Thursday, November 16, 2006
Dreaming of a White Christmas
by venitha
In mid-October, Andrea and I jogged down Orchard Road. "Good God, are those Christmas decorations? It's not even Hallowe'en!"
A month later, Jim and I vainly searched the aisles of Cold Storage for pistachio pudding while White Christmas blared from its loudspeakers. I rolled my eyes in annoyance, at the song, at the lack of pistachio pudding - and Snyder's pretzels and grape jelly and good cottage cheese - and at being taunted. White Christmas indeed.
Jim has repeatedly tried to interest me in a Christmas vacation.
How about we finish off Indochina with a trip to Laos?
Let's tag along with Brian and Andrea to Borneo. Caves and mountains and... what else do they have? Orangutans?
And in a kind effort to cheer me up when he had to nix my southern-India-in-January plan, I say we splurge: Christmas in Sydney!
To each new destination, I've had the same response: "I don't know, Jim. It sounds... hot."
*****
Several months ago, at a party, we met a man from India who asked us where he should vacation in America. "New York or LA?" We laughed and tried to convince him that America was much more than its coastal cities.
"Go to the Grand Canyon and the Rocky Mountains and Niagara Falls," Jim urged.
"And New England in the fall," I added.
"Oh, yes! I must go to New York City at Christmas and go skating at that place."
"Rockefeller Center? You've seen too many movies."
"No, no! I must go!" At the time, I was amused by his insistence. Perhaps, like the Germans' inexplicable love for David Hasselhoff, Indians have a thing for Meg Ryan.
*****
Today I shopped on-line for a Christmas present for my parents. As I stared longingly at Amazon's falling snow and frolicking penguins, I suddenly knew great empathy for Mr. Rockefeller's quest, for I have a dream of my own.
I go running with Sue in the crisp morning darkness. Bundled in layers, we leave foggy clouds of breath in the air as we marvel at my neighbors' beautiful and ridiculous outdoor lights. I leave Martha Stewart's macaroni and cheese in the oven and go to church on Christmas eve and light my candle from Marilyn's while singing Silent Night. I go to Boulder on Christmas morning, play with Matthew and Elizabeth's presents, eat all the chocolate from their stockings, share a happy holiday family dinner. Then I pack Maggie up in the back of the 4Runner and sing a raucous "Blue Christmas" duet with Elvis as we drive straight up to Winter Park to spend a week skiing in fresh powder, drinking hot chocolate spiked heavily - Whoops! I'll take this one - with butterscotch schnapps, and watching endless college bowl games. Go Badgers!
My desire is equally narrow in scope: there's so much more of the world to see. And it's equally overdone: I've already been there. But I'm also equally as mesmerized, dreaming of a white Christmas.
venitha
A month later, Jim and I vainly searched the aisles of Cold Storage for pistachio pudding while White Christmas blared from its loudspeakers. I rolled my eyes in annoyance, at the song, at the lack of pistachio pudding - and Snyder's pretzels and grape jelly and good cottage cheese - and at being taunted. White Christmas indeed.
Jim has repeatedly tried to interest me in a Christmas vacation.
How about we finish off Indochina with a trip to Laos?
Let's tag along with Brian and Andrea to Borneo. Caves and mountains and... what else do they have? Orangutans?
And in a kind effort to cheer me up when he had to nix my southern-India-in-January plan, I say we splurge: Christmas in Sydney!
To each new destination, I've had the same response: "I don't know, Jim. It sounds... hot."
*****
Several months ago, at a party, we met a man from India who asked us where he should vacation in America. "New York or LA?" We laughed and tried to convince him that America was much more than its coastal cities.
"Go to the Grand Canyon and the Rocky Mountains and Niagara Falls," Jim urged.
"And New England in the fall," I added.
"Oh, yes! I must go to New York City at Christmas and go skating at that place."
"Rockefeller Center? You've seen too many movies."
"No, no! I must go!" At the time, I was amused by his insistence. Perhaps, like the Germans' inexplicable love for David Hasselhoff, Indians have a thing for Meg Ryan.
*****
Today I shopped on-line for a Christmas present for my parents. As I stared longingly at Amazon's falling snow and frolicking penguins, I suddenly knew great empathy for Mr. Rockefeller's quest, for I have a dream of my own.
I go running with Sue in the crisp morning darkness. Bundled in layers, we leave foggy clouds of breath in the air as we marvel at my neighbors' beautiful and ridiculous outdoor lights. I leave Martha Stewart's macaroni and cheese in the oven and go to church on Christmas eve and light my candle from Marilyn's while singing Silent Night. I go to Boulder on Christmas morning, play with Matthew and Elizabeth's presents, eat all the chocolate from their stockings, share a happy holiday family dinner. Then I pack Maggie up in the back of the 4Runner and sing a raucous "Blue Christmas" duet with Elvis as we drive straight up to Winter Park to spend a week skiing in fresh powder, drinking hot chocolate spiked heavily - Whoops! I'll take this one - with butterscotch schnapps, and watching endless college bowl games. Go Badgers!
My desire is equally narrow in scope: there's so much more of the world to see. And it's equally overdone: I've already been there. But I'm also equally as mesmerized, dreaming of a white Christmas.
venitha
