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Its Kiss My France- PART 2!!
You'll just love it to death.
xoxox
10 January 2008
27 December 2007
Kiss My France
Roissy-en-France is overrun.
It is a small town very near to Paris, but you wouldn't even know it was here, the population is so low.
Except, that is, for the rabbits.
This town is overrun with rabbits. Fuzzy, furry little guys who bounce along the ancient rues and alleys. I have no idea where they come from or how there came to be so many.
You almost never see one creamed on the side of the road, and no one talks about them. I thought maybe that they were old news or something, and that was why people never bring them up. But if you ask someone about them, all they do is smile.
I have never gotten an answer when I have asked about these fricking rabbits.
How did they all get here? How are there so many?
What are they doing here?
What in God's name are they all doing here?
***
"Check the bag again."
"I'm telling you, they're not in there."
"Just check the bag, ok?"
"Oh! You were right! They're in the bag. I pay too much for cigarettes to lose them like that."
A very balmy August night. I am on a train platform at Saint Denis Stade de France with a Spanish guy named Esteban. He was looking for an apartment in a town called Saint Denis, and we had gone out there to see what we could find.
As it turns out, Saint Denis is pretty skeezy. It has a beautiful old cathedral where all the kings of France are buried, but other than that, it is pretty gross.
We stopped for a Leffe beer (only 4€ in St. Denis) and a pizza with spiced oil, my favorite. Esteban bought cigarettes, and we headed back home.
We were late though and were hoping that we had not missed the last train.
It was on that platform, in the warm and humid August air (which seems like ages ago) that I decided that me and Esteban were not going to be friends for long. He didn't need a friend; he needed a personal assistant and a mother, rolled up into one. Not my thing, I will tell you that right now.
But deciding that even if I hung out with no one else, I was not going to waste my time with someone I didn't click with marked a change for me.
When I was 19 and in Athens, I made friends with anyone I could, just so I wouldn't be alone, even if I didn't like them.
I worried that my time in France might be the same. I was coming here alone, and I am a really social person.
Ditching Esteban meant that something had changed. I am good on my own, and it was the real start of my trip here.
It was good.
Oh, and we made the train.
***
I am wandering the streets of Reims, angry and drunk. Where the hell is that hotel?!
Les Bleus had just lost the Rugby World Cup, and I had been dousing my sorrows in heavy French ales.
Forty minutes later, I came across my hotel and got into bed.
The next day I woke up with a headache that would have killed a bear.
I stared at the ceiling and decided to stop breathing until I felt better or just died.
I was pissed that there were people in the hall calling after each other; I was angry that those French guys at the bar the night before had given me so much beer, even after I said no, and I didn't want to get up and get going because I felt like I had been run over.
Eventually pulling myself out of bed, I got to the window to squint at one of the most beautiful mornings I have ever seen.
The sky was drenched in blue and the breeze was cool and velvet.
I needed to shut up and get my butt in gear.
I don't know why I blamed so many people for things that I had done to myself.
It was like I was a victim of everything.
I decided to stop that, there and then.
It was after 11am in a hotel; why was I expecting people to be quiet for me?
Those French guys hadn't forced that beer on me.
I had chosen to come to Champagne.
I had to get over myself, and so I did. It made a huge difference in how I run my life.
And everyday has been better for it.
***
My legs ache, and my ankle hurts still. I had decided to take a walk in Paris. I didn't know where, but I went.
They say that the best way to get to know Paris is just to get lost wandering the streets.
I have done that more times than I care to mention. It doesn't matter if I have been to the area I am in a hundred times, I can still get lost and find something wonderful.
This particular day, there was a nip in the air as it was getting pretty late in the year and pretty cold.
I walked down the quai and along the river. At times, the sidewalk dipped so low that the river could have lapped over onto my shoes.
Some parts of the quai smell like piss. Some parts are really well kept up and well lit.
Sometimes there are groups of kids sitting around smoking and talking.
Sometimes it seems like there is no one around for miles.
I love Paris, but I have never felt more Parisian. Maybe it was because I wasn't chasing after anything. I was just there. I knew where I was, and I felt at home.
I just sat down and listened to the bells from the cathedrals and rested my legs.
I love it here; I just love it here.
***
I love grapes.
I don't eat fruit very much, but I love grapes.
I love how they can take on the flavor of everything around them. How does wine taste like chocolate and smoke with a hint of ceder and earth? How do those things get into grapes?
How does a half of a degree totally change the quality of a wine?
These are amazing little beings, grapes are.
So, to pick them off the vine and eat them by the hand full in the champagne fields was an amazing experience. I knew where these grapes would go, and I was overcome with a sense of history and pride. Champagne is part of something I do. I cook, and it is the holiest of holies in terms of celebratory drinks.
On that hill in the tiny town of Pierry, I felt a connection to the hundreds of years that these exact vines have been making the greatest champagne in the world.
I walked for a long time, uphill and downhill. It was getting warm, so I took off my pull over and let the wind ripple through my undershirt. It was cool on the sweat on my chest and it chased off the suns heat.
I sat down on top of one hill in particular and wrote a letter to my wife.
I don't remember the last time I actually put pen to paper and wrote to someone.
It felt right.
An hour later, I folded the letter, picked a leaf to put inside, kissed the ground, and walked back to town.
***
It had been an almost unendurable night at the restaurant. The ticket machine did not stop printing tickets. It just poured them out.
There was no way anyone could have handled all the orders we got.
We were swamped, and I don't even remember how we were doing things. The kitchen was a mess, and servers were running up to grab plates as we were setting them down.
It was madness and overwhelm.
In the middle of it all, an old man in the restaurant stood up and raised his glass. I remember seeing him do it. I don't know what pulled my attention.
He waited for quiet and started to sing the Marseillaise, the French national anthem.
Everyone in the restaurant started to sing along. People put down their food and drinks. Men stood up.
We cooks just stopped.
I have sang the American national anthem plenty of times. You put your hand on your chest and "the rockets red, bla bla bla..." play ball.
But this, I had no idea why he was singing.
But there was no other option that to sing along with him, as the guests and the servers, the cooks and even the busboys sang along.
It was riveting. Incredible national pride.
When it was over the man sat down, and slowly dinner resumed. I had not noticed that the ticket machine had stopped until it started printing again.
We returned to warp speed.
When the night was finished, I walked out to the hill that I go to for quiet sometimes. I could see my breath, it was so cold.
I dont know when I became a cook, because I know for damned sure it wasn't when I came here. I felt like screaming or crying or something just to shake off the stress from the night.
In the distance, the Eiffel Tower glittered.
That's why I came here.
***
"Can you make some onion frizzles?"
"Um, sure. Wait. No. What are onion frizzles?"
"Just move. I'll do it."
That is how my first day in the kitchen started.
Onion frizzles are onions sliced super thin, so you have tons of the little rings that make up an onion. You dredge them in flour, deep fry them and salt and pepper them.
Easy and quick.
I couldn't do it.
Can you make a chicken consommé that is so clear you can see a dime at the bottom of the soup, and then garnish it with a nutmeg custard cut in the shape of a fleur de lis? Yeah, no problem.
Can you fry an onion? No.
This kitchen busted my butt back down to basics. I don't even know why they kept me around, I was so inept. I didn't speak the language well; I couldn't make their dishes. I didn't know where anything was or who anyone was.
What good was I?
Five months later and I am instructing the new guys on where things are and who people are. My role has totally changed. People complain to me about how stupid the stagiares are, forgetting (I hope) that I am a stagiare.
I have a place here. I noticed the schedule for next week does not have my name on it, and my first instinct is to make sure the shift has adequate coverage.
They will be fine here, of course, but I cant imagine that this is not a school. That I am the only one leaving, and after all it took to really get here.
***
My wife is in my arms for the last time before she gets on her plane.
She will be back in two months, but I don't think I can wait that long.
At some point, I will have to let go, and so like a band aid, I let go, kiss her and walk away. No point in making it worse.
I sat outside of the airport, hoping she would make it home ok, and letting the new autumn mist wet my head.
I don't know how I am supposed to work that night. On the other hand, maybe it is better that I am at work to take my mind off of her leaving.
The hotel shuttle comes, and I am greeted as I always am: "Marc! Ca va? (How's it going?)"
"Oh, ca va (Oh, its going)."
***
I cant believe I am leaving this place.
I had a dream one night that I was home, and someone asked me how the trip was and I couldn't remember anything.
I am so glad that is not the case.
I have a million memories. I have lived a million little lives here.
I have a memory for every rabbit in Roissy, and so when I come back (as I surely will), those rabbits will be here as a reminder of everything I did when I was here.
Of every place I went when I was here.
Of the man I learned to be, when I was here.
It took so much for me to pull myself together and to be brave everyday to be here. I had to make a whole new life, and I am sad to let it go.
I don't know if you can understand what it takes to forget all of your old habits and customs and places you go and the language you use and your place in your world, and to learn a whole new life. Everyday I learned in the kitchen. Everyday I struggled with my French. Everyday I missed everyone I know.
From changing hotels weekly to being swamped in the kitchen by hungry Koreans to working on a twisted ankle to the friendships that I have made to places I will have to leave behind. It took so much, it is hard to let it all go.
Someone asked me if, before I leave, I did everything I wanted to do while I was in France, and of course the answer is no.
There are lifetimes of places to get lost here.
That's why people come back...
and that is why it is ok for me to go.
Thank you so much for reading.
Hippity, hippity hop.
It is a small town very near to Paris, but you wouldn't even know it was here, the population is so low.
Except, that is, for the rabbits.
This town is overrun with rabbits. Fuzzy, furry little guys who bounce along the ancient rues and alleys. I have no idea where they come from or how there came to be so many.
You almost never see one creamed on the side of the road, and no one talks about them. I thought maybe that they were old news or something, and that was why people never bring them up. But if you ask someone about them, all they do is smile.
I have never gotten an answer when I have asked about these fricking rabbits.
How did they all get here? How are there so many?
What are they doing here?
What in God's name are they all doing here?
***
"Check the bag again."
"I'm telling you, they're not in there."
"Just check the bag, ok?"
"Oh! You were right! They're in the bag. I pay too much for cigarettes to lose them like that."
A very balmy August night. I am on a train platform at Saint Denis Stade de France with a Spanish guy named Esteban. He was looking for an apartment in a town called Saint Denis, and we had gone out there to see what we could find.
As it turns out, Saint Denis is pretty skeezy. It has a beautiful old cathedral where all the kings of France are buried, but other than that, it is pretty gross.
We stopped for a Leffe beer (only 4€ in St. Denis) and a pizza with spiced oil, my favorite. Esteban bought cigarettes, and we headed back home.
We were late though and were hoping that we had not missed the last train.
It was on that platform, in the warm and humid August air (which seems like ages ago) that I decided that me and Esteban were not going to be friends for long. He didn't need a friend; he needed a personal assistant and a mother, rolled up into one. Not my thing, I will tell you that right now.
But deciding that even if I hung out with no one else, I was not going to waste my time with someone I didn't click with marked a change for me.
When I was 19 and in Athens, I made friends with anyone I could, just so I wouldn't be alone, even if I didn't like them.
I worried that my time in France might be the same. I was coming here alone, and I am a really social person.
Ditching Esteban meant that something had changed. I am good on my own, and it was the real start of my trip here.
It was good.
Oh, and we made the train.
***
I am wandering the streets of Reims, angry and drunk. Where the hell is that hotel?!
Les Bleus had just lost the Rugby World Cup, and I had been dousing my sorrows in heavy French ales.
Forty minutes later, I came across my hotel and got into bed.
The next day I woke up with a headache that would have killed a bear.
I stared at the ceiling and decided to stop breathing until I felt better or just died.
I was pissed that there were people in the hall calling after each other; I was angry that those French guys at the bar the night before had given me so much beer, even after I said no, and I didn't want to get up and get going because I felt like I had been run over.
Eventually pulling myself out of bed, I got to the window to squint at one of the most beautiful mornings I have ever seen.
The sky was drenched in blue and the breeze was cool and velvet.
I needed to shut up and get my butt in gear.
I don't know why I blamed so many people for things that I had done to myself.
It was like I was a victim of everything.
I decided to stop that, there and then.
It was after 11am in a hotel; why was I expecting people to be quiet for me?
Those French guys hadn't forced that beer on me.
I had chosen to come to Champagne.
I had to get over myself, and so I did. It made a huge difference in how I run my life.
And everyday has been better for it.
***
My legs ache, and my ankle hurts still. I had decided to take a walk in Paris. I didn't know where, but I went.
They say that the best way to get to know Paris is just to get lost wandering the streets.
I have done that more times than I care to mention. It doesn't matter if I have been to the area I am in a hundred times, I can still get lost and find something wonderful.
This particular day, there was a nip in the air as it was getting pretty late in the year and pretty cold.
I walked down the quai and along the river. At times, the sidewalk dipped so low that the river could have lapped over onto my shoes.
Some parts of the quai smell like piss. Some parts are really well kept up and well lit.
Sometimes there are groups of kids sitting around smoking and talking.
Sometimes it seems like there is no one around for miles.
I love Paris, but I have never felt more Parisian. Maybe it was because I wasn't chasing after anything. I was just there. I knew where I was, and I felt at home.
I just sat down and listened to the bells from the cathedrals and rested my legs.
I love it here; I just love it here.
***
I love grapes.
I don't eat fruit very much, but I love grapes.
I love how they can take on the flavor of everything around them. How does wine taste like chocolate and smoke with a hint of ceder and earth? How do those things get into grapes?
How does a half of a degree totally change the quality of a wine?
These are amazing little beings, grapes are.
So, to pick them off the vine and eat them by the hand full in the champagne fields was an amazing experience. I knew where these grapes would go, and I was overcome with a sense of history and pride. Champagne is part of something I do. I cook, and it is the holiest of holies in terms of celebratory drinks.
On that hill in the tiny town of Pierry, I felt a connection to the hundreds of years that these exact vines have been making the greatest champagne in the world.
I walked for a long time, uphill and downhill. It was getting warm, so I took off my pull over and let the wind ripple through my undershirt. It was cool on the sweat on my chest and it chased off the suns heat.
I sat down on top of one hill in particular and wrote a letter to my wife.
I don't remember the last time I actually put pen to paper and wrote to someone.
It felt right.
An hour later, I folded the letter, picked a leaf to put inside, kissed the ground, and walked back to town.
***
It had been an almost unendurable night at the restaurant. The ticket machine did not stop printing tickets. It just poured them out.
There was no way anyone could have handled all the orders we got.
We were swamped, and I don't even remember how we were doing things. The kitchen was a mess, and servers were running up to grab plates as we were setting them down.
It was madness and overwhelm.
In the middle of it all, an old man in the restaurant stood up and raised his glass. I remember seeing him do it. I don't know what pulled my attention.
He waited for quiet and started to sing the Marseillaise, the French national anthem.
Everyone in the restaurant started to sing along. People put down their food and drinks. Men stood up.
We cooks just stopped.
I have sang the American national anthem plenty of times. You put your hand on your chest and "the rockets red, bla bla bla..." play ball.
But this, I had no idea why he was singing.
But there was no other option that to sing along with him, as the guests and the servers, the cooks and even the busboys sang along.
It was riveting. Incredible national pride.
When it was over the man sat down, and slowly dinner resumed. I had not noticed that the ticket machine had stopped until it started printing again.
We returned to warp speed.
When the night was finished, I walked out to the hill that I go to for quiet sometimes. I could see my breath, it was so cold.
I dont know when I became a cook, because I know for damned sure it wasn't when I came here. I felt like screaming or crying or something just to shake off the stress from the night.
In the distance, the Eiffel Tower glittered.
That's why I came here.
***
"Can you make some onion frizzles?"
"Um, sure. Wait. No. What are onion frizzles?"
"Just move. I'll do it."
That is how my first day in the kitchen started.
Onion frizzles are onions sliced super thin, so you have tons of the little rings that make up an onion. You dredge them in flour, deep fry them and salt and pepper them.
Easy and quick.
I couldn't do it.
Can you make a chicken consommé that is so clear you can see a dime at the bottom of the soup, and then garnish it with a nutmeg custard cut in the shape of a fleur de lis? Yeah, no problem.
Can you fry an onion? No.
This kitchen busted my butt back down to basics. I don't even know why they kept me around, I was so inept. I didn't speak the language well; I couldn't make their dishes. I didn't know where anything was or who anyone was.
What good was I?
Five months later and I am instructing the new guys on where things are and who people are. My role has totally changed. People complain to me about how stupid the stagiares are, forgetting (I hope) that I am a stagiare.
I have a place here. I noticed the schedule for next week does not have my name on it, and my first instinct is to make sure the shift has adequate coverage.
They will be fine here, of course, but I cant imagine that this is not a school. That I am the only one leaving, and after all it took to really get here.
***
My wife is in my arms for the last time before she gets on her plane.
She will be back in two months, but I don't think I can wait that long.
At some point, I will have to let go, and so like a band aid, I let go, kiss her and walk away. No point in making it worse.
I sat outside of the airport, hoping she would make it home ok, and letting the new autumn mist wet my head.
I don't know how I am supposed to work that night. On the other hand, maybe it is better that I am at work to take my mind off of her leaving.
The hotel shuttle comes, and I am greeted as I always am: "Marc! Ca va? (How's it going?)"
"Oh, ca va (Oh, its going)."
***
I cant believe I am leaving this place.
I had a dream one night that I was home, and someone asked me how the trip was and I couldn't remember anything.
I am so glad that is not the case.
I have a million memories. I have lived a million little lives here.
I have a memory for every rabbit in Roissy, and so when I come back (as I surely will), those rabbits will be here as a reminder of everything I did when I was here.
Of every place I went when I was here.
Of the man I learned to be, when I was here.
It took so much for me to pull myself together and to be brave everyday to be here. I had to make a whole new life, and I am sad to let it go.
I don't know if you can understand what it takes to forget all of your old habits and customs and places you go and the language you use and your place in your world, and to learn a whole new life. Everyday I learned in the kitchen. Everyday I struggled with my French. Everyday I missed everyone I know.
From changing hotels weekly to being swamped in the kitchen by hungry Koreans to working on a twisted ankle to the friendships that I have made to places I will have to leave behind. It took so much, it is hard to let it all go.
Someone asked me if, before I leave, I did everything I wanted to do while I was in France, and of course the answer is no.
There are lifetimes of places to get lost here.
That's why people come back...
and that is why it is ok for me to go.
Thank you so much for reading.
Hippity, hippity hop.
26 December 2007
Joyeux Noël, Everyone
Written December 25th, 2007...
Somewhere a cook is hurriedly wrapping up dishes and bowls, washing down counters, and putting away knives. Somewhere a cook is dropping his dirty apron and jacket in the dirty-linen bin and grabbing a fresh set. Somewhere he is stuffing his work clothes into his bag and running for the train.
Somewhere in Brittany his family is waiting for him around an old table- maybe there is a fireplace, maybe there is a goose. Somewhere their hearts are full with anticipation of the arrival of their son, brother, cousin, boyfriend.
Somewhere the cook is tapping his foot and rapping his fingers on the window of the train car, willing it to start chugging westward from Paris.
Somewhere a happy family, wrapped in heavy coats and scarves and hats and gloves are wrapping their arms around him as he steps down off of the train, and Christmas has come.
Somewhere a weary student is stepping off of a plane onto the hot and dry tarmac. He has been gone from home for over a year, and he has not seen his family or his friends in what seems like even longer.
Somewhere he is picking up his luggage and lugging it outside to wait for a cab. He probably rests under a palm tree for some shade, as it is so hot this time of year.
Somewhere his mother and father are anxiously preparing his favorite foods and organizing their son's room, excited for the return of their only child.
Somewhere in Agadir, a cab pulls up to a waiting house, and though the Moroccan dessert is full of Muslims, Christmas comes when the student steps out of the cab and into the waiting arms of his mom.
Somewhere a beautiful young woman is warming herself in her new apartment. She is in a new job and in a new life. Somewhere, she is revelling in the New England cold and enjoying her first Boston snow. It will be her first white Christmas in years, since it doesn't snow it Atlanta.
Somewhere this Christmas's best gifts will be the ones she gives herself; they are the best deserved.
Somewhere in Oak Park a young couple is spending their first Christmas with their new baby girl.
Maybe they are with his family today; maybe they are with her family. Either way, they are together, and now that little Reilly is with them, it doesn't really matter where they are, so long as they are together. It is Christmas for them, where ever they choose to be.
Somewhere in California a happy man is waiting to come home to his family and friends. It has been almost four months since he has seen any of them, and it will be seven more months once he is deployed to Iraq.
Somewhere "Doc" is taking care of his guys. Somewhere he is standing for what he believes.
He might be frightened of the future; he might not be. He might question himself, and he might not.
But when he comes home, everything that is going on in the world will stop, and his mother and father, his sisters and brother, his cousins and his girl will all put their arms around him. It will be Christmas then.
Somewhere there is no tree this year. Somewhere there are no gifts.
Somewhere her father's chair is empty for Christmas, and the Siberian winter will be somehow colder for it.
Somewhere a mother and her daughters will quietly pass the day, sipping his vodka, stroking his picture in its frame; sitting in his absence.
Somewhere a mother's only light of Christmas will be that her daugthers are there, and she is with them. And he is there too, and he is not.
And Christmas will not be the same.
Somewhere a daughter sits with her mother, grateful to have her home from the hospital and in recovery. A hospital can be a terrible place to spend a Christmas, so however worried she still is, she will be happy to be home with her healing mother and with her beloved dogs.
Somewhere Trixie and Norton's yelps and barks are the bells of Christmas, and it is Christmas, since mother and daughter are together.
Somewhere a daughter is making a decision: Chicago or San Fransisco? Somewhere she might be finding it hard to be pulled away from the family she is so recently home to.
Somewhere that daughter's laugh and smile will warm her family's heart.
And maybe she misses Brazil, and maybe she does not. It is with her, where ever she goes, though, just as she is with them where ever she is.
But it is Christmas for real now that she is home, and she can count on being hugged and held a little longer than usual this year. She was so dearly missed.
Somewhere spicy noodles in a beef broth are being served. It is his favorite.
Somewhere a mother is happy to take the time to prepare a dish that she might not care for, but that she knows her son loves.
It is a long time until the Spring Festival, and it is cold in China now, but somewhere a son is happy to be home: to speak Chinese, to eat Chinese, to be Chinese again.
Somewhere, he is happy to tell his stories from France, and somewhere, Christmas comes to a family happy to hear them and happy to have him home.
Somewhere a family is going through their rituals. They will get up, go to church, open gifts, go to dinner with their cousins, grandmother, brother and sister in law, mother, and nephews. Somewhere in Chicago wine is served, jokes are made, hands are held, and minds are elsewhere. Somewhere Christmas isnt the same this year.
Somewhere in Chicago, Christmas will come on the 28th of December, for the whole family.
Somewhere a sister is with her sister, just home from Brazil. Somewhere a daughter is with her mother and father. Somewhere a cousin is with her cousins, and somewhere in Crystal Lake, a wife is without her husband.
She calls him and thinks or speaks of him often, but their Christmas will have to wait a few more days. And when she and her husband and their dog and Lake Michigan are all back together again, it will be Christmas for days and days.
Somewhere in Paris, it is Christmas, and it is not. Somewhere the bells of Notre Dame are ringing, and the lights that light the Champs Elysees are blazing, and the choirs are ringing out their carols en Francais.
Somewhere in a hotel room, a son or brother or husband or friend is sitting, and counting the days and toasting them all.
Somehow they are all there: China, Chicago, Boston, Russia, California, Morocco, Brazil, and France are all within him.
Somewhere he is thinking of them.
Somewhere he is grateful for them.
Somewhere a plane is getting ready to bring Christmas home.
Somewhere a cook is hurriedly wrapping up dishes and bowls, washing down counters, and putting away knives. Somewhere a cook is dropping his dirty apron and jacket in the dirty-linen bin and grabbing a fresh set. Somewhere he is stuffing his work clothes into his bag and running for the train.
Somewhere in Brittany his family is waiting for him around an old table- maybe there is a fireplace, maybe there is a goose. Somewhere their hearts are full with anticipation of the arrival of their son, brother, cousin, boyfriend.
Somewhere the cook is tapping his foot and rapping his fingers on the window of the train car, willing it to start chugging westward from Paris.
Somewhere a happy family, wrapped in heavy coats and scarves and hats and gloves are wrapping their arms around him as he steps down off of the train, and Christmas has come.
Somewhere a weary student is stepping off of a plane onto the hot and dry tarmac. He has been gone from home for over a year, and he has not seen his family or his friends in what seems like even longer.
Somewhere he is picking up his luggage and lugging it outside to wait for a cab. He probably rests under a palm tree for some shade, as it is so hot this time of year.
Somewhere his mother and father are anxiously preparing his favorite foods and organizing their son's room, excited for the return of their only child.
Somewhere in Agadir, a cab pulls up to a waiting house, and though the Moroccan dessert is full of Muslims, Christmas comes when the student steps out of the cab and into the waiting arms of his mom.
Somewhere a beautiful young woman is warming herself in her new apartment. She is in a new job and in a new life. Somewhere, she is revelling in the New England cold and enjoying her first Boston snow. It will be her first white Christmas in years, since it doesn't snow it Atlanta.
Somewhere this Christmas's best gifts will be the ones she gives herself; they are the best deserved.
Somewhere in Oak Park a young couple is spending their first Christmas with their new baby girl.
Maybe they are with his family today; maybe they are with her family. Either way, they are together, and now that little Reilly is with them, it doesn't really matter where they are, so long as they are together. It is Christmas for them, where ever they choose to be.
Somewhere in California a happy man is waiting to come home to his family and friends. It has been almost four months since he has seen any of them, and it will be seven more months once he is deployed to Iraq.
Somewhere "Doc" is taking care of his guys. Somewhere he is standing for what he believes.
He might be frightened of the future; he might not be. He might question himself, and he might not.
But when he comes home, everything that is going on in the world will stop, and his mother and father, his sisters and brother, his cousins and his girl will all put their arms around him. It will be Christmas then.
Somewhere there is no tree this year. Somewhere there are no gifts.
Somewhere her father's chair is empty for Christmas, and the Siberian winter will be somehow colder for it.
Somewhere a mother and her daughters will quietly pass the day, sipping his vodka, stroking his picture in its frame; sitting in his absence.
Somewhere a mother's only light of Christmas will be that her daugthers are there, and she is with them. And he is there too, and he is not.
And Christmas will not be the same.
Somewhere a daughter sits with her mother, grateful to have her home from the hospital and in recovery. A hospital can be a terrible place to spend a Christmas, so however worried she still is, she will be happy to be home with her healing mother and with her beloved dogs.
Somewhere Trixie and Norton's yelps and barks are the bells of Christmas, and it is Christmas, since mother and daughter are together.
Somewhere a daughter is making a decision: Chicago or San Fransisco? Somewhere she might be finding it hard to be pulled away from the family she is so recently home to.
Somewhere that daughter's laugh and smile will warm her family's heart.
And maybe she misses Brazil, and maybe she does not. It is with her, where ever she goes, though, just as she is with them where ever she is.
But it is Christmas for real now that she is home, and she can count on being hugged and held a little longer than usual this year. She was so dearly missed.
Somewhere spicy noodles in a beef broth are being served. It is his favorite.
Somewhere a mother is happy to take the time to prepare a dish that she might not care for, but that she knows her son loves.
It is a long time until the Spring Festival, and it is cold in China now, but somewhere a son is happy to be home: to speak Chinese, to eat Chinese, to be Chinese again.
Somewhere, he is happy to tell his stories from France, and somewhere, Christmas comes to a family happy to hear them and happy to have him home.
Somewhere a family is going through their rituals. They will get up, go to church, open gifts, go to dinner with their cousins, grandmother, brother and sister in law, mother, and nephews. Somewhere in Chicago wine is served, jokes are made, hands are held, and minds are elsewhere. Somewhere Christmas isnt the same this year.
Somewhere in Chicago, Christmas will come on the 28th of December, for the whole family.
Somewhere a sister is with her sister, just home from Brazil. Somewhere a daughter is with her mother and father. Somewhere a cousin is with her cousins, and somewhere in Crystal Lake, a wife is without her husband.
She calls him and thinks or speaks of him often, but their Christmas will have to wait a few more days. And when she and her husband and their dog and Lake Michigan are all back together again, it will be Christmas for days and days.
Somewhere in Paris, it is Christmas, and it is not. Somewhere the bells of Notre Dame are ringing, and the lights that light the Champs Elysees are blazing, and the choirs are ringing out their carols en Francais.
Somewhere in a hotel room, a son or brother or husband or friend is sitting, and counting the days and toasting them all.
Somehow they are all there: China, Chicago, Boston, Russia, California, Morocco, Brazil, and France are all within him.
Somewhere he is thinking of them.
Somewhere he is grateful for them.
Somewhere a plane is getting ready to bring Christmas home.
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