Even though it’s still November when I visit, you would have to be Scrooge to deny that it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas in Arras. The cold is biting but the sun is shining on the small northern French city. My fingers curl like a cat in front of a warm fire around my first cup of mulled wine of the season. A curious, yet quintessentially seasonal, mix of cinnamon, roasted chestnuts and fried churros lingers in the air.
To a soundtrack of boppy Christmas jingles, a swell of people wrapped in thick jackets and scarves is starting to build around me. I slip into the flow, stopping to take photos of only-in-France sights such as gingerbread men fashioned from brioche and escargots stuffed with cheese or spices, vacuum-packed for take-home convenience.
