Boo (hoo)!

The time is once more upon us for Halloween in France, that pinnacle of the anticlimactic, sandwiched in between Saint Patrick’s Day and Groundhog’s Day on the roll call of holidays that no one gives a damn about. I mean sure, there are a few (Anglo or pseudo Anglo) bars in Paris that will be having Halloween parties tonight, and I have just read that costume sales are up, but between us, Halloween still has a long way to go before it officially catches on around here. Which is a shame, really, because how can you not love candy pumpkins? Seriously? 

Hurts (my teeth) so good!

A few years ago, sensing the onset of yet another bout of expatriate Halloween blues, I came up with a Parisian alternative: champagne, macarons and a bubble bath. But this year, no can do; my place has far too many people in it. So instead, last night we decided to go for a spin though Père Lachaise cemetery in eastern Paris. In preparation for All Saints’ Day, the 110-acre cemetery was bedecked with police officers and flowers—mainly chrysanthemums, which I now realize are official tomb flowers and thus explains why they’re so, um, inexpensive. During my less abundant years I was a big, big fan of chrysanthemums: for my apartment, for my friends, as hostess gifts, housewarming gifts, birthday gifts.... I’m beginning to understand some of the reactions I got. Huh.

So, Père Lachaise. It seemed appropriate to go, even more so at day’s end. Between the uneven (creepy) cobblestone paths, fluttering autumn leaves, cackling crows and crumbling tombstones, we got a nice dose of the hibbie jibbies. I mean sort of. I’m not sure that the Headless Horseman could exactly hang out in Père Lachaise; not with all those gendarmes everywhere. Not that I’m complaining.

Sorry, Sir. Do you have a permit for that head?

I must admit to busting a few Thriller moves at one point, hoping I wouldn’t be sentenced to eternal damnation for daring to make fun in a cemetery. But despite the decidedly macabre atmosphere, frankly, visiting Jim Morrison’s final resting place for the 5th time in my life wasn’t nearly as enjoyable as, say, munching on a couple of those miniature Butterfingers would have been. My kingdom for a Hershey bar! Maybe I’m becoming jaded.

Roses are red

Back in November, I mentioned that the French don’t really “do” Halloween. They don’t really “do” Valentine’s Day, either. Most, if asked, will turn up their noses upon the mere mention of it, because as everybody knows, it’s just another damned commercial holiday meant to convince consumers to spend money they don’t have on stuff they don’t need. Worse still, it cutifies love. Quelle horreur.

And yet, just try to find an available restaurant in Paris on Valentine’s Day. Not a chance—they’re all booked solid. France’s boutiques are well aware of what February 14 means as well, as are its florists. Roses, roses, everywhere. I was informed yesterday by a colleague that most roses one finds for sale in Paris are in fact shipped in from Africa, where they are grown en masse, diverting water that once went to nourish trees that provided food for the local populations. In other words, Africa’s people are being deprived of both food and water so that we may have roses in the dead of winter. I was far from my computer when she said this, and therefore unable to fact check anything, but it sounded a little too Avatar-esque to buy off-hand and in any case didn’t stop me from accepting the long-stem white rose presented to me after lunch by our friendly server. Nor did it stop the colleague in question, for that matter. Valentine’s Day is despised enough as it is; must we also make it a target of moral outrage?

For my part, I am finally beginning to appreciate this officially-disliked-yet-secretly-celebrated holiday (aside from its hideous signature colors—pink and red?!). But chromatic dissent aside, I’m honestly warming up to Valentine’s Day. This is mainly because I’m—AT LAST—no longer single and this holiday gives me an opportunity to unashamedly gloat really enjoy it. When I was all by my lonesome, I loathed the entire month of February and its cheesy pink and red hearts. “Valentine’s Day is so lame,” I would say, “and who in his right mind actually eats those nasty ‘be mine’ candies anyway?” Then I ceased being single and changed my attitude about the whole thing overnight. Now February means (more) gifts, (more) candlelight and (more) champagne—all very good reasons to not even bother pretending to look down on this “commercial” holiday. Besides, I’m an American; I’m supposed to enjoy commercial holidays. It is, after all, the fault of my people and our evil capitalist ways that such holidays even exist. Ask any of the French.

On that note, I must end this post as my valentine and I have dinner reservations (we were able to make said reservations because today is the 13th, a clever little manoeuvre on our part). Happy Valentine’s Day to all, whether you like it (yet) or not!

As the leaf turns

Autumn in Paris has always been a treat for me. I love the changing colors of the chestnut trees; I love the crisp, envigorating air; I love the spicy smells of autumnal things like chimney smoke and wet leaves; I love quiet Sunday strolls through fragrant woods. I also love the soulful melancholy that accompanies all of it. November, a time of transition between the burnished richness of autumn and the first soft chimes of Christmas bells, is indeed upon us and in no time at all I will be humming Handel airs beneath my breath while crunching through the leaves on my way to work.

Last weekend was Halloween, a sad little holiday that came and went nearly unnoticed in Paris this year. I’ve never seen the French get overly excited about October 31; it seems to be an American export that never really found a serious following among the Gauls, who class it alongside Valentine’s Day as a commercial (read: American) holiday for the unsophisticated masses. This year, however, was even more of a non-event than usual. Blame la crise économique if you will, but I didn’t see so much as ONE tiny little nod to Halloween in the Parisian streets. Not a single jack o’ lantern, rubber spider or orange and black motif to be found. No, this time around the French seem to have skipped right over Halloween and gone straight to Christmas. Bizarre to enter the neighborhood Monoprix supermarket in the middle of last week and find it bedecked with over-sized decorative gift boxes, the ceiling strung with Christmas ornaments in fuchsia and black (I believe they’re reusing last year’s color scheme, incidentally. No doubt further fall-out from la crise).

When I was a child, Halloween was first runner-up in the Best Annual Event category (first place naturally belonging to Christmas). It wasn’t dressing up that I looked forward to so much as the gleeful saccharine orgy that accompanied said dressing up. I should specify here that our mother raised my brother and me on a strictly no-sugar policy, knowing full well that sugar (alias “white death”) leads to cavities, hyperactivity and all manner of other evils. Thus, all throughout our childhood we were given a regimen of fantastically healthy food that had little in common with what the “normal” neighborhood children were eating. While they happily sucked away on Tootsie Pops, we had to content ourselves with a bizarre sugar-free variety, whose surprisingly chemical lemon flavor I can still conjure up if I try (*shudder*); instead of fruit roll-ups, we got relatively tasteless 100% fruit leather (“fruithide” would have been a more accurate name); in place of chocolate chip cookies, we munched on carob raisin bars, and so on and so forth.

Yet be that as it may, Halloween was always the one time of year when my mother would put aside the tofu and allow us to take part in a ritual that went entirely against her naturopathic instincts. I reveled in the spoils of Halloween until I had reached an age when dressing up and begging for candy started to feel weird, at which point I abandoned it to the same “I’m too old for this now, but I wish I weren’t” domain as pet mice and 25¢ slime. Since then I may have donned a costume once or twice for the occasional eccentric (very French) party, but just between us I cannot dress up without feeling perfectly ridiculous, even after a few glasses of wine. Maybe I have unresolved issues with Halloween.

This year I turned 30, an event that many face with anxiety, loathing, or even mild depression. Not me. I have found my entry into a new decade to be liberating. For one, it has granted me a sudden sense of legitimacy as a real adult person. And as an adult person, I decided this year that it was time to celebrate Halloween differently. I thus devoted the entire evening to a more elegant form of decadence than heaps of candy or barrels of chardonnay. Instead, I popped over to the nearest Pierre Hermé boutique, a veritable temple to the sugar gods, where I bought six perfect miniature French macarons, a specialty for which this particular pastry chef is known throughout France (and undoubtedly beyond). Upon returning home, I ran myself a lovely hot bubble bath, artistically arranged my macarons on a little plate, put on some background music and cracked open the half bottle of chilled champagne that I had been saving since July. It was, as the French would say, “awesome.”

Conclusion: I may have found a way to re-market Halloween to 30-somethings. But if not, at least I can find comfort in knowing that I have created a new personal tradition that will provide me with an excellent reason to cherish October 31 once more.