Christmas Pajamas

There’s a laundry list of things Americans are told not to do in Europe because it immediately marks us as Americans. Don’t smile at every stranger. Don’t wear tall white socks or white athletic shoes. Don’t wear fanny packs, at least not worn around your waist in the 90s style, because the Cool Kids all wear them cross-body now. (Note that nothing on this list actually helps because Europeans can still see us coming from a mile off; I’ve heard it has something to do with our general demeanor.) What no one thought to include in the list, probably because it was too obvious, was “don’t wear matching family Christmas pajamas.” This American tradition is something I knew about in theory, but had never considered doing it until my brother’s new wife brought her whole family to Europe for a countryside holiday near Mulhouse, France, and they were kind enough to invite me since I lived just across the border in Freiburg. Shortly after we piled into our rental cottage, my fun-loving, un-mother-in-law presented all 7 of us with our very own sets of matching red-and-black plaid Old Navy Christmas Pajamas. We received semi-joking threats that we’d be written out of their family’s will if we refused to wear them, and everyone immediately tugged them on (I’m not even related, but there’s no point in taking chances). Each afternoon was spent exploring the region’s Christmas markets, but our mornings and evenings were devoted to wearing The Pajamas and couch-potatoing as we tore through the meager selection of Christmas movies available on French Netflix. Then on Christmas morning, the movie selection finally ran out. It was an unseasonably bright and warm morning, so our attentions were diverted to a family of free-roaming chickens outside, ruled over by the beefiest rooster I have ever laid eyes upon. A few unnamed members of our party shuffled out onto the patio in their matching red pajamas, matching Santa hats, and matching Nespresso mugs steaming in their hands. They cooed at the chickens and took photos, heedless of anything else happening in the neighborhood. Finally one of them looked up. A large French family had gathered on their own balcony on the other side of the chicken coop and were just standing there, staring at this gaggle of matching Americans, who were in turn staring at the gaggle of matching chickens. My people laughed and waved at the French family, yelled MERRY CHRISTMAS in English, and carried on being obvious Americans. I shuffled out in my matching pajamas and Santa hat and coffee mug to wave at them too. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.