Olivia: Alright Jackson, before we dive in, what's the single weirdest Christmas tradition you've ever personally encountered? Jackson: Weirdest? Probably my aunt's insistence that fruitcake is a 'delicious treat' and not a construction material. A truly baffling annual ritual. I’m convinced it’s the same one from 1988, just making its yearly pilgrimage from house to house. Olivia: The immortal, indestructible fruitcake. That is a classic. And it’s the perfect starting point, because today we're exploring The Atlas of Christmas by Alex Palmer. Palmer, who's a journalist with a real talent for digging up bizarre and wonderful facts, shows us that one person's 'weird' is another's cherished tradition. Jackson: I like that. So this isn't just a book about Santa and reindeer. It sounds like it goes a bit deeper. I've seen it's really well-liked by readers, probably because it’s not trying to be some heavy academic text. It's just pure, fascinating fun. Olivia: Exactly. The book is a global tour of how Christmas gets reinvented, a cultural mirror reflecting everything from our deepest need for community to our most wonderfully strange ideas. Today we'll start with the heartwarming and the wonderfully weird, and then… we'll get a little dark. Jackson: Oh, I'm intrigued. Lead the way. Let's get weird.

Olivia: Let's start in Australia, with a tradition born from a simple, profound act of kindness. It's called Carols by Candlelight. Jackson: That sounds lovely and fairly normal so far. No cursed fruitcakes involved? Olivia: None. The story begins in Melbourne, back in 1937. A radio announcer named Norman Banks was walking home one evening close to Christmas. He glanced into a window and saw an older woman, all alone, her face lit only by a candle, singing along to carols on the radio. Jackson: Wow. That's a powerful image. The kind of quiet loneliness that can feel so sharp during the holidays. Olivia: It hit him hard. He wondered how many other people were out there, celebrating alone. So he decided to do something about it. He put the word out on his radio show, inviting anyone and everyone to gather in a local park to sing carols together. He wasn't sure if anyone would show up. Jackson: And what happened? Did a few dozen people turn up? Olivia: Ten thousand people showed up. Ten thousand. They came with candles and song sheets, and inaugurated the very first Carols by Candlelight. It was this massive, spontaneous outpouring of community. Jackson: That's incredible. It wasn't a corporate event or a city-planned festival. It was just one person's idea sparked by a moment of empathy. That feels like the real spirit of the holiday. Olivia: It absolutely is. And it grew into this huge national tradition. Now, it's a massive televised event held at the Sidney Myer Music Bowl, a venue that was literally built to host this annual gathering. There are celebrity hosts, a full orchestra, and it raises millions for charity. But at its heart, it’s still the same idea: making sure no one has to spend Christmas alone. It all ends with everyone singing "Let There Be Peace on Earth." Jackson: That’s genuinely moving. It shows how a tradition can start from something so small and human and become this huge, positive force. But you promised me weird, Olivia. That was just… beautiful. Olivia: I did promise weird. And community can also look… very different. For our next stop, let's go to the Catalonia region of Spain, to meet a beloved holiday figure named Tió de Nadal. Jackson: Tió de Nadal. Sounds festive. What is it, a friendly gnome? A gift-giving saint? Olivia: It’s a log. Jackson: A log. Like, from a tree. Olivia: A hollow log, to be precise. But its alias is much more descriptive: Caga Tió. Jackson: Wait, my high school Spanish is rusty, but does 'caga' mean what I think it means? Olivia: It does. It means "Poop Log." Jackson: Hold on. A poop log? You're telling me families in Catalonia gather around a log and… encourage it to defecate presents? This can't be real. Olivia: Oh, it's very real, and it's a beloved tradition. Starting on December 8th, a family brings out their Tió. They give it a funny painted face, a little red hat, and they cover it with a blanket to keep it warm. Jackson: Okay, that's kind of cute. You're personifying a log. I can get behind that. What happens next? Olivia: Every day, the children have to 'feed' it. They leave out little scraps of food, nuts, or water in front of it. And overnight, of course, the parents make sure the food mysteriously disappears. The log is 'eating' and getting full. Jackson: This is building to something, I can feel it. What's the grand finale? Olivia: On Christmas Eve, the moment of truth arrives. The children gather around the log with sticks. They start to gently whack it while singing a traditional song. Jackson: There's a song? Of course there's a song. What are the lyrics? Olivia: A popular version goes: "Caga tió, caga torró, avellanes i mató, si no cagues bé et daré un cop de bastó. Caga tió!" Which translates to: "Poop log, poop nougats, hazelnuts and cheese, if you don't poop well, I'll hit you with a stick. Poop, log!" Jackson: I am speechless. This is the most wonderfully absurd thing I've ever heard. So they sing this to the log, and then what? Olivia: Then the parents cleverly send the children into another room to pray for the log to deliver good presents. While they're gone, the parents sneak all the small gifts—candies, nuts, little toys—under the log's blanket. The kids come back, lift the blanket, and discover all the treats the Tió has 'pooped' out for them. Jackson: So it's basically a more rustic, slightly scatological piñata? Olivia: Exactly, but it's also about 'feeding' and 'caring for' the log all month, which builds this incredible anticipation. The book explains this is likely rooted in ancient, pre-Christian pagan traditions from the Pyrenees mountains. It was a winter solstice ritual celebrating the earth's abundance and the hope for a bountiful new year. The log symbolizes the potential of nature, which, if you care for it, gives back to you. Jackson: That actually makes a strange kind of sense. When you strip away the modern weirdness, it's a very primal, earthy celebration of getting through the winter. It's not about a saint from the North Pole; it's about the ground beneath your feet. Olivia: And that’s the genius of what Palmer's book captures. These traditions aren't just random quirks. They're living history, connecting modern families to very old ideas about survival and hope. From a heartwarming singalong in Australia to a gift-pooping log in Spain, it's all about finding a way to create magic and community. Jackson: Okay, I'm sold on the weird and wonderful. But you mentioned a dark side. From a poop log to… what could possibly be next?

Olivia: Well, that log is friendly. The characters we're about to meet are not. For this, we have to go to the darker, older, pre-Christian roots of the holiday, which the book highlights are still very much alive in Europe. Let's talk about Krampus. Jackson: Ah, Krampus. I've seen pictures. He's the horned, terrifying-looking guy, right? The anti-Santa. Olivia: That's him. He's a figure from Austrian and Bavarian folklore, a half-goat, half-demon creature. He has huge horns, a long, pointed tongue that lolls out, and he carries a bundle of birch switches. Or sometimes a whip. Jackson: A whip. Okay, so his purpose is a little different from just leaving coal in a stocking. Olivia: A little different, yes. The tradition says that while Saint Nicholas goes around on December 5th and 6th rewarding the good children with gifts, Krampus follows along behind him. His job is to deal with the naughty kids. Jackson: And by 'deal with,' you mean he gives them a stern talking-to? Olivia: He swats them with the birch branches. In the really old legends, he stuffs them into his sack and carries them away, presumably to his lair for further punishment. Jackson: So he's the original 'bad cop' to Santa's 'good cop'. A full-on enforcer. Where does a figure like this even come from? It feels so contrary to the whole 'peace and goodwill' message. Olivia: His roots go way back, to pre-Christian paganism. He was likely a winter spirit. The Catholic Church actually tried to ban Krampus celebrations in the 12th century because he was so clearly a devil-like, pagan figure. But he was too popular to suppress. He just wouldn't go away. Jackson: But is this still a real tradition, or is it just something people do for Instagram now? A kind of edgy, historical reenactment? Olivia: That's the fascinating part the book highlights. It's making a major comeback. The night of December 5th is called Krampusnacht, or 'Krampus Night.' In towns all over Austria and parts of Germany, people get dressed up in these incredibly elaborate and genuinely terrifying Krampus costumes. Jackson: What do these costumes look like? Olivia: We're talking huge, hand-carved wooden masks with real animal horns, full-body suits made of sheep or goat skin, and massive, clanking cowbells tied around their waists so you can hear them coming. They run through the streets in what's called a Perchtenlaufen, or a Krampus Run. Jackson: They run through the streets? What do they do? Olivia: They playfully frighten onlookers. They'll run up to people, rattle their chains, brandish their switches. It's this chaotic, thrilling, slightly scary street parade. It’s a party, but a very menacing one. And the book notes that this tradition has gone international. Cities like New Orleans and Washington, D.C., now have their own Krampus parties and parades. Jackson: That's wild. But why? Why would a culture want to celebrate something so frightening as part of Christmas? It seems like the opposite of what most of us are trying to create during the holidays. Olivia: I think that's the core insight. Perhaps the North American version of Christmas has become so sanitized, so focused only on relentless cheer and consumerism, that we've forgotten something important. The book suggests that these older traditions weren't afraid to acknowledge the reality of winter. Jackson: What do you mean? Olivia: Midwinter in ancient Europe was a time of real fear. It was cold, it was dark, food was scarce, and survival wasn't guaranteed. These festivals weren't just about celebrating the light; they were about confronting and exorcising the darkness. Krampus is the embodiment of that winter fear. By bringing him out, making him a character in a parade, you're taming him. You're looking the darkness right in the eye and turning it into a celebration. Jackson: So you're not ignoring the scary parts of life. You're making them part of the ritual so you can move past them into the light and feasting of Christmas itself. Olivia: Exactly. It's a form of psychological resilience, baked into a folk tradition. You have to have the sour to appreciate the sweet. You have to acknowledge the devil before you can truly celebrate the saint.

Jackson: So when you put it all together—the community carols, the poop log, the Christmas devil—what's the big picture here? What does this atlas really show us? Olivia: It shows that Christmas isn't a monolith. It's a cultural Rorschach test. It’s a mirror. In Japan, as the book points out, it reflects the power of modern marketing, with a brilliant 1970s KFC campaign, 'Kurisumasu ni wa Kentakkii!' or 'Kentucky for Christmas!', creating a national tradition out of fried chicken. Jackson: Which is still their biggest sales day of the year. It's incredible. Olivia: It is. And in Catalonia, the Tió de Nadal reflects ancient pagan ideas of abundance from the earth. In Australia, Carols by Candlelight reflects a modern need for connection in the face of urban loneliness. And in Austria, Krampus reflects a cultural willingness to look darkness in the eye and not flinch. Jackson: So our traditions, no matter how they started, tell the story of who we are and what we value. Or what we fear. Olivia: Precisely. The book's real genius is showing that these traditions, no matter how strange they seem to an outsider, are all deeply human attempts to find light, community, and meaning in the dead of winter. They are answers to the same fundamental questions: How do we stick together? How do we ensure prosperity? And how do we chase away the dark? Jackson: That's a fantastic way to think about it. It makes me want to look up my own family's traditions—even the questionable fruitcake—and see where they really came from. It adds so much more depth than just going through the motions. Olivia: Exactly! And we'd love to hear from our listeners. What's the most unique or surprising holiday tradition in your family or culture? Is there a Caga Tió or a Krampus in your background? Share it with us on our social channels. We'd love to create our own little atlas of traditions. Jackson: Until next time. Olivia: This is Aibrary, signing off.