In a flat in Paris, my Christmas tree speaks of friends, nature – and snowy Ohio winters | Alexander Hurst

Even if you live far from your childhood home, wrestling a tree back through crowded city streets can bring as much joy as ever

When I was a kid, my favourite part of December was going to get a Christmas tree. Cleveland was always snowy by then, and so we usually had to scrape the ice off the car before going to a tree lot where I would wander through rows of trees - Douglas firs, balsam firs, Virginia pines, blue spruce. After a short family conference in the cold (I pushed for the tallest one possible, my mom cared about that classic Christmas tree smell" and my dad, in a way that I'm sure every dad will nod along with in agreement, kept me realistic about the price), we would agree on a tree, strap it to the roof of the car and go home to string up lights and ornaments.

We would leave the tree up until early January, then when the branches were sagging and dry, we would paint their ends with peanut butter and seeds, and lay the tree out in the backyard to act as a giant bird feeder (and then, eventually, compost it).

Alexander Hurst is a Guardian Europe columnist