With the feast day of Saint Nicholas just passed, and Saint Lucia’s Day approaching – just to mention two December heavyweights – it seems an appropriate time for musing about the various European pagan festivals and their Christianised contemporary equivalent.

In France, it’s hard to turn a blind eye to Saint’s Days, as most calendars list the corresponding saint for every date.

In Italy, it seemed that I timed my visit to Venice with an alternate carnevale. Whilst I was sitting and enjoying a quiet aperitif, the dark, wood-panelled wine bar surrounds were invaded by purple hologram witches hats, face-painted ghouls and red-horned devils. They sang out “trick or treat” (well… the Italian equivalent) and hopped around in Halloween merriment.

The girl behind the bar gave them a tomato. They cracked some smoke bombs on the floor in disgust and with a whirl of colour and sound, they bustled out again.

I was also lucky enough to spend St. Martin’s Day with friends living in an Austrian village a few years ago. Also known as Martinmas, this holiday is the feast day of Martin of Tours, and its celebration is scattered through Western Europe. Typically, the festival involves a sumptuous supper of goose (with some sort of delectable orange sauce, if I recall correctly). Luckily, all traditions were not adhered to, and the following forty-day fast was conveniently cast aside!

From interesting article about French wine and the customary festivities accompanying the new wine of a season, I’ve learned that in medieval times the vineyard owners would rush to get their wine on the market first for a better price. The Fête de la Saint Martin in early November conveniently coincided with the wine releases, and this apparently coined the euphemism ‘the Saint Martin blues’ for a hangover.

Walking along the Amstel on a crisp Sunday morning, surrounded by latticed metal balconies, turrets and two-toned brick / ceramic facades as far as the eye could see, I was both struck and touched by the number of cyclists. Luckily, I avoided being literally struck or touched. Amsterdam has over one million resident bikes, but only 700,000 resident Amsterdammers.

Amsterdam is also a city of young families, and the big boxes of children tacked onto the front of bicycles provide evidence of this. In fact, most bikes seem to have some sort of a custom-built child carrier the handle bars or rear-end. Throughout the city, despite square shapes and sharp lines dominating architecturally, individual creativity prevails nonetheless.

Now in France, where I live, the French do sophistication and class in a refined style (they also work wonders with dairy-based and rich meat cuisine), but I feel that something is amiss for creative expression. I can’t generalise entirely, of course, France has creativity… but… how can I describe this? I think that in pursuing an aesthetic of uniform beauty (which France has in abundance for both metropolitan and rural beauty) something has got to give in terms of oddball creativity. Whilst France has towns decked out in flowers, Amsterdam has empty flower gardens enclosed by a fence made from discarded umbrella handles. Perhaps that would be a way to describe it.

… And I love it. I’d forgotten about eccentric collections, and miss them like a back-of-the-cupboard childhood teddy bear (“Oh hello you! We should spend more time together, for old time’s sake”). I could definitely live on a Dutch houseboat, hoarding all my old electrical garbage, stored in interesting artistic arrays. I would look at my junk everyday, and renew annually the promise to one day make it functional again.

Despite the fact I was only in Amsterdam for as many waking hours as it took to drive here (for the record: the rideshare took ten hours, double the anticipated journey time), this visit has made a lasting and favourable impression.

One of the most mind-bending things about living in St. Petersburg was the mid-summer white nights. I know that for those living further north, for instance in Murmansk, things get even crazier as the cogs and wheels of everyone’s body clocks chime and whirr discordantly, but SPb was whacky enough for me.

I’m one of those people who need utter darkness and silence to sleep, so during the summers I hardly slept a wink and spent the season in a zombie-like limbo between sleeping and waking. I was pretty exhausted by that stage too, because the central heating from the winter is often turned off after the outside temperatures have risen. This means that one has to sleep with the windows open – not so nice as the mosquitoes (unfortunately Peter the Great decided to establish St. Petersburg on a swamp some 300 years ago) had just risen from their hibernation, and were baying for blood…

This probably sounds all very negative, but it’s just the quirks of a short-lived summer… plus it gives you a great excuse to meet with friends and stay out all night!

Paris indulged in a white night last weekend. That is, a nuit blanche evening of contemporary electronic and audio-visual arts. I had intended to hit the town, map in hand, trekking through all the festival sites… but then there was the inevitable distraction of the rugby… and afterwards I just didn’t have the attention span for the incongruous and existential, spelt out in neon tubes.

Luckily, the nuit blanche catered for all tastes, and there was a captivating no-questions-asked fire installation that stretched through the Jardin des Tuileries.

The large scale piece was amazing, and hundreds of spell-bound spectators walked around the garden in silence. The only noise to be heard was the sometimes murmur, sometimes roar of the flames. It was our descent into a fairyland, a magical grove akin to Christmas shop front installations, but without the vexatious jingle of sales slogans and jangle of Christmas carols.

Feeling cleansed and redeemed after a night of sporting aggression, I took the metro home. Bad choice – had I forgotten that France had just beaten New Zealand? The worse-for-wear rugby revellers, rendered ugly by the harsh lighting and exaggerated acoustics of the underground, were even harder to cope with after the Tuileries.

Ahh… how’s the serenity?

Last Saturday was a fortuitous day for Europeans, as the Southern Hemisphere was categorically trounced by its northern neighbours. Australia and New Zealand bowed out of the Rugby World Cup in the quarter-finals to shock victors England and France.

I overdosed by watching both matches on the big screen at Hôtel de Ville in Paris. The first match (Australia vs. England) was basked in glorious sunlight, however the second (New Zealand vs. France), was marked by mayhem. I’m sure you can guess which one I’m going to elaborate upon…

My first observation was that, really, the assembled crowd was far more hostile than the on-screen proceedings. Security were already shutting the gates over half an hour before kick-off, as the square had reached full capacity. Guillaume and I managed to just make it through the barrier, and found a seat at the front where only half of the screen was obstructed. We thanked the foresight of the security shutting off the site when they did, only to later curse them as they let an extra thousand through at the commencement of the game.

We spent the first half shouting at people to sit down in front of us, and then for the second half moved amongst a much stronger crowd of “sit down!” shouters. We sat down, rapidly, and in sham sheepishness, but finally with a view of the screen. Things were beginning to look up for us, but not for France. At this stage I was still making not-so-bold predictions that the All Blacks would trash Les Bleus.

Then it happened. 20 minutes into the second half, Guillaume announced that he needed to go to the toilet. Oh no, this couldn’t be happening. The only way we could move was if France scored a second try and the crowd surged to their feet. After a few anxious minutes, the unfathomable occurred again – France scored! – and we were out of there, pushing through bodies like a fly-half with a view of the try-line.

After the relief of finding a loo, we just accosted some girls in a car listening to the radio whilst waiting at traffic lights. Ten seconds to go, and France leading by two points, they told us. We waited, bated breath, hoping that this time would pass without New Zealand scoring or the lights changing to green…

Their car horn was the first to break the silence and launch the city into revelry. Multiple horns sounded and the jubilant crowd surged from the square into the streets.

I pitied anyone who was trying to get anywhere in central Paris for any reason other reason that night…

And I personally love them. In theory…

Particularly magnificent examples of cobble-stoned old towns can be found in the picturesque capitals of the Baltic countries. Tallinn particularly springs to mind, but that’s probably just because I’ve spent the most time in Estonia (not only is it very nice in itself, but also because it provides the cheapest gateway out of St. Petersburg – just catch a bus out of Russia, then get a cheap flight to Berlin or London. The train to Riga, Latvia is also an option, as is the bus to Tampere, Finland… for the record!)

I’ve spent hours wandering around on Tallinn’s cobblestones of a winter’s evening (just because it was a quite bearable -10° rather than a bitter Petersburgian -30°… that, and the fact that Tallinn has one of the best preserved medieval town centres in Europe).* But let’s look at the more practical applications of cobblestones – actually travelling on them, rather than just admiring from afar.

They are not at all suited for ladies footwear. This hasn’t been a problem for me thus far (sneakers and hiking boots aren’t particularly the mark of a “lady”), but I’ve heard this complaint voiced, so I thought I should share it. The problem with cobblestones (or perhaps just the cobblestones in my life) is when, I don’t know, the City of Paris ran out of bitumen, or perhaps they thought that Paris needed more of a quaint village atmosphere… but to have cobblestones on otherwise modern roads (argh!)… near to my house (I’m not in any historic hotspot)… which I cycle over daily.

What I need is a little suspension and a lotta air in my front tyre (druh-druh-druh-druh-druh, that’s my teeth still shaking in my head), because at the moment it’s like riding on corrugated iron!

* One of my flatmates in Russia was able to ascertain with amazing accuracy when the temperature was below -15°… if it felt like fingers were being forcibly shoved up your nose (as everything inside froze), then it was at least -15°.

Now I don’t want to make it a recurring theme in my blogs, as my French blog is often filled with class angst, but I feel obliged to have a rant against dickhead drivers and their dickhead cars. This all began in Vancouver, Canada, in 2002, when as a cyclist I was infuriated by the tossers with SUVs in the city. Other than contributing more choking fumes to the atmosphere and taking up an excessive amount of space, they’re pretty much good for nothing. These memories were jolted back last night when walking past a particularly hideous glossy yellow, reinforced steel design, super-sized Parisian 4WD.

Not that this is anything new. The neighbourhood is filled with ostentatious-mobiles that come in two styles: bad taste and good taste (check out my other posts here and here for a bit of background on the 16éme).

But what really takes the cake, in my humble opinion, are stretch hummers. Talk about issues! Ubiquitous on the streets of St. Petersburg (for one), these colossal monsters are a conversation-stopping, jaw-dropping hazards on wheels. I often wondered if they were designed for weddings in war zones, when one needs a limo with a wheel span wide enough to straddle tank tracks.

The funniest stretch hummer spectacle I ever saw was one that was causing a vocal traffic jam that stretched on for kilometres outside of Chernyshevskaya metro station in SPb. A smaller car had double parked in a way that any normal sized car could have fit through, but then of course, a stretch hummer happened to choose that route at that particular time.

Grumpy gridlock. That’s one thing about Paris though – or maybe just the 16éme. Traffic is frequently held at a standstill here, as the narrow streets are frequently blocked by removalists, garbos, tradies or caterers. But the inconvenienced just sit and wait silently without a word or honk of protest. Just the way things go, I guess!

For many foreign tourists, the first taste of Europe is somewhat of a frog’s legs-gelati-sauerkraut purée, washed down with red wine and beer by the keg-full. For in the relatively compact space of Europe it’s possible to realise the crossing of multiple borders and exposure to diverse cultures all within ten days.

A friend of mine once told me an amusing story of just sitting in an adjacent room and observing the package-tour gale bustling through the Louvre to catch a glimpse of the Mona Lisa. Like horses blinkered against any external distraction (in this case, any one of the 34,999 other works of art on display), the stampede could be heard to loudly exclaim every so often in noxious accents – “Where is she? Let’s find her and get out of this place!”

Guillaume and I went to the Louvre on Friday night though. This is when it’s packed with the youth of Paris and the world, looking for a late-night culture fix, because it’s free for all those under-26. We spent the evening in Ancient Egypt, and then headed home… via the gift shop… (sound the bells of doom now)

We bought a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle, a shrunken version of the enormous (h. 6.21m x l. 9.79m) Coronation of Emperor Napoleon I (1806-1807) by Jacques-Luis David (Guillaume’s choice…). Subsequently, we spent all Saturday night in, drinking beer and straining our already-temperamental eyes looking for details in fur coats, candle sticks and a red curtain (Guillaume had already done all the faces and edges).

The most amusing part of the jigsaw is the “puzzle after-sales service” leaflet.

It reads:

‘Have you lost some pieces of your puzzle? Don’t worry, let us take care of that. All you have to do is clip the bar code from one side of the box and paste it on this reply card. Fill out the card with your name and mailing address and forward it to us. We will mail back the solution of your problem right away’.

HOW!?! I’m tempted to just hide a few pieces, send away my name, phone number and address with the barcode (really, they ask for nothing else, no credit card, no stamped self-addressed envelope) and see if they reply with a “the missing pieces are under the bed”. Mystery and miracles… and a thousand pieces of coronation…

I’ve been thinking a lot about Russia lately (evidently), but also I can’t shake from my mind that I’m now living in France.

I wanted to write a piece that somehow encapsulated the meeting of these two great cultures, but in more of a recent sense than any Napoleonic 1812 overtures, grand architectural feats or exquisite culinary celebrations. France and Russia also have ties in their linguistic histories, many French words have been adopted into the Russian language, and there was a time in literature when the ultimate ideal of Russian womanhood could express herself better in French than her native tongue.

There is also the amusing anecdote that Russians gave the world the word “bistro”, because Russian soldiers in France during the Napoleonic Wars were “apparently” always rushing around, and demanding food from the French vendors quickly (быстро – ‘bistro’ – is the Russian adverb for “fast”). The French vendors misinterpreted this as meaning “food”, and so adopted it on their signs. This vague history piece has been brought to you by my first Russian teacher (hence any vagaries and historical inaccuracies are necessary for the re-telling of the story – why let truth get in the way?).

Anyway, I’ve got off topic. I was racking my brains to think of some magnificent cultural exchange, but only one would come to mind. So here it is, I present you the President of the French Republic, Nicolas Sarkozy, at the June 2007 G8 summit in Germany after a meeting luncheon with the President of the Russian Federation, Vladimir Putin. Apparently neither man drinks… I say judge for yourself!

I’m living in Paris at the moment, haphazardly trying, but not really, to learn French.

http://toomanyfrogsand1brit.co.uk/ is my other blog, and it’s all about my life thus far in France. Basically it’s the trials (and trials and trials) and few tribulations of getting set up in a new country. I think it’s got some universally applicable observations, but then a lot that’s specifically French. Or, more so, Anglo-Franco stereotypes which are so deeply ingrained (hence the title), and popularised through literature and film, and make for very amusing consumption. I haven’t yet mentioned anything there from Stephen Clarke’s A Year in the Merde or Sarah Turnbull’s Almost French, but sometimes I feel my life here has emerged from a page of these books.

I’m here because, like Sarah Turnbull, I met my French partner in Eastern Europe, and after time in St. Petersburg, London and Sydney, it’s now time for a few years in France – and why not in the centre of it all, Paris? So that’s where my wandering has taken me this time. I have a job as a nanny, which is good in that it provides accommodation, but that’s about all it’s good for. I’m tied down with the children most days, so other than weekend trips around France and neighbouring countries (ok, I can’t complain about this, I am spoilt for choice in this regard, but am short of time!), any grand-scale wandering is temporarily paused.

I have two weeks paid break over Christmas though. Any ideas? I’ve never been to the Ukraine, and would love to visit Georgia, Armenia and Azerbaijan. But with only two weeks in winter… Maybe it will just be a few festive dinners somewhere closer to “home”.