The Delicate Art of Family Christmas

Dear world,

Ever since I was old enough to understand the insane profitability of Christmas I have been in love with every bauble, bell, and bow. Apart from my fascination with shiny objects, the pomp and circumstance which fills the air indubitably caters to my obsession with theatrics. That is why the prospect of a Christmas season in Italy filled me with dread.

For starters, Italy's commercialism barely rivals the knock-down drag-out war of American companies vying for the consumers attention. The lack of miniature trains weaving through miniature towns covered in miniature

blankets of snow in every shop window left my senses un-overstimulated. My heart didn't melt every two meters, due to the absence of obscenely cute animals with near-illegal looks of "pity me" in their eyes. There were no people dressed as Mr. Claus standing next to buckets of change, ringing a bell with a pitch that causes glass to shatter. There was nothing of the sort. Instead there were millions of twinkling christmas lights strung across every corso, via, and viale. The community ice-rink in Piazza Del Duomo was consistently full of laughing children. Shop owners laid out red carpets in front of their stores and sprinkled the surro

unding stones with silver glitter on an hourly schedule. It was all so... honest.

My heart skipped a beat when I heard the melodies of an accordion player, but I was to be let down only moments later: there was no propped-up sign saying "All I Want for Christmas Is Beer." I would casually cock my head to hear the whining plea of a child in front of a store window, getting my hopes up once again that there was a hint of real Christmas. But the mother had simply to say "not now, dear" and the child would quiet and continue to kick a ball of snow around the street.

Then came my mother and sister.

I finally got my real Christmas: full of mistakes, high prices, and last-minute rushing.

Underscored of course by love...

The trip to the airport could have been a bit smoother. The invisible trains arriving and departing Pavia station caused me to concede to impossibly priced ticket exchanges and my wallet had finally taken it's Christmas beating. Then came the metro shutdown. On the way to Milano Centrale an anonymous someone decided to take their afternoon stroll on the tracks of the Milan underground, apparently unaware that those same tracks are the preferre

d courses of fast moving trains. This resulted in my forcible ejection from a crowded tram, one stop before were I needed to be. I stood in the rain for half an hour waiting for my saint of a friend to swing by, collect my wet, ragged self, and transport me to the airport were I would meet my family at the gate, smiling and beaming my ass off in order to highlight my martyr status. Unfortunately, their experience was even MORE martyr-y than mine...

Having lost the bags with the Christmas presents and my mother's clothing, my mother had stood in a line with what could have been tens of thousands of disgruntled, baggage-less jet-setters while my sister slept soundly on a bench. Personally, I would have slapped my sister awake and had her wait in line while I went for coffee to ease my parental nerves. Such are the small joys of parenting.

I arrived to what can easily be considered mass chaos. My baggage-missing, english-speaking, dollar-toting mother and sister were standing outside the airport, luckily out of the pouring rain, as I ran up, prepared to spout my tale of traveling woe. I quickly surmised I was trumped, and we drove back to Pavia with the quintissential american determination to make THIS Christmas the BEST Christmas of all. We were in Italy for godsake.

Suffice to say that their week in Pavia was much like my week in Pavia, full of coffee breaks, tea breaks, pastry breaks, snack breaks, lunch breaks, dinner breaks, and naps. A simply brilliant schedule that I adhere to quite viciously. Our day-trip turned night-trip to Milano was relatively

typical: the Duomo, couture stores, and christmas decorations interspersed with light shopping.I was able to convince my sister to reject her plaid-centered theory of fashion for a moment which I took full advantage of, and which resulted in the purchase of an absolutely ADORABLE knit beret, which I (being the thoughtful older brother I am) paired majestically with my metallic midnight green scarf. I think the result suits her perfectly. I also think she does not wholly agree.

Christmas lunch went smoothly, for me. As the endless meal wore on, I could see my mother and sister's bites begin to shrink substantially in size. Oftentimes I found myself unable to explain a particular dish, resulting in hesitant nibbles from my sister and tentative tasting from my mother. Yet no one can deny the sheer amount of food was sufficiently Christmasy.

The highlight of the week, for me, was the introduction of my family to my landlady, who quite possibly is as old and regal as this house itself. We spoke of the cold, the snow, and boots. I have yet to decide whether or not we spoke of these things because they are interesting, or whether it was simply that I knew that boots is stivali. Either way, my translation skills proved themselves to be adequate to speak on such topics. My landlady donated a fur to the the "Keep The Houstons Warm" fund. And my mother looked quite the donna elegante around town. Not to mention she was warm as asphalt in August.

All said and done, Christmas felt like Christmas, complete with all the hang-ups, awkward discussions, and sibling squabbling I have come to love so dearly. And now, dear world, you are caught up on the major moments of this happy holiday and I can finally shut the door to the deep recesses of my memory where, quite frankly, I feel I would rather not go.