Spring Festivals Around the World: Sakura, Holi, Semana Santa and More

From Japan’s cherry blossom hanami to India’s colorful Holi and Spain’s heart-pounding San Fermín, discover spring festivals that celebrate renewal, connection and pure joy. 

Spring is the season that grabs you by the hand and pulls you outside, whispering, “Wake up, the world’s alive again!” It’s when the earth shrugs off winter’s weight, and people respond with festivals that feel like love letters to life itself. 

Some of the most enduring spring traditions come from rituals that have been blooming for centuries. The celebration of Ostara at the spring equinox draws inspiration from an ancient Anglo-Saxon festival said to honor the goddess Eostre. This, in turn, influenced early Christians, who created Easter, and is a large part of why we have the Easter Bunny today.  

Spring festivals are raw, messy, beautiful collisions of culture, memory and the kind of joy that makes your chest ache. Let’s wander through a few corners of the globe, from Japan’s petal-dusted picnics to the pulse-pounding streets of Pamplona, each festival a one-of-a-kind story that’ll stick with you long after the season fades.

1. Japan: Sakura Whispers and Stolen Moments

In Japan, spring arrives like a secret shared between friends: the cherry blossoms, known as sakura, bloom in a hush of pink, turning every park and riverside into a fleeting masterpiece. (It’s a perfect counterpart to koyo, the changing colors of leaves in the fall.)

I’ll never forget my first hanami — the custom of gathering to enjoy the beauty of cherry blossoms — in a tiny Osaka park, sprawled on a blanket with strangers who offered me homemade onigiri (rice balls or triangles) and a sip of plum wine. We didn’t need words; the petals drifting down said it all. Sakura isn’t just about the gorgeousness of nature — it’s a gut-punch reminder that nothing lasts forever, so you’d better soak it up. Families, lovers, old friends — they all come together, laughing over sake or staring quietly at the trees, each person wrestling with their own thoughts about time. It’s less a festival and more a moment where the world holds its breath.

2. Spain: San Fermín’s Roar and Reckless Courage

Half a world away, Pamplona, Spain turns spring’s energy into something primal. The San Fermín Festival, brewing through spring and erupting in July, is a beast of a celebration. Picture narrow streets, the air electric with nerves, and the thunder of bulls charging behind runners who are equal parts terrified and exhilarated. 

I stood on a rickety balcony once, clutching a sangria, watching the encierro unfold below: runners tripping, laughing, living on the edge of chaos. It’s the ultimate thrill, sure, but it’s also a nod to history, to Saint Fermín (the patron saint of Pamplona, who was beheaded for his Christian faith), to the days when humans and nature stared each other down. The whole city erupts in a burst of music, dance and sweat-soaked joy. 

If you’re crazy enough to go, keep Flight Refunder in your back pocket — they’ll help you reclaim cash if a canceled flight threatens to derail your adventure.

3. India: Holi’s Explosion of Color and Connection

In India, spring crashes in with Holi, a festival that’s like diving headfirst into a kaleidoscope. I was in a dusty Rajasthan village once, my clothes soaked, my face smeared with turquoise and magenta powder, dancing with a crowd of strangers to a drumbeat that shook the ground. 

Holi is about flinging colors, but it’s also a time to tear down walls — between people, and between the past and present. The story of Krishna — a beloved Hindu god known for his playful spirit — and his soulmate Radha runs through the heart of Holi. Their legendary love, full of laughter and mischief, is echoed in every handful of gulal, the brightly colored powder that revelers throw into the air (and, inevitably, onto other people). 

At Holi, it’s impossible to just be a bystander; you’re part of the chaos, laughing until your sides hurt, feeling like the world could be this free, this kind, every day. It’s the kind of messy joy that stains your skin and your soul.

4. Mexico: Semana Santa’s Soulful Dance of Faith

Mexico’s Semana Santa is spring at its most heartfelt. Holy Week turns towns into theaters of devotion, with processions that weave through streets blanketed in flower petals and sawdust art. 

I wandered San Miguel de Allende one April, caught in a crowd following a statue of the Virgin Mary, her face serene under a crown of roses. The air was heavy with incense, marigolds and the soft hum of prayers. 

Every town does it differently — some with mournful silence, others with bursts of brass bands — but it’s all so alive, blending Catholic roots with ancient Mexican spirit. You feel it in your bones: This is more than religion; it’s about a community stitching itself together, step by sacred step.

5. France: The Soft Spring Embrace of Easter in Provence

Then there’s Provence, France, where spring feels like a warm breeze. Easter here is less about grand spectacles and more about the small, perfect moments: a village square strung with lights, a market stall piled high with crusty baguettes and jars of lavender honey. 

I spent one Easter in Gordes, a storybook hilltop village of stone houses and winding lanes in Provence, nibbling on almond-studded nougat while a parade of kids in flower crowns skipped by. The hills were just starting to green, the air sharp with herbs and promise. Provence’s festivals are simple, soulful and so generous with their beauty. You leave feeling like you’ve been let in on a secret about how to live well.

The Joy, Chaos and Charm of Spring Festivals

Spring festivals are the world’s way of saying, “Hey, we’re all in this together.” Whether it’s Japan’s quiet awe under cherry blossoms, Spain’s reckless sprint through Pamplona’s streets, or India’s color-soaked chaos, these moments are where humanity shines — flawed, vibrant and so damn alive. Traveling to them is like chasing sparks, each one lighting up a piece of who you are. –Erik Ilin

The Creepiest Places to Visit in the United States

From a haunted prison to a hotel with its own morgue, here are five terrifyingly popular U.S. destinations for ghost hunters, thrill seekers and paranormal tourists.

Eastern State Penitentiary in Philadelphia, where solitary confinement originated

For those of us who like our vacations with a side of dread, the U.S. has you covered. Cursed plantations? Check. Derelict prisons? Yep. A floating hotel with a body count? You bet. These are the kinds of places where whispers echo in empty rooms, photos blur for no reason, and something unseen always seems to tug at your shirt.

Whether you’re a seasoned ghost hunter or just want to say you slept in the most haunted hotel in America, these are the must-visit spots that will make your heart race — and maybe stop.

1866 Crescent Hotel & Spa in Eureka Springs, Arkansas

Where the cancer cures were fake, but the bodies were real.

Originally built in 1886, the Crescent Hotel started as a luxury resort — and quickly spiraled into something much darker. After a short-lived first act, it was purchased in 1937 by Norman Baker, a con artist who turned the building into a sham cancer hospital. He operated without a license, performed grotesque procedures, and stored bodies in a basement morgue that still exists.

Back when the property was the Crescent College for Women

Guests and ghost hunters report sightings of Baker himself, nurses in old-timey uniforms, and figures wandering the halls at night. Want proof? You can join nightly ghost tours that take you to the most haunted corners of the property — including Baker’s old morgue.

1886 Crescent Hotel & Spa
75 Prospect Avenue
Eureka Springs, Akansas​

Eastern State Penitentiary in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Solitary confinement never really ends … if your ghost sticks around.

Once home to over 85,000 inmates — including Al Capone — this Gothic fortress pioneered solitary confinement, which sounded humane in theory and turned out to be more of a psychological torture chamber. The prison operated from 1829 to 1971 and is now a National Historic Landmark.

Its crumbling halls, rusted doors and echoing cellblocks give off a presence that’s hard to ignore. Visitors report disembodied voices, cell doors slamming on their own, and shadowy figures pacing inside locked cells. Cellblock 12 and the guard tower are said to be the most active — if you believe in that sort of thing. And even if you don’t, you’ll probably walk faster through them.

Sounds a bit like the derelict insane asylum attached to the Richardson Hotel in Buffalo, New York, which is also worth touring. 

If you’re also going to Pittsburgh, be sure to creep yourself out at Trundle Manor. 

Eastern State Penitentiary
2027 Fairmount Avenue
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

The Queen Mary in Long Beach, California

All aboard — for a cruise you’ll definitely want to disembark from.

This ocean liner hosted royalty, celebrities and WWII troops — and now ghosts. Docked permanently in Long Beach, the Queen Mary is considered one of the most haunted ships in the world.

Say hi to Jackie! She drowned in the pool but now giggles through the hallways.

Visitors regularly report paranormal activity, including screams, slamming doors and the ghost of a crewmember who was crushed by a watertight door in the engine room. Then there’s Jackie, the little girl who allegedly drowned in the pool and now giggles through the halls — creepy kid laughter being the ultimate test of your fight-or-flight response.

If you visit around Halloween (known to witches as Samhain), don’t miss the ship’s Dark Harbor event — a screamfest that brings its haunted legends to life.

​​The Queen Mary
1126 Queens Highway
Long Beach, California

St. Augustine Lighthouse in St. Augustine, Florida

Helping ships find the shore — and maybe helping spirits climb the stairs.

The current lighthouse was completed in 1874 — but the land has a longer, darker history. Tragedy struck during construction, when two young daughters of the superintendent drowned in the bay. Ever since, strange sightings have haunted the tower.

Visitors report hearing footsteps on the spiral stairs, catching glimpses of shadowy figures, and even being touched by something unseen. The Dark of the Moon tour takes you up the tower at night — just you, a flashlight … and your frazzled nerves.

St. Augustine Lighthouse & Maritime Museum
100 Red Cox Drive
St. Augustine, Florida

Myrtles Plantation in St. Francisville, Louisiana

Cursed ground, murder and ghosts with unfinished business. Southern hospitality not guaranteed.

The Myrtles has everything you could want in a haunted Southern plantation: hidden pasts, murder, mystery and a good chance of ghostly encounters. Built in 1796, the property is said to be cursed from the start, allegedly located on an indigenous burial ground. Several people died violently here, and stories of hauntings are as thick as the Spanish moss out front.

The enlarged section of this image is said to be the plantation’s famous ghost, a former slave named Chloe.

The most infamous ghost? Chloe — a formerly enslaved woman who was reportedly mutilated for eavesdropping and later hanged after poisoning members of the household. Her apparition has supposedly been caught in photos and is said to still roam the grounds. 

Other spirits include William Winter, shot on the porch in 1871, and his young daughter, who died of yellow fever.

The Myrtles Plantation
7747 U.S. Highway 61
St. Francisville, Louisiana

An aerial view of Eastern State Penitentiary, which is no longer operational — just attracting visitors who appreciate the macabre.

Haunted Hotspots

Some people go to the beach — others go looking for the ghosts of 19th century criminals. These haunted destinations deliver the perfect mix of history and horror, where the stories are real, the wallpaper is peeling, and the room you booked might come with a ghost you didn’t. –Armughan Zaigham

Frida Kahlo in Paris

André Breton lured Frida to be in a Surrealist show, but she found herself misled, miserable and mad as hell — until Mary Reynolds stepped in.

An exhibition at the Art Institute of Chicago covers Frida’s turbulent time in Paris in 1939.

Paris was supposed to be her big moment. But when Frida Kahlo landed in the so-called City of Light in 1939, all she found was a hospital bed, missing paintings, and a bunch of filthy Surrealists who couldn’t get their act together.

Thanks to an interesting  lecture by Alivé Piliado Santana, curatorial associate at the National Museum of Mexican Art (where we check out the Day of the Dead ofrendas every year) and Tamar Kharatishvili, research fellow in modern art at the Art Institute of Chicago, I’ve come away with a far deeper — and far juicier — understanding of this chapter of Frida’s life I didn’t previously know about.

“They are so damn ‘intellectual’ and rotten that I can’t stand them anymore .... I [would] rather sit on the floor in the market of Toluca and sell tortillas, than have anything to do with those ‘artistic’ bitches of Paris.”

— Frida Kahlo, writing about the Surrealists in a letter to her lover, Nikolas Muray

Wild child Frida in 1938

Here’s what I learned about the messy, maddening and frankly fascinating story of Frida’s Parisian misadventure, the forgotten women of Surrealism, and how a kindred spirit named Mary Reynolds helped turn Frida’s time in Paris into something meaningful. 

André Breton, leader of the Surrealists and organizer of the 1939 Mexique exhibition — though “organizer” might be generous, considering Frida arrived to find no gallery, no show, and her paintings stuck in customs.

Frida’s Disastrous Arrival in Paris

It all began with an invitation that felt like a breakthrough. André Breton — the self-appointed “pope of Surrealism” — had reached across the Atlantic with a tantalizing offer. Frida Kahlo’s paintings, he declared, belonged on the world stage. He wanted her to come to Paris for a major exhibition he was organizing called Mexique.

Frida was excited for a chance to showcase her work in the artistic capital of the world, among the greats. It felt like a turning point — a chance to step out from her hubby Diego Rivera’s shadow and claim her place in the international art scene.

But somewhere along the way, wires got crossed. Frida thought Mexique would be a solo show. 

It wasn’t.

Self-Portrait With Monkey, painted by Frida Kahlo, posing with one of her pets, in 1938 right before she left for Paris.

Frida prepared for the journey with cautious excitement. Before she left, photographer Nikolas Muray, with whom she was having a passionate affair, captured her in a series of now-iconic portraits: defiant, radiant and ready for her European closeup. 

She could never have predicted how quickly things would unravel.

The troubles began before she even set foot in Paris. Her paintings, packed carefully for the voyage, were held up in customs. Instead of gliding smoothly into galleries, they sat in bureaucratic limbo, tangled in red tape. But there was still hope. Surely, Breton — the grand architect of the Surrealist movement — would have everything else ready.

He didn’t.

Frida arrived in Paris only to find chaos. There wasn’t even a gallery chosen for her show. No opening date on the calendar. No buzz of anticipation. Breton had made grand promises — but had done nothing to deliver on them.

A portrait of Frida taken by Nikolas Muray before she left for Paris

A Hospital Stay

On top of the professional humiliation, Frida’s health collapsed. She hadn’t arrived in perfect shape to begin with — just before leaving Mexico, she had undergone spinal surgery to try to ease the constant pain from an earlier accident. The long journey, the cold Paris winter, the stress of a botched exhibition, and the miserable conditions she found herself in were a brutal combination.

Part of her fury stemmed from Breton’s own visit to Mexico, where she and Diego had opened their home (now the Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo House-Studio Museum) to him and his wife — only to find that in Paris, Breton offered no such hospitality in return.

Almost as soon as she arrived, Frida developed a raging kidney infection, with a spiking fever that landed her in the hospital. She was exhausted, furious and rapidly losing faith in the promises that had brought her to Paris in the first place. 

She pinned her illness squarely on the Surrealists’ squalor, convinced that their slovenly habits had done her in.

When she was discharged, still weak and recovering, she faced the grim reality of her accommodations: a dingy hotel, damp and depressing, in a city that felt far from the glamorous art capital she had imagined.

The final page of one of Frida’s letters to Muray. She didn’t exactly fall for Paris: “to hell with everything concerning Breton and all this lousy place,” she wrote, sick of the Surrealists and ready to go home.

She didn’t hold back. In a letter to Muray, she unloaded: “They are so damn ‘intellectual’ and rotten that I can’t stand them anymore .... I [would] rather sit on the floor in the market of Toluca and sell tortillas, than have anything to do with those ‘artistic’ bitches of Paris.” She thought the Surrealists were puffed up with self-importance yet utterly useless when it came to helping her. Only Marcel Duchamp, she noted acidly, “has his feet on the earth.” The rest, in her eyes, were pompous windbags throwing parties while her paintings languished in customs and her health deteriorated. And at the center of this mess, of course, was Breton himself, whose grand promises had led her straight into disaster.

What was meant to be her grand European debut had turned into a perfect storm of illness, neglect and bitter disappointment. She was stranded in Paris, her art trapped in customs, her patience wearing thin — and the Surrealists, led by Breton, had left her to flounder.

A photo booth pic of Mary Reynolds

Enter Mary Reynolds: An Unexpected Friendship

Just when Frida might have written off Paris entirely, in stepped Mary Reynolds — artist, bookmaker and all-around lifeline.

Unlike the aloof Surrealist men swanning around Paris, Reynolds opened her doors and, more importantly, her heart. Frida, still recovering from illness and spiraling frustration, moved out of her bleak hotel and into Reynolds’ home at 14 rue Hallé.

It wasn’t just a change of address — it was a change of atmosphere. Where Breton had offered chaos, Reynolds offered comfort. Her house in the southern part of Paris was a hub of creativity, conversation and, during the darkening shadow of World War II, quiet resistance.

Mary Reynolds with her partner, Marcel Duchamp

Mary Reynolds: The Unsung Hero of Surrealism

Reynolds deserves far more credit than she usually gets. A fiercely independent artist herself, Reynolds was a master of bookbinding — her works were collected by her partner, Marcel Duchamp (the guy who turned a urinal into modern art’s most notorious statement and further shocked audiences with Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2), along with other avant-garde heavyweights of the time.

Reynolds took bookbinding to a whole new, surreal level: She used objects on the covers like kid gloves for Free Hands (Les Mains Libres), a thermometer in A Harsh Winter (Un Rude Hiver), and a teacup handle in Saint Glinglin — a nod to a scene where a character smashes plates with a golf club.

Reynolds was a genius when it came to bookbinding. Here’s the striking cover of Les mains libres (Free Hands) by Paul Éluard, with glove-like cutouts.

Her house was a living, breathing collage of Surrealist art and ideas. Duchamp, Alexander Calder and countless others had left their fingerprints — and actual works — all over her walls. 

For Frida, Reynolds’ home was proof some Surrealists weren’t all talk and no action. Here was a woman making her own art, supporting her peers, and backing it all up with real-world bravery.

A delightful drawing of Mary Reynolds and her cats by Alexander Calder, the American modern sculptor best known for his mobiles

Kahlo and Reynolds: Finding Solidarity

The connection between Frida and Reynolds was electric. Both women were navigating the male-dominated art world on their own terms, refusing to be footnotes in movements led by men.

Their bond also feels emblematic of something bigger: a reminder that amid all the philosophical posturing of Surrealism, real solidarity happened where women supported each other, shared ideas, and, frankly, kept the whole thing afloat.

In Frida’s letters, you can almost feel the tone shift once she moves into Reynolds’ home. It’s not quite relief — her Parisian experience remained fraught — but there’s a spark of light. Reynolds gave Frida what Breton could not: genuine human connection in a city that had otherwise let her down. She stayed at Reynolds from February 22 to March 25, 1939.

The Wounded Deer from 1946, painted after yet another failed surgery, this haunting self-portrait shows Frida as a deer riddled with arrows, calm-eyed in the face of relentless pain.

Frida and Surrealism: A Love-Hate Relationship

Here’s the irony: While the Surrealists were practically falling over themselves to claim Frida Kahlo as one of their own, Frida herself wanted nothing to do with the label.

Breton had famously declared her work “a ribbon around a bomb” — which, to be fair, is a great line. But Frida saw things differently. She didn’t consider herself a Surrealist at all. “I never painted dreams,” she once said. “I painted my own reality.”

Frida’s work, raw and visceral, didn’t need the Surrealist manifesto to explain it. Where the Surrealists dabbled in subconscious symbolism and found objects, Frida’s paintings were autobiographical to their core — her pain, her identity, her relationships all laid bare.

Self-Portrait With Cropped Hair from 1940. Freshly divorced, Frida depicts herself as wearing one of Diego’s suits, scissors in hand, her hair in clumps on the floor.

The Surrealists saw her as exotic, a muse from afar who fit their aesthetic fantasies. But Frida wasn’t interested in playing that role. She wasn’t a curiosity or a symbol — she was an artist, plain and simple. Her use of indigenous Mexican motifs, her explorations of physical and emotional suffering — these weren’t Surrealist exercises; they were her lived truth.

Still, despite her reluctance, Frida’s art undeniably aligned with many Surrealist themes. Dreams and reality intertwining, the use of found materials, the exploration of identity — it was all there, just coming from a much grittier, more personal place. 

And she did, after all, agree to be a part of a Surrealist show in Paris. Which, by the way, finally came together. It ran at the Galerie Renou et Colle from March 10 to 25, 1939. Frida’s take on her fellow Mexican artists that Breton chose to showcase with her work? In one of her letters to Muray, she described them as “all of this junk.”

Photographer Nikolas Muray and Frida Kahlo had a passionate affair, and he was her confidante during her bad experience in Paris.

Nikolas Muray: The Confidant Behind the Letters

Long before Paris turned into a disaster, Frida had another anchor: Nikolas Muray. Photographer, Olympic fencer (yes, really) and one of her many lovers, Muray was one of the few people Frida trusted enough to confide in during her Paris ordeal.

Her letters to him are the sharpest, funniest and most brutally honest accounts we have of her time in France. She wrote to Muray not just to update him, but to release steam — to unload her frustrations about the Surrealists, the filth of the city, her failing health, and her utter disappointment in Breton’s empty promises.

The Tree of Hope, Remain Strong, painted in 1946 after spinal surgery. This double self-portrait splits her in two: One body lies wounded on a hospital gurney, while the other sits upright, dressed and defiant, clutching a back brace.

What Happened After: A Brief, Blazing Connection

For all the depth and warmth of their connection in Paris, Frida and Reynolds’ friendship seems to have been brief. After that whirlwind winter of 1939, there’s no evidence they kept up correspondence. Aside from one endearing letter where Reynolds talks about how empty the house felt without Frida, there aren’t any further exchanges that we know of.

Life pulled the two women in different directions. Frida returned to Mexico, her health still fragile but her art beginning to gain traction. 

Reynolds, meanwhile, risked her life in the French Resistance. Her Paris home, once a haven for artists and thinkers, became a literal refuge for those fleeing Nazi persecution. She didn’t leave Paris until 1942, escaping across the Pyrenées on foot and finding a flight to New York. But she never stopped fighting for what mattered.

Their paths never formally crossed again, at least not that we can prove. But their legacies continued to intertwine, quietly and profoundly, through the art they made and the communities they helped build. 

The Frame, an oil painting on tin with a vibrant folk art border, from 1938. Frida’s Paris show wasn’t a total disaster — the Louvre bought this piece for their colletion.

A Happy Ending to Frida’s Time in Paris

In spite of it all, Frida’s Paris disaster managed to end on a high note. Against the odds, her work finally made it onto the walls of a gallery — and not just any gallery. By the end of the show, the Louvre itself (yes, the Louvre) purchased one of her paintings, The Frame, making Frida the first 20th century Mexican artist in the museum’s holdings. Today (when not loaned out to travel), this emblematic self-portrait is part of the Musée National d’Art Moderne’s collection at the Centre Pompidou in Paris. 

DID YOU KNOW? The Pompidou has a branch in Málaga, Spain?

Even more surprising, amid the wreckage of her Surrealist experience, Frida forged real friendships with a few kindred spirits. Man Ray, Duchamp and some others proved to be exceptions to the pompous crowd she had loathed. Some Surrealists were pas mal, after all. –Wally