Giovanni's Family, Caracas, Venezuela, December 2025

Caracas, December 2025

The streets of Caracas are glowing with Christmas.

Not in the polished, choreographed way you might see in New York or Paris — but with a joyful, almost chaotic brilliance all its own. Strings of lights stretch across streets, stars blink from apartment balconies, and inflatable Santas cling courageously to windowsills despite the tropical heat. Entire neighbourhoods seem dipped in glitter, as if the city decided to paint over its worries with colour and sparkle.

And yet, for many, Christmas here will be modest. There won’t be heaps of gifts or luxury feasts. But there will be laughter, shared meals, and togetherness — which, in the end, feels far more powerful than anything wrapped in ribbon. Caracas is a place where joy shows up quietly, insistently, even when it’s least expected.

In the background, life moves with its own rhythm — often surprising, sometimes a bit improvised. Travel plans shift. Packages arrive fashionably late. Traffic finds its own logic, with rules that seem more like gentle suggestions. Caracas teaches you to live in the moment and be flexible. But perhaps because of that, people here are incredibly kind to one another. There’s a generosity that smooths the edges of daily life: strangers hold doors, neighbours share chocolate, and friends check in not just out of politeness, but true affection.

And then, of course, there are hallacas.

I was first introduced to hallacas two years ago, during my very first Christmas in Caracas. Some dear local friends swept me into the tradition with warmth and laughter — insisting (rightly!) that one cannot understand Christmas in Venezuela without participating in la hallacada.

That year, we gathered in someone’s kitchen, armed with cutting boards, giant pots, stacks of banana leaves, and good humour. Everyone had a task. Someone chopped onions. Someone else marinated the meats. Another cleaned and softened the leaves. And there was me — the beginner — carefully spooning filling into the centre, trying not to mess up the folding technique (which is a lot harder than it looks).

The kitchen was loud and happy. Music playing, stories shared, flour on foreheads, laughter over lopsided hallacas. It reminded me of my own family holidays — different food, different climate, but the same warmth. That human instinct to gather and cook, to pass on tradition through hands and memory.

This year, I haven’t made them myself — not yet — but my adopted Venezuelan family is already well ahead of me. Preparations are in full swing. Pots are bubbling, leaves are being cleaned, and plans are being made to ensure there are plenty of hallacas for everyone when Christmas actually arrives. And I know — without doubt — that I’ll be invited to share in the eating (and maybe a little bit of wrapping duty, too).

In Caracas, the hallaca is more than a dish. It’s a symbol — of home, of family, of joy that insists on showing up, even when times are tough. I’ve come to love them. Especially when they’re reheated the next morning, with a cup of strong coffee and no urgency in the air.

And speaking of reheated things… some old memories are warming up this season too.

I recently received some bittersweet news. Bitter — because I will be leaving Venezuela, a country I have come to love in a way that’s hard to explain. Sweet — because I’ve been offered a new adventure. As of August 2026, I’ll be relocating to Ethiopia, to take on a new role in Addis Ababa.

It’s a return of sorts. I lived and worked in Ethiopia years ago, and the memories have stayed with me — the light in the highlands, the sound of Addis mornings, the incredible food (yes, I’m already dreaming of injera), and the strength and grace of the people I met there. So this next chapter feels like coming home to a place I once had to leave too soon.

But right now — I’m still in Caracas.
And I’ll be spending Christmas here — not in Poland with my family, not in Portugal where I lived for years… but here, under the warm, blinking skies of a city that’s somehow crept into my heart. And I feel lucky. Lucky for the friends I have here, for the kindness I’ve received, for the stars across the rooftops, for the hallacas in the fridge, and for one more Christmas in this vivid, resilient place.

Wishing everyone reading this a peaceful, delicious, and hallaca-filled holiday season. May it be full of kindness, surprise, and maybe even a little music in the kitchen.