Rasmenia

“Christmas is doing a little something extra for someone.”  – Charles M. Schulz

“What kind of Christmas present would Jesus ask Santa for?” – Salman Rushdie, Fury

*

When I was a tiny, brand-new person, I knew what it felt like to be overwhelmed by music, cookies & twinkling lights. I knew the absolute joy that can only come from a tiny, brand-new person’s sense of wonder when presented with stories & images of magical elves, animals & places.

I knew Christmas magic. It was nothing less than magic.

Like any kid, I got excited about presents. But, wasn’t the anticipation & surprise always more fun than the actual object wrapped up inside all of that pretty paper?

I consider myself lucky that for the first few years of my life, I had grandparents who I always spent the holiday with & that they got more excited about Christmas than anyone I’ve ever met since. There was always an enormous tree, standing upon a big platform with an entire model town built on it… complete with the model train that would chug by, doing laps around the tree. There were cookies shaped like Santa Claus’ head, homemade candy & plenty of holiday music that my grandfather & I would yowl along to.

But… that was another time. The grandparents, the little model town & train are all gone. I am no longer a tiny, brand-new person, but am a big, grown-up person who no longer believes in elves, Santa Claus or that December 25th is Jesus’ birthday.

I am a big, grown-up person who knows that human beings do all of the rotten, terrible things in the world, not fantastic creatures & that it’s other human beings who do the few good things in the world, not mythical characters from stories that were written a long time ago.

Now, when Christmas rolls around, I am no longer overwhelmed by music, cookies & twinkling lights, but am beaten down by annoyance & loathing as I watch other big, supposedly grown-up people bickering about their imagined “War on Christmas.” I’m disgusted with the absurdity of holiday shopping – whether pepper spray is or isn’t involved. I’m saddened & sickened by how much I hear the word “want” for the last 2 months of the year. He wants she wants they want I want WANT WANT. “I want” seems to be said more than “I’m giving”. (Here’s the thing: if you say “want” more than “give” around the holidays, then you have failed at Christmas. You are doing it wrong.)

Over the years, I’ve morphed from being tiny & brand new to the jaded Scrooge I am now. I’ve been watching not only the dipshittery mentioned above, but also festive occasions where I have given a Christmas present to someone, only to have it insulted right to my face. (It wasn’t EXACTLY what they WANTED.) I have had my religious beliefs (& lack thereof) insulted & condescended to. Gifts I’ve given have been regifted back to me a year later.

What I’m getting at is, when I’ve seen the worst side of people, it’s usually been at Christmas.

Earlier this year, Olivier & I decided we weren’t going to be a part of this nonsense. We would not exchange gifts with each other. Instead, we decided to run away. We spent a few months tossing vacation ideas at one another.

“We could go to an island,” he said, scratching his beard. “We could be lazy & boozy. Cabana style.”

“Yeah, but… I don’t want to be summer. I still want to be winter. We could take a train to Switzerland & eat lots of fondue.”

“Uh. I dunno. We’ll think about it,” he said. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

This went on for months. Until we no longer had plenty of time. We could stay home, we decided, but really… that would just feel shitty. It was November. Holiday Hell was descending upon us.

Then on one average & unspecial Sunday afternoon, I asked my husband, “Remember when you were a tiny kid, how magic Christmas was, before the preaching, bitching & the wanting?”

“Yeah.” Olivier nodded. “It was. It was exciting & happy. It felt great. But, now… now it’s just fucked – nothing but resentment & stress.”

I thought about it for a few minutes, then I turned to my husband. “I know what we should do for Christmas.”

The answer was so obvious, we couldn’t believe how long it took us to see it.

We skipped the gifts, the tree & the decorations. We tried our best to avoid anyone who pissed & moaned about whether you should say “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays”. We ignored everyone who wanted to lecture about “keeping Christ in Christmas” & closed our ears to talk of wanting & shopping. These are the people who suck the magic out of Christmas.

Instead, we contacted some local charities & asked them if we could lend a hand. We ended up working with Les petits frères des Pauvres (The Little Brothers of the Poor).

You may have already heard of it, but for those of you who haven’t, Les petits frères is an international non-profit that was founded here in France in 1946. They focus on aiding the elderly who may be ill, lonely or impoverished.

Our task was to fetch two elderly ladies from their homes on Christmas morning & take them to a restaurant where all of the volunteers & guests would share a repas de Noël.

We chatted on the way to the restaurant & after we arrived, we helped other volunteers to get several more guests inside & seated at their tables.

After everyone was settled, we had a nice meal with lamb, smoked salmon, red wine & brie. We listened to interesting stories. We joked & laughed & danced. We clapped & hooted as we watched dozens of elderly men & women in Santa hats dancing, singing & laughing like children.

I looked over at Olivier, who had been smiling all day… & I realized I’d had a silly grin on my face, too. I glanced over at two ladies, one of them 100 years old… the other, 106. I thought of what it might be like to live that long & I realized… I’m still just a brand-new person by comparison.

Standing there, with a goofy grin on my face, clapping my hands among all of that joy & merriment, I suddenly thought of how magical Christmas used to be & all of a sudden, it was again.

Later, on our way home, after we had delivered our two new friends safely to their respective homes, Olivier & I decided that we would be volunteering with Les petits frères again in the future.

If any of you are interested in volunteering with Les Petits Frères, click on the link below. They are in 8 different countries, so you may find them in your area.

“Want to keep Christ in Christmas? Feed the hungry, clothe the naked, forgive the guilty, welcome the unwanted, care for the ill, love your enemies, and do unto others as you would have done unto you.”  – Steve Maraboli

France, I love you, I really, do & I will always defend your honor in a bar fight, but please… leave Halloween alone.

Before I moved to France, Olivier explained to me that Halloween doesn’t really exist here; that a few people will dress up, or do something Halloween-like, but that it is largely an American holiday & that French people don’t really give a shit about it.  Ok… that’s understandable.  Especially since French people have their own ‘Day of the Dead’, as it were.

Many French people do observe the traditions that are at the origins of our Halloween.  On November 1st, la Toussaint, or All Saint’s Day, French people all over the country are visiting their loved ones in the cemeteries, leaving chrysanthemums on their graves.  Many people have the day off from work.  It is an actual holiday in France.

All the more reason to leave Halloween alone.

My first Halloween in France, Olivier & I were living in Paris.  We decided to go out to dinner & a movie.  I had almost forgotten that it was actually October 31st.  There wasn’t a sign of Halloween anywhere.  After the movie, we ran across the street to a “Tex-Mex” restaurant called Indiana.

Our waitress came to take our order.  Her face was covered in garish makeup, a piratey sort of do-rag sat on her head.   I looked around & noticed that the staff were all in costume.  Sort of.  It was hard to tell what anyone was supposed to be, but there were some Halloween decorations up on the walls & hanging from the ceiling. All of the customers were normal.

After she walked away, I asked Olivier, “What is she?  A pirate?  A vampire?  What?”

“I don’t know,” he said, squinting at the waitress.  “A vampire pirate?  We never even heard of Halloween until recently.  Most people here don’t know what’s going on, or what to do.”

He’s right.  Most people around here simply have no idea what in the hell Halloween is all about, why people are dressed up or what Trick-or-Treating is.  And the fact of the matter is, most of them don’t care.  It’s still fairly new & hasn’t been catching on very well.

Olivier & I did the only thing that we could do – we started doing our own thing every October 31st.  We break out the fondue pots & the pants with the elastic waist.  We stock up on bottles of cidre & mead.  We crank up Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds. We clink our glasses & say “cheers” to all the people we know who happen to be dead.  Good enough.

Then we moved into an apartment building infested with these loud little squawky things… kids, I guess you can call them.

It was last year when we saw the announcement hanging in the lobby that warned all the tenants that on Halloween night, the kids would be going door-to-door, so please have plenty of candy.

“Fine,” we said.  Olivier told me, too, that some friends of his at work who had small children had been dressing up for Halloween & having little classroom parties.  So, I began to feel a little hopeful… maybe it really was catching on!  Maybe all of those chrysanthemum-toting Franks had found the spirit of Halloween & weren’t just following along with some American fad.

At the grocery store a few days later, we were tossing bags of gummy candy into our cart, rejoicing in the prospect of having a REAL Halloween.

That Halloween night we waited, as we sat in front of our fondue pot, pouring mead down our gullets.  The sky grew dark.  The bottle became empty.  The gooey fromage goodness in the pot was now gone, nothing more remained aside from the cold, coagulated crust that clung to the sides of the pot.

Those little shits never came.

“What are we going to do with all of this motherfucking gummy candy?” I asked Olivier.

“Well, um… we eat it.”

Halloween.  Two inebriated adults, stuffed full of cheese with two enormous bags of gummy candy.  It was not a pretty sight.

Especially when they start thinking it's funny to eat a gummy cheeseburger like it's a REAL cheeseburger.

This year, there was no warning.  No announcement hanging in the lobby of our building.  But, when we were at the grocery store a few weeks ago, Olivier said that we should get some candy.  “For the kids on Halloween,” he said.  Funny enough, the stores do sell candy packaged in big bags for Halloween.  Of course they do.  They stand to make a few bucks.  “Whatever,” I said, walking away.

Aside from planning our annual fondue feast, I hadn’t given Halloween much thought this year.  So, it was more than a little unexpected when on the afternoon of October 30th, our doorbell rang.

“Who the fuck could that be?”

“Do you think it’s kids?” Olivier asked.

“No.  It’s the middle of the day & Halloween isn’t until tomorrow,” I said.

Olivier went to the door & when he opened it, sure enough… there stood 6 or 7 little kids.  One was a pumpkin.  Another one was a Grim Reaper (I think) & the rest of them were wearing normal, every day clothes.  No costumes.  A couple of moms stood behind them, looking bored.

“Give us some candy,” the happy tiny people said.

Olivier decided to mess with them.  “What will you do if I don’t?” he asked, trying to prompt them into a “Trick or Treat” sentiment.

It didn’t work.  He was answered with blank expressions.  So, he complimented the ones who bothered to wear a costume & gave them some candy.

After he closed the door, I asked, “What the hell was that?  No costumes?  Give us candy?  It’s the middle of the day & isn’t even Halloween yet.”

“I guess those moms decided to do it when they felt like it,” he shrugged.  “They don’t care about when it really is, what it means, or doing it right.”

I think the most horrifying Halloween terror that I have ever seen was the look on my French husband’s face when I exclaimed, “OUTRAGE!  THIS ALL HALLOW’S EVE BLASPHEMY WILL BE BLOGGED!”

That was it.  No more kids… & there we were again, two inebriated adults, stuffed full of cheese with two enormous bags of fucking candy.

And a pair of fierce kitty cat ears. 'Cause it's Halloween.

This day means something to a lot of people… more than Christmas, more than birthdays.  They plan ALL YEAR for this night.  Either have fun with it or, if you’re not into it, then don’t bother.  But, please… please don’t do it half-assed just because it’s trendy.

Now, to be fair… I know there are French people out there who understand Halloween, due to having knowledge &/or appreciation of American culture.  Or maybe because they understand how different places of the world celebrate Halloween-type traditions.  Or, hell… because it’s fucking fun.  I know that they are out there, in costumes, participating in Halloween celebrations, having parties & genuinely enjoying our tradition, rather than treating it like a cheap fad.

Also… if you know where these French people are, point them my way so we can party next Halloween.

Otherwise, I may have to embark on a one-woman campaign to introduce another time-honored Halloween tradition to France.

It’s all quite blurry now, but what I remember of it all is full of various landscapes, faces & suitcases.  There was eating, drinking, merriment &… mucous.

Fucking holiday travel.  It’s always a lot of planning & stress, but we had a plan – a simple plan.  There was no way that it could fail.

We had a direct flight from Paris to Pittsburgh, PA.  We would rent a car, then drive 3 hours to a tiny, rural town just outside the middle-of-freaking-nowhere.  After 1 week, we would board a Greyhound bus to Colorado.  Another week there & we would fly from Denver back to Paris.

There were various parties, reunions & get-togethers planned in several different locations with dozens of people.

Ok, so it wasn’t really such a simple plan.  Maybe we’d hit a snag here or there; 1 or 2 little things could go wrong.

Or… everything could go wrong.

Olivier & I woke up at 4:30am on December 20th.  I stared at the wall with the one eye that I could hold open as I drooled into a quadruple espresso.  Olivier was on the couch with his laptop.  In 2 hours, a car would be coming to take us to Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris.

“Putain,” he said, rubbing his face with his hands.  “Our flight to Pittsburgh is canceled.”

I groped at the curtains & peeked outside.  It looked like a photo negative – all black & white; snow & starless sky.

“So,” I said.  “We go to the airport & stand around like fucking idiots for the day?”

“Pretty much,” he said.  “But, at least we’ll be together.”

Makes everything better.

We finished getting ready & spent a decent amount of time squeezing our cat, who we’re certain was feeling bitter about our departure, even though we had hired a service to come visit her once a day to see to her every need & demand.

"Whatever. Just go. Jerks."

The airport was full of people rushing to catch their flights.  Others were yawning in security lines, but many of them were bouncing around like headless chickens because their flight had been canceled or delayed.

At a chaotic & confusing time, people generally lose any capacity of common sense, courtesy or rational thinking.  Sure, a great number of people may be in the exact same mess, but it seems to be the nature of most humans to think, “Sure, we’re all fucked, but my problem is greater than anyone else’s – I’m more important.”

So, you get people snapping at one another, pushing & shoving, cutting in lines, or bitching at anyone fool enough to make eye contact.

This was our morning at the airport.

Standing at the Delta service counter, an employee was working to get us on another flight.

“Where are you flying to?”

“We were on the canceled flight to Pittsburgh.”

“Ok, ” he said.  “I can get you on a flight to Salt Lake City.”

“Um…ok,” Olivier said.  “But, do you have anything that lands a little closer to Pennsylvania?”

A woman with 2 children & a vapid-faced man in a felt cowboy hat crowded behind us in the exit aisle.  I turned around to see what was rubbing up against me & accidentally made eye contact.  She began jabbering at me in French as she leaned on my suitcase.  Olivier turned around & explained to her that she was standing in an exit, that if she needed help, she would be better off standing in a line approaching the service counter, rather than blocking the one leading away from it.

“Well, ” she snorted.  “I’m in a hurry.  My flight was canceled.”

“Yeah,” Olivier said.  “Like everyone else.”

He returned his attention to the Delta employee.  The woman then turned to me & continued her tirade.  “I have 2 children & I’m in a hurry,” she complained.

“Désolée.  Je ne comprends pas… je ne parle pas français,” I lied.  Playing dumb foreigner is a convenient luxury that I don’t have in the U.S.

Eventually, Delta employee got us on a flight to Cincinnati, where we would be able to catch a flight into Buffalo, NY.  Good enough.

About 9 hours later, we arrived in Cincinnati, where we confirmed our flight into Buffalo.  It didn’t leave for another 4 hours.  We were exhausted, but Delta bought us dinner & as I’m sure you know, free food lightens any shitty situation.  Even free food from a desolate airport food court in the middle of the night.

It doesn't matter that this isn't real meat.

As soon as we arrived in Buffalo, we picked up our rental car.  We still had a 2-hour drive to our destination, but both of us were tired enough that we had stopped forming coherent sentences. It was the middle of the night.  It was snowing & the roads were icy.  I was positive that I had seen a man riding a camel out in the snow, but Olivier argued that this was some fatigue-induced hallucination.  I think that he was just being difficult.

The logical thing to do was to stop for the night, so we sought refuge at Econolodge.

The 2-hour drive was uneventful.  The weather went from sort of snowy to oh-fuck-I-can’t-see-shit snowy & then back again.  Either way, it was better than sitting in an airplane, or bumming around an airport eating sandwiches made of lips & assholes while people bitch at strangers.

Not to mention the fact that I was just excited to be back in my own country again, even if for a short time.

Our destination was the little town of Warren, PA.  It’s not a place that I am all that familiar with, but I do have several relatives there that I was excited to spend some time with & Olivier was looking forward to meeting some more members of my family – most likely to dredge up some more dirt on me.

We arrived safely & only 1 day late.  About an hour after we entered the house, I turned to Olivier & informed him that I was getting sick, which I have a habit of doing when we travel.

“Oh, shit,” he said.  “Again?  Well… at least we’re together.”

“Yeah, that’s something,” I said.

“And now that we’re finally here, we can relax,” he said.

At least… that’s what we thought.