Parents jostle and maneuver through the crowded street. Ahead of them, little legs are urged and thrust toward a deserving juxtaposition of Christmas illuminations and holiday parade. Grin. Tap. Tap. Tap. Done. Magical childhood memories have been captured on smartphones.
And I begin to sort through the swirling jumble of my childhood Christmas memories.
One year—I would have been around 12 years old—my parents allowed me a special treat for helping with Christmas decorations and gift-wrapping. Not counting the weak shandy that my grandfather would often serve at family gatherings, this was my first encounter with beer. I can still recall vividly the stubby green bottle with round shoulders and the white label with the red design of some generic brasserie artisanale. The pop of the cap and the glug of the golden effervescence flowing into the glass. The haste with which I swept the glass up to my lips before my parents could change their minds. And the even greater haste with which the beer was spat back into the glass—it was disgusting.
The trap had been laid and I had hurled myself into it with bells on.
Words + Photo by Kenneth Jack