PaR Cooked

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Freddy the Fish is Dead

Our fish died last week.  It is especially embarrassing to admit in the wake of his death that, at first, we didn’t really want him.

Three years ago when our babysitter, who was graduating from college and leaving the area, asked if we’d be interested in taking her fish I said, without any reservations, “No, thanks.” It wasn’t that taking care of a small, iridescent blue and purple betta fish would require so much work. It was that it felt like caring for a four year old, a baby who rarely slept, and ourselves pushed the limits of our capacities. It was only recently that we’d killed all but a single sprig of a low-maintenance houseplant through pure neglect. We were not people who needed more.

“I’ve looked into taking him with me on the plane out West, but it’s just really complicated,” she said.

Living in a college town you hear the horror stories of dogs left locked in closets,  pets abandoned outside the pet store, and much worse done by probably well meaning, but clearly clueless and immature students. Here she was researching the options to bring a $3, three year old fish home with her.

I immediately said yes.

We grew used to having Freddy around, even fond of him. It was as soothing to watch him swish and swirl as he swam in circles as it was terrifying to find him napping inside his ceramic shark, when only his tail, flopped out flat and perfectly still, was visible.

At the kids’ insistence I made him a tiny Christmas stocking while they constructed a faux mantle to hang behind his bowl. The girl went through a phase when she kissed his bowl every morning and night. They argued feverishly about who would get to place the grey rocks back in the bowl during water changes.

Admittedly there were times when his water got cloudy before it was changed and a meal was missed here and there, but that wasn’t any worse than the kids fared with missed washings and  yogurt occassionally passing for dinner. It was hard to tell what Freddy thought about the whole thing, but he kept living, which we took as a good sign.

Because he was a betta fish beyond his prime, I had be preparing for his death pretty much since he came to live with us. Before leaving for Uruguay we told the kids that chances were good he would be dead before we got home. 365 days was a long time for a fish. He wasn’t dead. Our neighbors had managed to nurse him through the polar vortex in a poorly heated house.

In the end, like it almost always does, death caught us off balance. There was no chance to prepare the kids with pep talks about mortality, the circle of life, or of flesh eventually turning into the dirt that feeds life. One morning last week there was just a dead fish in a bowl.

The kids were sad, but quickly practical. “All animals die,” said the boy to his sister. “We’ll die someday because we’re animals, too.” The girl now calmly points to the empty bowl stowed on a shelf and informs visitors that Freddy is not in it because he’s dead. Then, because she is three, she will lie down on the ground and pretend she too is dead. When she pretends to be dead she also asks that you put her in the freezer, which is a story for another time.

What are you supposed to do with an aquatic pet when they die? The kids had opinions about his funeral arrangements, but neither of them wanted any part in the actual internment. I buried Freddy in the backyard and covered the spot with a couple of bricks to deter the neighborhood cats from making a late night snack of him.

And then I cried. Not the tears of gasping, gulping grief, but a misty sadness of saying goodbye to something we hadn’t wanted, but ended up loving; and a creature we kept alive and healthy at a time when we thought we couldn’t.

 

 

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168 Hours in Santiago de Chile (When You’re Lazy Tourists and Have Kids)

We are terrible tourists. That’s probably an exaggeration, but I do find those “36 hours in…” articles in The New York Times more exhausting than inspiring.  So maybe not terrible tourists, but probably lazy ones. We try to find a few things that appeal to all of us, see them and then spend time napping, hanging out, wandering around, and eating.

The kids and I spent a morning hiking up the Cerro de Sta. Lucia, a large hill and park in the city with green spaces, fountains, ornate building facades, and a whole lot of stone steps. We climbed halfway up on a sidewalk that skirted a steep drop before the kids thought they might be done. Admittedly, the views were pretty nice even from there and the climb was steep for short legs, but they were also particularly whiny that day. Promises of castles and towers were enough to convince them to keep walking. Stone steps, worn completely smooth in some places, led off to the right and we followed them up and around as they stopped or turned or forked. We didn’t pay much too much attention to where we were going as long as we were headed up. At the very top there was a clear and breathtaking view of the entire city and the mountains beyond. I don’t have many pictures from this trip since making sure the girl didn’t fall off the edge or into the fountains or moat took all of my concentration.  She only fell halfway down one flight of fairly gentle stone steps. A victory!

What you couldn’t see from so high up were the narrow side streets lined with cafes, trees, and stores. Some were pedestrian streets and others just lightly trafficked by cars. Places like this always make me a bit melancholy for times when traveling meant plopping down at one of these cafes for a coffee and a rest without answering 5,326 questions about the waiter’s every word or without treating the other patrons to a full-length dance performance by our children.

On our way to the Plaza de Armas, which was largely under construction but still beautiful, we passed through a restaurant gallery. It was a long passageway lined with hot dog stands on one side and sit down restaurants (still serving a lot of hot dogs) on the other side. Even at the 10 in the morning people were leaning against the stands’ counters eating hotdogs mostly hidden under the layers of toppings; a thick layer of avocado and a quarter inch deep squiggle of mayonnaise being the two most visible.

We also passed through here on our way to the Museo Chileno de Arte Precolombino, a place that is totally worth the effort of visiting, even for very lazy tourists. The museum has recently changed locations to a refurbished building housing new exhibits of ancient artifacts. Inside, the walls and floors are a mixture of white and warm, deep grey, which creates a calming background to the three floors of pre-Columbian art that is organized by cultural areas.  Through a revolving door in a corner of the second floor is the textile room. Think about the awesomeness of that. I mean, I have sweatpants from five years ago that are disintegrating. These textiles were found well-preserved in very dry and dark caves and are now preserved in a dark, climate-controlled room behind plates of glass. Motion sensor lights turn on to spotlight a shirt made of feathers or a fragment of intricately woven fabric. There are drawers that slide out with the push of a button to give a closer look at things like dying techniques.

The Parque Forestal, a long, largely unbroken span of green space in the city, was the perfect place for some touristing with minimal effort.  The Museo de Bellas Artes  is located there. We never made it inside, but even from the outside the building was beautiful. We couldn’t argue with missing the art museum when there were two full-equipped playgrounds to explore. Montevideo’s playgrounds–with their wooden and metal slides and flagstone paving stones under the swings–are entirely charming, but a little variety in the way of soft landings and complex climbing structures was exciting.

On the other side of the Parque Forestal is the Cerro de San Cristobal, which has an incline railway you can ride to the top. After seeing the line that snaked on for what must have been over an hour wait we decided to go on foot as high as we could. That turned out to be zoo level. I won’t bore you with my navel gazing about the pros and cons of zoos, though the the animals in this one appeared to be extremely well cared for and the zoo has a mission of protection and education. The kids had a great time running up and down the terraced paths, which made it possible to be almost eye level with a giraffe, and looking at every animal they could fit into the hour before the zoo closed.

Animals also showed up in unexpected places, like the Centro Artesanal los Domínicos, a sprawling market of wooden stalls at the foot of the Andes selling a wide variety of handmade goods.  The crafts ranged from nice to kistch and we ended up buying nothing, but the space itself was nice with a couple of cafes, a stream, wandering cats, a large cage of birds, and two pet stores. While there we tried sopaipillas dulces, a fried flour dough served with a sweet syrup of chancaca. It’s a Chilean version of the various fried doughs that exist in many, many parts of the world.

Last on our lists of sites was the Museo Interactive Mirador, an interactive educational museum with a large outdoor playground and cafe. There are museums like this around the world and our kids would happily visit them all.  This one was done well with activities suited to lots of ages. The girl enjoyed making things move and light up while the boy was more curious about the why and the how (though he was too overwhelmed with excitement to really absorb the information).

And that, my friends, is just about it.  We ate some delicious Indian food and some mediocre Indian food (but still Indian food!). We had some sushi. We ate ice cream. We shopped at a grocery store that had so many things we’ve been missing (like better yogurt). We never got around to trying mote con huesillo, a traditional drink made of peach nectar mixed with cooked husked wheat.

Valparaiso burned while we were there and signs went up everywhere encouraging people to donate goods or money. A Chilean woman I met in Montevideo explained that all Chileans felt impacted by the fires. It overshadowed the also recent earthquake in northern Chile.

We came home via the SeaCat, but in first class this time because that’s all that was available. Lest you be concerned this made us full of ourselves, you should know that we boarded the boat via the port’s storage shed by way of a parking lot and that SeaCat first class is higher in altitude, but not actual class (not even the plastic glass filled with something like champagne they served will sway me on this point).


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8 people, 10 days, 6 cities, 2 countries, 2451 words

Here’s the short version: Phoebe and her family came to visit. It was great. We went to the beach a lot. We traveled. We saw many sunsets. We ate. Some of the food was really good. Sometimes it was just nice to be together. Eric ate a lot of beef. We went to Buenos Aires. It was fun. They went home. That was bittersweet.

Let me back up. A lot.

On Christmas Day after months of anticipation, weeks of planning, and hours of travel (for them), Phoebe and her family arrived in Montevideo for a ten day visit. The excitement and joy of seeing dear friends after a long absence is really only surpassed by how quickly you forget how long you’ve been apart; that these people haven’t been with you all along. I don’t know exactly how to tell you about their visit. At night after the kids went to bed I jotted down notes on the day. Notes that quickly filled two pages and could have filled more if my hand hadn’t cramped and my eyes hadn’t drooped. Sometimes I want to recount every day in gratuitous detail and sometimes I can’t imagine trying to recount the experiences of eight people over ten days.

During the first few days heat followed us everywhere. My memories are of sweating. On the bus to the port where we went to find Eric’s first of many, many chivitos, I remember watching the beads of sweat form on Mette’s nose as she and all the children gradually melted into the plastic seats. When Phoebe and I finally went to get her long-promised suitcase worth of Uruguayan yarn, it seemed impossible to believe that we would ever again require woolen anything. We set up fans in our apartment and then everyone fought for space in front of them.  Everyone except Eric who was often leaning out the window admiring the heat and the view. We allotted the kids time in the air conditioned hotel room to cool off and veg out.

We rented two high-mileage, low frills,  American sedans (one with a faulty check engine light and the other with barely working air conditioning) and followed each other first east and then west down busy and empty highways.  At our destination we would trade stories of  near misses with inattentive drivers, of crossing six lane highways in the dark, of motorcycles with families of five crammed onto the seat, of roadside castles, of packed roadside restaurants, and of brush fires. We drove into the heat of the day to get places and then drove home in the cool, near black of night.

Toward the east there was a mass of other people trying to get to the beaches, to second homes, to hotels, to cabins. Out past the city in the east the there were small towns with small cement houses and dirt roads. There were grocery stores, lumber yards, and plant nurseries. Then there was nothing but scrub-filled fields, marshy patches with horses grazing, and forests of pine and eucalyptus until the next town or until a road jogged off to the right leading to the coast.

The first beach we visited was covered in rocks and deserted except for a man and woman freely exploring each other’s anatomy.  The wind here was cooler than in the city. The water crashed in foamy cold waves that the children waded into without hesitation, regardless of their ability to swim. We drove farther east to Piriápolis. Here, just a few miles down the coast, the sand was baby powder soft,  the water calm, and the beach crowded with families.

The next day a friend invited us to his beach house for an asado. He sweated over the wood-fired grill laden with various cuts of meat (and a few vegetables) while the rest of us drank and ate. We walked the red dirt roads of the town past one-story cement houses to the beach.  Following us as we walked were eerie and alarming cries that sounded like packs of kittens, or maybe feral babies. It sounded at first like the sound came from the tall roadside grasses, but we soon realized they were echoing from the storm drains. The more we listened the spookier it became. We imagined colonies of all sorts of creatures living underground and the wrath they could unleash.  Our friend told us they were toads. Not killer toads or radioactive toads. Just toads. He said this quite nonchalantly as if it would be hard to mistake the sound for anything else. I still kind of wonder, though. They sounded a lot like feral babies to me.

To get to the beach here we had to follow a path through large dunes.  Then the beach, filled with families, spread out before us.  Waves crashed huge here, though the water smelled more like the river than the ocean. Phoebe and I had somehow not connected the beach with swimming, so we stood at the water’s edge while everyone else dove through the waves.  Our friend picked up the slack for us by throwing any willing child into the waves or offering himself as a human boogie board; and when one child tired he found a better rested one.

Heading west the highway was eerily empty. It was hotter heading this way and the highway farther from the water. Phoebe has rightly pointed out that this is a serious understatement. It was hot enough that she worried that the cars would melt. Or that the faulty check engine light on their car would turn out to not be faulty and we would all melt at the side of the road.  The fields were more cultivated and dotted with cows, sheep, and, to our delight, a herd of goats. In some places cows stood under palm trees for shade; something Phoebe and I found hilariously incongruous. The towns had names like the cheeses we had sampled in the market, like Cufre and Danbo. There were honor system roadside stands, which lacked refrigeration, advertising fresh cheese and sweet cheese.  We turned off the highway around kilometer 55 driving down a sycamore lined road to a tiny town where the sand was flat and wide. People beached themselves on sand bars like seals, wallowing there in the warm water that was flat and shallow for ages. Driftwood lay on the beach and trees leaned down from jagged dunes.

Our first afternoon in western Uruguay was one those days that felt so dry and hot that spontaneous combustion wouldn’t have been surprising. The air smelled of Eucalyptus, dust, and cooking meat. Phoebe and I let Nathan and Eric sort out finding gas for the nearly empty cars while we turned up the air conditioner in the cabins to arctic blast, let the children plug into any form of technology they wanted,  put up our feet, and gently infused the afternoon with gin. Then we talked until the light started to fade, the children needed to be aired, and our husbands returned victorious.

The eight of us watched the sunset nearly every night of the trip. We watched the sky turn orange and then fade to dark from Montevideo, from eastern and western beaches, from the terrace of a pizza place in Colonia, and from the rooftop pool of our hotel in Buenos Aires. How is it that night after night that show never gets old? For me, it was the time each day when I would think, “Here we are on the other side of the world from home. Together.”  Every night I’d be amazed. Plus, they were just crazy beautiful sunsets.

On New Year’s Eve, on an empty beach in western Uruguay while the kids finished popsicles, laughed and ran, and got wetter than we had authorized we watched the sun sink on 2013. After we had trooped home, the children had gone to sleep, and our husbands had gone on to other things, Phoebe and I slipped outside in our pajamas to wait for midnight and share a bottle of champagne she had had the foresight to buy before leaving Montevideo. Fireworks, out of sight but not out of earshot, let us know when the hour finally clicked over to a new year.  Our conversation, though, continued unchanged. Before turning in for the night we passed the half-full bottle across the fence the neighbors who showed no signs of retiring anytime soon.

With ten days of meals, some are sure to be unremarkable, but on vacation in a place entirely new sometimes even boxed macaroni and cheese eaten out of a bowl balanced on your lap can feel festive. Even when the food wasn’t great, there was almost always something to make the meal memorable. At a restaurant cheerful in decor and lacking in service where we waited over an hour for mediocre food, Otto lost his second tooth.

And sometimes the most memorable food appeared where we least expected it. After a hot walk on the beach into town we stopped at the first restaurant we found. It was unassuming, but open.  We sat on a patio

Pizza place, Colonia, Uruguay

Pizza place, Colonia, Uruguay

overlooking the beach and ate one of our best meals.  Eric talked about that chivito for the rest of the trip. It’s worth saying again that Eric ate a lot of chivitos and then Argentine lomitosHe examined menus, consulted with Nathan on translations and then ordered meat, which he never failed to enjoy. I felt like I finally got to experience the much talked about South American meat dishes, thankfully without having to eat any of it myself.

In Buenos Aires Phoebe and I went out for a late night dessert date to a famous confiteria where the decor was amazing, the waiters entirely old world gangster, and where  the pies, while delicious, were weighted like bricks.

Of course, we had to eat Uruguayan pizza at least once. We took them to our favorite pizza place in Montevideo and they all tried fainá, which Nathan had been raving about for almost five years.  Then Eric found a pizza place in Colonia that had tiered patios overlooking the water and combined Uruguayan pizza with more American ideas of toppings. I still think about that pizza.

Our family almost didn’t make it to Buenos Aires for the last leg of the trip. Uruguayans, including temporary residents, have to provide birth certificates in addition to ID cards for all children.  Of course we didn’t know this and there was no budging the woman at immigration who could hardly even be bothered to come to the window.   Nathan took a wild ride in a taxi driving twice the legal limit on the Rambla to collect the birth certificates. In the end it turns out the surly woman in immigration was fairly lenient.  One birth certificate was expired (everything here expires) and one wasn’t even the right version. Finally, with the clunk of a stamp, we were cleared to leave. We made it on board with minutes to spare.  I even got to do some movie-like fist pump while Phoebe and family cheered our arrival.

We thought driving in Uruguay was pretty exciting, but the experience of riding Buenos Aires taxis made that seem tame. Taxis were inexpensive and uncrowded compared with the subway so there were many wild rides. One though, topped all others. Out of the line of waiting taxis outside a shopping mall, Phoebe, the girls and I grabbed one at random. The driver, standing outside his taxi while eating a cup of ice cream, seemed to have a bit of swagger, but it wasn’t until we were settled in the backseat that it began to dawn on us what we had gotten ourselves into.  The front of his otherwise dingy cab was decked out with faux chrome plating, a smaller sporty steering wheel, and a whole lot of nitrous gauges. He slammed the door and took off, heel-and-toe shifting his way through clogged streets.  At a traffic light he stopped short, yanked up the hand brake,  and strolled to a nearby trash can to throw away his empty ice cream cup. He slammed the door just in time to catch the changing light. This was the only traffic light he obeyed. He ran through at least eight other red lights.  He swerved sharply around cars, cutting as close to them as possible for greater dramatic effect. Just as our neighborhood drew into sight Mette fell sound asleep in what I can only assume was a slightly delayed response to terror.  While we arrived a few minutes earlier than the boys’ taxi, our wild ride, as evidenced by the higher fare, took us much farther afield.

When we weren’t being flung around inside flying taxis, we spent hours exploring the city. We spent a couple of hours in the beautifully morbid Recoleta cemetery where shiny mausoleums muscle each other for space. Evita Perón is buried here and there is always a crowd around her perfectly maintained crypt.  Phoebe and I though both found it was the crumbling tombs, where vases of fake flowers lay broken and cobwebs spread across caskets like lace doilies, that drew us in the most.

In the Japanese Gardens we  fed the giant carp that roiled in anticipation of the small food pellets. We visited the small and beautiful art museum.

We set the children loose in El Museo de los Niños where they climbed through a giant toilet, ran a bank, made a television program, and grocery shopped. None of them wanted to leave.

We visited a famous bookstore housed in a refurbished theater that Eric has been thinking about for years. The balconies, box seats, the stage, and all the period decor had been meticulously preserved.

When we needed a break from the hustle we spread out in one of our giant two bedroom apartments or lounged in the rooftop pool, which was the perfect depth for half the kids to figure out swimming, one to show off his fish-like abilities, and one to dance until exhaustion put her in danger of drowning.

Before we knew it our time was up. To spare the tears and the sadness, goodbyes are generally best kept brief.  That’s how we said goodbye at the end of ten days together and it’s how I’ll say it here.  They went home, which is a good feeling even after the best of vacations–even when it is 100 degrees colder (no, I’m not exaggerating) than where you left.  And we went back to a place that felt that much more like home for them having had been there.

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Start of Summer and Christmas Eve

Summer vacation, hot weather, and Christmas arrive all together here.

As with everything here, the end of the year school parties, field trips, and other events came with little notice or time to prepare. It felt for weeks like we were in a constant flurry of making food, packing kids off on trips, or figuring out how to get to the school’s farm, located 25 kilometers outside the city, without a car. It all culminated in a graduation party for the boy’s class that, including a dinner organized by the parents, went on past our children’s entirely graceless exit at 1am.

Then suddenly there was summer, a season we left only five months earlier, stretching long and languid before us. The heat came all at once. Glorious sunny 75 degree days were pushed out without warning by 95 degree scorching heat that left us all feeling like our oven had swallowed us whole. The kids bickered constantly and we adults didn’t do much better. However, living in a city that faces an estuary has its benefits, and by evening when the sun finally sinks low it is almost always pleasant. This is summer, though, and the sun doesn’t sink until after 8pm, which is what finally convinced us to adjust our schedules to something more resembling that of most Uruguayans’. We started taking the kids to the park at 8pm, eating at 9pm and finally putting them to bed between 11pm and 12am. It took some creative darkening of their bedroom to finally convince the girl to sleep past 7am, but now even she has come around to the new schedule.

If Halloween in October was disorienting, Christmas in summer felt almost hallucinogenic. For our family, the highlight of the holidays has always been the lights and decorations that add some sparkle to the darkest part of the year. We look forward to the chance to snuggle in close at home in the cold, but here there is an abundance of light and snuggling only resulted in heat rash.

The shopping mall down the street spent weeks creating a winter wonderland complete with a ride-on train that went through a tunnel in the three story tall Christmas tree. There was an abundance of fake snow, an animatronic Santa in a sleigh, oversized squirrels, and dancing bears swinging to songs about snow and firesides. We took the kids there quite a bit because the train ride was free and the air blissfully air conditioned.

For the most part decorations, especially lights, around the city were sparse. The season is no doubt one reason, but electricity here is also very expensive, so stringing up more than a few lights is a serious financial commitment. While we’d been distracted by the charms of summer, parks to visit, and a new ice cream freezer at the mini market downstairs, we occasionally lamented missing our annual drive through the suburbs to admire other people’s lights. Then, on the night of the boy’s end of year party, we accidentally stumbled upon the decorations in the center of the city.  Driving back to the city with another family at 11pm, seven of us crammed into a car made for five, windows rolled down and sweat rolling down us, we drove up one of the cities biggest avenues and into the blue glow of lights. Strung high above the street reaching from one side to the other were lavish banners of lights. It went on for blocks and blocks, punctuated by even more intricate displays at the plazas. We drove slowly, heads out the windows, gaping and basking in the glow. It was noteworthy enough to merit a photo gallery in the paper, which you can see here.

In the week or so leading up to Christmas Eve firework stands popped up all around the neighborhood. Every few blocks there would be three or four tables laden with bottle rockets, sparklers, firecrackers, pop cracks, and so on.  With each passing day there was a steady increase in the number of loud, unexpected explosions.

On Christmas Eve the city closed in on itself. By early evening the only places left open in our neighborhood appeared to be the Catholic church and the firework stand located conveniently adjacent. Traffic was negligible and the playground nearly deserted, but the heat wasn’t taking any kind of vacation. As dusk settled, we stood on the sidewalk while the kids threw pop cracks.The church disgorged a group of worshippers dressed in everything from flip flops and shorts to semi-formal attire.

It was dark by the time we got home, and families were piling into cars, covered dishes balanced on laps. We lit sparklers on the balcony, an idea much less terrifying in theory than in practice, and watched as apartments and terraces filled with families and extended families. The booms of firecrackers and the pfffts of bottle rockets grew steadier until at midnight the city exploded with fireworks. Our apartment is high enough up and angled in such a way that, if we lean out, we can see coastline from nearly every window and it seemed that every bit of coastline had its own set of fireworks. The explosions, bouncing off the buildings, were deafening and the still hot night air was quickly filled with clouds of smoke. Nathan and I stood at the open windows and other people leaned out their windows or stood on rooftops or balconies to watch.The fireworks went on so long that they finally lost a bit of their magic. We grew restless and turned our attention inside again. The noise finally subsided and the air gradually cleared of light and sound until the city was once again strangely silent and still.


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Halloween

There is no long-standing cultural tradition of Halloween in Uruguay. According to our neighbor, it started gaining popularity here about ten years ago, mostly through American movies. More than one person told us that people still don’t know what to do with Halloween here, which seemed to be true. The best answer we could get about when trick or treating started or where kids went to trick or treat or how Halloween worked at all, was that it depended.  Depended on the school, on the neighborhood, on the apartment building, on the family.

Halloween is not a large enough holiday here to be sanctioned by the commercial powers at the upscale shopping mall down the street from us. Stores had small sections of decorations and costumes that appeared in the week or two before Halloween and then disappeared immediately after to make room for Christmas.  The mall itself devoted no energy to the holiday, unless you count the giant white sheets hung three stories high in the main entrance to hide construction on the intricate and highly anticipated Christmas display.

Sparse decorations and little recognition were not the case at the kids’ school.  There it appeared that they had been hoarding the country’s meager supply of Halloween decorations and trying to make up for all the Halloweenless years previous Uruguayan children had endured. Every wall was festooned with cobwebs, spiders, paper jack-o-lanterns, and happy halloween banners. The doorways were draped in orange plastic streamers that had be pushed aside like beaded curtains. The boy’s class celebrated Halloween by spending the English portion of the day in a costume party where kids came dressed as characters from Monsters High, ghosts, witches, devils, and zombies. They played elaborate Halloween-themed games, including one where the teachers, dressed as ghosts, changed colors depending on what they ate.  The children walked around the neighborhood singing songs and trick-or-treating at prearranged locations. The boy came home with a belly full of Halloween-themed cookies (he remembered eating at least eight) and a bag of candy almost as large as he earns during an entire night of trick-or-treating at home, though with fewer (if any) choice candies for parental sampling.

Since the school party was ghost, witch and zombie themed, the girl’s class skipped the festivities. Instead, a couple of weeks ago, they had a spring-themed costume party where they performed a song and dance for the rest of the school. Spring-themed costume parties may not be a cultural tradition in the United States, but count me as an early adopter. Take a moment to imagine the utter cuteness of 18 two- and three-year-olds milling around dressed as ladybugs, gardeners, bees, kites, and bunnies, and I think you’ll find yourself quickly climbing aboard this bandwagon.

In the evening, we saw a few kids out in costumes, but where they stopped to trick or treat was haphazard. We all longed for the orderly system of outside lights in the Burg, which let trick-or-treaters know, without a doubt, where they are welcome. Taking our children to the streets to ring doorbells at random seemed ill-advised and exhausting. However, our morning portero had very kindly gotten the boy and the girl each a generous bag of candy.  We walked over to the nearby building where he works the evening shift to show off costumes, collect candy, give him some Halloween themed drawings, and get a trick-or-treating fix. As we walked, passersby reacted with surprise to see a small ghost and a mummy charging down the sidewalk before they remembered what day it was.

Of course, the kids didn’t want Halloween to end and they definitely wanted more trick-or-treating, but they were also hungry and tired and we had nowhere else to go. We tried pointing out that between the bag from school and the bag from our portero there was enough candy to last Nathan and I the children several weeks, but it was a message from Phoebe, that it was rainy and cold back home, that finally gave us all license to call it a day. The kids ate dinner, recalled the highs and lows of this Halloween, argued unsuccessfully for just one more piece of candy, and, at the last moment before bed, finally relinquished their costumes.