Desperate to escape the raging heat of Dubai, we went in search of cooler climes and found ourselves in Copenhagen. In the preceding weeks, my over-enthusiastic parents had spent hours fiddling around on travel websites, studiously memorising Lonely Planet guidebooks to plan a Scandinavian holiday that would cover four countries in a fortnight. Me, I'd adopted a stereotypical bratty teenager attitude out of sheer boredom and was enjoying complaining about how unfair everything was - just to add to their stress levels.
My birthday had been coming up, you see, so I figured there was no harm in moaning about spending it on a flight from Berlin to Copenhagen. The pleasant alternative was spending it at home, where I was sure to be inundated with calls from aunts of fourth cousins twice removed whom I had never met. Pretending to be disappointed about missing this blissful state of affairs was sufficient, I hoped, to guarantee me an extra present or two.
What I had not foreseen, however, was that I would end up being cheerfully wished "Merry Christmas" by 150 Santa Clauses from all over the world. When we rolled our suitcases up to the reception of the Copenhagen Marriott, we were slightly bemused by a hotel attendant marching by singing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and sporting a pair of elongated ears. We initially passed this off as general Danish eccentricity, but this was not case. It turned out that the annual Santa Claus convention was to be held that day, at the very place we were staying, and fate, beautiful fate, had landed me there on my birthday. Happily, everyone was welcome to join in the celebrations.
The convention, by the way, is the official meeting of Santas from all over the world, where they come together in July or August - half-way between Christmases - to eat turkey and discuss important issues like whether Blitzen really rhymes with Vixen. After putting away our things in our room, we of course headed straight back downstairs. The mind-boggling scene of hundreds of plump septuagenarians decked in fire-engine red and ho-ho-ho-ing was enough to make Mum fish out her camera and start clicking madly.
Leaving the parents to strike up conversations with a few Santas and admire their hats, I wandered off to the Christmas feast that awaited me. Shallow I may be, but I was not about to waste an opportunity to indulge myself on gourmet cuisine on the only day I could excuse myself for overeating. Rows and rows of Danish pastries are just the thing to make you feel that your life is complete. As I chomped my way through a lemon tart, Dad appeared at my side and told me, if I was interested, that if I smiled nicely at a Santa carrying a goody bag I could be the proud receiver of a Christmas-tree-shaped ginger biscuit. "They're doling them out to all the kids," he whispered, giving me a sidelong glance.
"Please, I'm not a five-year old; I couldn't care less," I countered, then gave in to the sugar craving and went off to smile nicely at a Santa. You would think that the place would be overrun by excited toddlers wanting to sit on a 150 laps at once, but surprisingly enough the Marriot's lobby was mostly filled with suited, booted businessmen and women - along with a few families - holding glasses and gliding around in rhythm to I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.
There was a big sort of jukebox in the corner, with little clockwork reindeer prancing around it, manned mostly by Mrs Clauses, who were proving rather more popular as photograph subjects among tourists than their bespectacled "hubbies". I not only received a chocolate, but was waltzed around in the sea of crimson by an exuberant Santa as the jukebox struck up Jingle Bells and everyone started bobbing their heads as if they were at a rock concert. "You're enjoying yourself," Mum accused me, later. "I was saying cheese for the camera," I returned gruffly.
We then got talking to this year's official Santa Claus of the US, who had beaten hundreds of other hopeful applicants for the coveted job. "I take my duties seriously," he told us. "You know, smiling at children, posing for photos. It's not an easy job." We discovered that all the Santas, although in the traditional red and white, bore some souvenir from their own countries as part of their costume, like the Danish Santa with his Dansko clogs. A show was held too, in which elves sang and did a comedy routine, though we didn't understand a word because it was all in Danish.
We went to bed as transformed Scrooges that night, full of Christmas cheer instead of as the jet-lagged, weary, quarrelling holidaymakers who had entered the hotel. It's a beautiful feeling to announce: "Merry Christmas to us all!" in the middle of July. Lavanya Malhotra is a 15-year-old student in Dubai.