Back in 2001, Feng and I spent our first Christmas together in a hostel in San José, Costa Rica. He cooked spaghetti with meat sauce while I was fighting cockroaches in the kitchen and the shower, and because 18-year-old me looked a little sad about being away from home, he bought me a Winnie the Pooh stuffed animal.

I’m still travelling with Feng—and Winnie, now stuffed in my backpack.

I think we’ve spent more Christmases on the road than in Ottawa or even in France by now for me. Just as well, I have no idea how to do Christmas the Canadian way, and I’m used to our weird, off-beat end-of-year celebrations. Come to think of it, Mark can barely remember the only two “normal” Christmases he’s had—the one we celebrated in Ottawa with a three-month-old baby and my in-laws (I want to forget that Christmas so badly), and the one we spent in France a year later, equally challenging for many reasons.

This year, Christmas—and Brazil—started well. We ended up in a great Airbnb, and the weather cooperated—it conveniently rained in the evening, after we came back from the beach.

We began our stay in Florianópolis at the endless Praia do Moçambique, one of my favourites. The following day, we went to Pantano do Sul, and we spent Christmas Day in Canasvieiras.

Canasvieiras is Argentinians’ favourite beach—not ours—but this year it was a lot of fun because it was packed and lively. Mark and I took our traditional banana-boat trip—told you, we have weird Christmas traditions—which involves a thrilling high-speed ride and multiple stops to pick up people who fall into the water along the way. Hey, we didn’t fall. We’re not rookies.

I kind of crashed the 6:30 p.m. mass. Feng cooked spaghetti with meat sauce for himself and Mark, I cooked fish for myself, and Mark woke up to a small Christmas present: a Havaianas bag.

I kind of like our Christmases. Unconventional, maybe—but very fun.