My theory is that traditions don’t just happen. And they’re much easier to continue than to start from scratch. And it’s freaking Christmas. So I’ve got a meal that would feed an army, our apartment reeks of pine and cloves, there’s a pile of presents under the decked-out tree that vaguely resembles K2, and…well, I wanted to go to midnight services. Except that religion’s one of those things, you know, that does sneak attacks on people who weren’t raised in the same one. And it’s complicated, but basically the American Church was our only compromise option. Not an especially viable one, though, given that the scooter was at Nick’s office, the car would be impossible to park, public transportation and taxis would be scarce at best, the place is a 40-minute walk from our door, and it was cold.
“So did you actually have a real plan for getting to the American Church, or were you just suggesting it figuring that I’d get all cozy and sleepy and change my mind without you having to do anything?” I asked.
Nick got just the guiltiest look on his face. “Well…I was going to ply you with wine first….”
Explains why he kept offering to open our Christmas champagne early, right?
So I tried to work around it: I hunted down listings for a televised Mass…which there was, but it would be at midnight, and odds were we’d have just fallen asleep where we were sitting by then. And so I told myself that we just…wouldn’t. That it would all work out with a minimum of effort, while we stayed warm and cozy and sleepy. And that television would be an acceptable substitute for…something real.
Until, at 10:00, I bolted upright and said, “Let’s go. Now.”
We were late, obviously; it took us ten more minutes just to get out the door, and the service, in spite of my half-baked hope, started at 10:30. But we had a Christmas Eve walk along the Seine, and we were in time for the sermon and some music. Lovely…and an excellent beginning.
