Père Noel, pinch me please.

Nicole's delicious homemade cajun gumbo; 

a fitting choice for a cold winter's night.

On the cusp of this upcoming holiday season, I have awoken each day with an unusually acute sense that I am indeed dreaming. I already feel that I live my dream everyday here in France, but lately, each day has brought something especially exciting.  Back-to-back celebrations of the coming holiday anticipate the future festivities with their own personalized versions of the fun, and leaving very little time to sit still and ponder the happenings elsewhere. I find such distraction to be a great comfort, being as it is never easy to be away from loved ones around the holidays, and I welcome the freeing nature of this never-ending merriment because it allows me to truly take advantage of this unique experience.

Chestnuts roasting on a semi-open fire in Geneva

This past week alone, I made use of my Eurail pass and took a last-minute trip to Geneva, so as not to miss out on any fleeting moment of the season.  Mulled wine and characteristic cuisine was in abundance, and a chilly winter breeze made sure its presence was known, so as to make the experience an authentic one. My return home was swiftly followed by lessons with my students about Festivals of Light around the world, and discussions of their own holiday traditions.

In keeping with our own traditions, our North American crew of english assistants (myself-Chicago, Nicole-Lafayette LA, and Julie-Canada), introduced the concept of the Gingerbread House to the Kiwi and the Frogs.  They ate it up. Literally. Not that I could stop myself, neither; Nicole's recipe for the gingerbread was irresistible, and frankly, put the french "pain d'epice" to shame. Vince and Julie's house took the ginger-cake, leaving us all with a feeling reminiscent of Halloween when Vince's first jack-o-lantern grinned down on all the others in its magnificence.

Nicole and Jeremy had some construction mishaps for all her planning and preparation done on behalf of the group, but despite all their troubles, their "petite maison provinçale" turned out to be quite the charming creation. Lucy and I teamed up for a joint re-working of the "Eglise Francaise" complete with arches, stained glass rose windows, and a priestly inhabitant. Our little candy village was quite the sight to behold, too precious to eat, yet too tempting not to want after, and ultimately each house slowly met its fate in a distant setting.

The church was to be a gift to some colleagues, but never quite made it, the culprit being a young mademoiselle with a sweet tooth and an insatiable curiosity.

Les Lumières de Lyon

I have always had a deep appreciation for Christmas lights around this time of year (or simply any time of the year), being as I rather enjoy the impression that I am viewing the world through a kaleidoscope. The whimsical glow adds a certain warmth to even the coldest of nights. It is the sort of sensation you get when drinking hot chocolate from your favorite mug after sledding, or when you find yourself enveloped head to toe in winter wears watching kids pelt each other with snow.

This past weekend, I had the privilege of experiencing this feeling magnified tenfold at one of France's most luminescent festivals: Le Festival des Lumieres in Lyon. Coinciding beautifully with the commencement of the holiday season, this 5 day long festival of city-wide illuminations adds modern technlogical feats of light to the traditional candle-lit ceremonies of the 8th day of December.  In its humblest beginnings, the Festival of Lights took the form of candles lit on window sills in commemoration of Lyon's deliverance from the Plague in the 17th century.  In thanking the Virgin Mary for saving the city, the city's gratitude is represented in a myriad of forms, not the least of which being the words "Merci Marie" in radiant lights beside her basilica on the hill Fouvière, and in clear sight from anywhere in the city below. She watches over the weekends proceedings from her post atop Fouvière as the tourists file in in droves impatient with anticipation.

First the Hotel de Ville melts away before their eyes, followed a snow storm that mysteriously touches only the building's facade, only to sparkle its way into oblivion as the gargantuan clock ticks away the passing time.  In the Vieux Lyon (Old Lyon) a prodigious hand from above traces the rose windows of St. Jean, sketching each pane to perfection. The work then shifts across the cathedral canvas from pencil and paper to the construction of the church by armies of animated medieval workmen.

Photos of St. Jean by Lucy Hodge

Photo by Lucy Hodge

The streets are lined with temptations of chataignes and vin chaud, the sumptuous pairing of piping-hot roasted chestnuts and mulled wine.  Middle Eastern kebab stands rest comfortably between traditional crèperie carts and sandwich vendors, their allure rivaled only by the aroma of candied pralines wafting through the air from around the nearest corner. And just when you begin to adapt to the overwhelming magic of the moment, you turn to face the Rhone River, only to be rendered breathless once more. Dozens of twinkling buoys grace the river's gentle azure waves, leaving the impression of viewing the night sky at one's feet. It is truly a spectacular demonstration of shear artistic brilliance, and the magnitude of its force is unimaginable.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

I find it somewhat difficult to imagine that Christmas is swiftly approaching. I happen to have a countdown on my desktop, more so as a reminder of time until travel plans, and it reads 24 days left to go. I felt a strange urge to put up my 3 euro-garage-sale-Christmas tree upon my return home from class today, and realized halfway through the process that I must have been in line with the stars; I had forgotten it, but somehow December 1st made itself apparent to my senses. As I sit here listening to Christmas music streaming live from across the globe, I feel warmed by that nostalgia that can only be found in the month of December. My tree is glistening with a bizarre, yet wonderfully charming collection of antique glass ornaments paired with homemade creations and recent plastic additions.
I felt unexpectedly jovial as I assemble its clumsy color-coded limbs, remember the affectionately named "ghetto Christmas tree" of Damen Avenue. I still remember dragging it out to the trash after Christmas one year, and it seemed to be comically resurrected in my new found wonder.  I had to chuckle as I shoved extra branches between boughs, filling in the holes in my Charlie Brown tree, perfectly set to the station skipping from The Chipmunks Christmas Song to Satchmo reading The Night Before Christmas to some artist's new version of Melikalikimaka. At some point I heard a song about "The House on Christmas Street," which I would have normally detested for it being a clear reminder of the extreme commercialist contradictions of the holiday, it made for a good laugh to remember that house with far too many lights that shocks and thrills you all at the same time.

They have been steadily assembling Christmas decorations around Lorgues for weeks, and each time I walk home at night, I am filled with anticipation to see them all aglow.  I have been told that there are very special traditions in Provence during this time of decking the halls. In the true spirit of France, food is an art form; thirteen desserts must be present, each with a special significance. Christmas markets, as to be expected, are an essential part of the holiday celebration spreading across Europe, and I already have plans to indulge in some heart-and-soul warming mulled wine.


The most interesting tradition for me will be the celebration of the Santons [Santouns in Provençal]. It is essentially the manger scene, but imagine it with representations of every member of provincial society present. I am not only talking about the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker, but also the fisherman, the water bearer, the miller, the old couple, and even a tambourine-man (check out Provence Christmas Traditions and for those of you with familiar with french: Les Santons).