Juliana looked at the engine. It was a Frankenstein of wire, tape, and Don Pepe’s prayers. A hose was cracked. The radiator was leaking a sad green tear onto the dirt.
“Juliana Navidad A La Colombiana Chiva Culiona” Juliana Navidad A La Colombiana Chiva Culiona
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. Juliana looked at the engine
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. The radiator was leaking a sad green tear onto the dirt