As a native New Englander who skipped his return flight, I soon found that living in the tropics had some enduring collateral advantages. The year-round T-shirt, reliable weather (hot and hotter) and Tom Jobim, for starters — not to mention a culture blessed by informality in which the only honorific that counted was carnival queen.
Yet here I was, on a balmy December evening in Rio de Janeiro, trussed into suit and tie, dancing a waltz with my crown debutant, whom I was scripted to give away to a prince too young to shave. All this while trying to keep my eyes dry and not step on my daughter's toes.
I'd heard plenty about turning 15 below the Florida Straits, the transformative moment when grown girls were painted and pearled and presented to society as good to go. Mexico is the gold lame standard of the quinceanera. Peru and Colombia are not far behind.