Crossing the Atlantic at Christmas

Christmas travel dates back to… well, do a hundred donkey-miles from Nazareth to Bethlehem count? I’m sure irritating New Atheists fixated on when, exactly, the Judaean lambing season is would argue that it doesn’t. My festive journey has consisted of a return flight over the ocean for the last nine years — with the exception of 2020; I wonder why. A recent review of my calendar reveals that I’ve made over fifty transatlantic crossings in that time. My yuletide offering to our subscribers is the knowledge I have picked up along the way.

If your schedule permits, flights seven to ten days before and after Christmas Day always work out significantly cheaper than those closer to the big day. This will also give you the chance to take in the last few London Christmas parties to complement the ones you’ve attended in New York and DC earlier in the month.

The first hurdle for your travel: how to get the sleep right to avoid jetlag. Get an overnight flight to Europe — ideally one that leaves after 8 p.m. ET — and do whatever you can to secure some shuteye on it, short of sleeping pills (they will only make you groggy). Don’t drink coffee from noon the day before and have liquor at the airport before you board — personally I go for a Bloody Mary but the logic for an Old Fashioned is equally sound. Even two to three hours’ sleep of the six you’re in the air will make a difference for the day ahead. When you land, caffeinate. Two or three Americanos between arrival and 2 p.m. should be enough to stave off the sandman. Don’t nap; force yourself to stay up until at least 8 p.m. GMT — then collapse for eleven hours and wake up to relative normalcy. On the longer return leg, blast through three or four movies or, if you have WiFi, get some work done, slacker.

When I return to the UK for Christmas, I always make sure to check off my list of consuming all the things that are better in Britain than in America. There aren’t many of them — and they all begin with “C”: cheese (particularly cheddar), chocolate (Cadbury’s, of course), curry (my local, Shafiques, remains unmatched), cider (why can’t they make it dry here?!), chewing gum (controversial, I know, given the role Americans played in introducing it to the Old Country during World War Two).

I spend Christmas Day with my parents and my grandmother, who earlier this year turned ninety-four and relocated into a specialist care home for dementia. After heading to church in the next village in the morning, presents are unwrapped in the early afternoon, accompanied by Buck’s fizz. Grandma used to unwrap each item very carefully, lifting the tape with her fingers in order to rip the paper as little as possible so it could be reused. These days we just help her rip it — and, just as she did for my sister and me when we were little, my mother keeps a list of who got Grandma what, so we can remember who to thank. Then it’s time for turkey — which Mum always tries to buy as close to my birth weight (10lb 3oz) as possible, as it’s enough for the meal itself and about two weeks’ worth of leftovers. Merry Christmas!

This article was originally published in The Spectator’s December 2024 World edition.