Crashing a Quinceñera

I have been to sweet “16” birthday parties and Bat Mitzvahs in the U.S. that put some weddings to shame, but I had never before seen the likes of a quinceñera before traveling to Argentina.

The quinceñera, a traditionally Mexican celebration of a young girl entering adulthood that has since been culturally diffused to South America, is a socially competitive, fun-filled fiesta that rivals a wedding in more than one way, as the birthday girl always dresses in white.

I had been in Argentina for two weeks before attending my first, “Quince” as they are called, but let my attendance be a lesson on what not to do when attending these serious birthday bashes.

“You have to attend a quinceñera,” my good friend Lari, whom I had first met while she was an exchange student studying in Philadelphia, told me one afternoon.

I had learned a little about the quinceñera in Spanish class so I agreed that I would force myself to go: after all, I consider it my duty as a reporter to research every cultural aspect of Argentina—even the fiestas.

Quinces are usually an eight-hour affair, beginning around 10 at night and lasting well into six in the morning. After getting dressed up in our best (girls wear dresses, the boys suits) we arrived fashionably late at 2 a.m. with no gift for the birthday girl, no invitation to get into the party, which is a must in order to enter through the door, and no idea of who the birthday girl even was for that matter.

This did not seem to faze my Argentine friends, who had mastered the art of crashing quinceñeras.

After making a few calls, Lari had secured the names of six people who were on “the list” but had not attended the party, and I quickly assumed the identity of Cecilia LaNarr, whose name I would give in order to enter the party. 

When we knocked on the door, the other girls expertly gave their fake names and entered but when it was my turn I panicked: I am not a good liar, especially in a foreign language.

“Nombre,” the woman holding a clipboard with the list of names asked me.

“Ce, ce, Cecilia La, LaNarr,” I stammered as she searched the list page by page before stopping at one and pointing to it. She then said something in Spanish that I didn’t understand and the look on her face led me to believe that not all was going according to plan. I had to think fast.

“Perdon, pero no entiendo porque soy de Estados Unidense—una prima” I said, which means, “Sorry, I don’t understand because I am from the United States—a cousin.”

Although the woman still did not seem completely convinced, when she hesitated to look at the list one more time I took my chance and disappeared into the crowd.

I passed through an outdoor terrace filled with cushions and lounge areas and draped with white fabric, then through a banquet hall before finally met up with my friends on the dance floor.

We spent the entire night, or rather, the entire morning, dancing to the D.J. amongst the smoke filled dance floor (courtesy of a smoke machine), about 20 disco balls and more than 200 of the birthday girl’s closest friends, myself included. 

Waiters walked through every half hour with trays ranging from sandwiches to hamburgers to empanadas and later cake and pastries.

Outside on the terrace, two bars were set up to serve hundreds of liquados, non-alcoholic daiquiris of sorts in strawberry, orange, and pineapple flavors.

No detail was overlooked, from the color coordinated party favors and table settings to the two white wedding-sized cakes with dulce de leche, a traditional Argentine caramel filling. Hundreds of little pastries graced three large white tables, each made by hand from chocolate mousse to vanilla to chocolate dipped meringue cookies assembled to look like a table arrangement.

Once again, for the sake of research, I forced myself to try one of everything and they were all equally delicious.

At the end of the night, which was around 5:30 in the morning, I left my first quinceñera. I had not seen the birthday girl, I had given no present, and departed with a full stomach and aching feet.

“This was definitely a less formal quince, wait until the next one we go to, that will really be a party,” my Argentine friends told me as we walked out the door and passed the woman with the clipboard.

I was so impressed by this quince that I could not imagine how much more extravagant of a party it could have been and I wondered if I had the endurance for another.

“And don’t worry,” Lari said, as if reading my mind, “We’ll get you an official invitation for the next one.”

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