No. 42: Have a British ChristmasChristmas in England has a lot to do with ghost stories, something I should have figured out from constant readings of “A Christmas Carol” and “The Turn of the Screw.” I’m understanding it fully now as Zeddy and I board a motorized cart to ride through a Christmas-themed haunted house that’s set up in the middle of Hyde Park. I wasn’t aware that things like Christmas-themed haunted houses existed, but I also wasn’t previously aware that some people in this world eat pig’s blood for breakfast and call it sausage. I’m learning a lot this year.
“Boo!” shouts a gray plastic ghost with a Christmas wreath around his neck, as it jumps out at me and Zeddy while we sit politely in our slow moving car.
“Zeddy, this doesn’t seem like a traditional Christmas,” I say as we pass some rubber spiders hung up on a tree like ornaments.
“Of course it’s traditional,” he replies, snapping my photo as we move along. “We have roasted chestnuts.”
Zeddy hands me one of the chestnuts and I pretend to eat it. Roasted chestnuts are fantastic in a Mel Torme song, but are a little bland in real life. They’re sold at tiny stands throughout the city come December-time and taste a bit like raw peanuts covered in tree bark. I spit some shell out onto the moving ground below us and cover it up as a cough.
We came to Hyde Park today for some ice skating, something my Florida self had never actually done outside. Obviously, I’ve spent plenty of summer camp time at the Sunrise Ice Rink, a man-made and air conditioned shrine to frost, but the idea of strapping on skates and gliding around in fresh air had me thrilled. Taking to the ice this morning I was filled with Christmas cheer, and I decided to share some of my American traditions as we gracefully glided over English ice.
“Zeddy, have you ever heard of a movie called ‘A Christmas Story’?”
“A film Erica, we call them films.”
“Yes,” I replied, holding my arms out at either side to steady myself, as a group of 12 year olds zoomed past me in ear muffs. “Have you heard of it?”
“No, but it sounds like it’s about Christmas.”
“It is,” I said, flapping my arms about. “It’s very famous in America, and on Christmas day there’s this TV network that plays it for 24 hours straight, over and over.”
“Splendid. What’s it about?”
“Well, it’s about this boy named Ralphie and he really wants a bee bee gun for Christmas. And everyone says he can’t have one because he’ll shoot his eye out. But then he gets one and he goes outside, and he shoots his eye out.”
Zeddy turned his feet and came to a halt on the rink, sending up a spray of icy foam and causing me to run into the side wall as I hadn’t yet picked up my stopping technique.
“That sounds bloody awful!”
“Why?” I shouted back. “It’s wonderful, everyone loves it.”
“He shoots his eye out?” Zeddy asked incredulously. “Sounds like just the thing some barmy American would come up with. How about ‘I Ran Over an Elf’? Or ‘I Slaughtered Santa?'”
“All right, all right,” I said, stomping toward the little exit platform on the side of the rink.
“Or ‘I’ve Killed a Gingerbread,’ or ‘I Raped a Reindeer’?”
For the remainder of the morning I stopped sharing my countrymen’s traditions.
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