Christmas Eve

Paris has its Christmas traditions, but they don’t include very much of what Americans would call commercialism. A huge, modern department store across the street from the Hotel de Ville was closed on Christmas Eve. Nor did we see much of anything that would be described as Christmas lights or decoration – no trees, no Santas. The city was beautifully illuminated and festive, but it looks that way all the time.

Nevertheless, we had some last-minute shopping to do. On Christmas Eve morning, we strolled in cold, gray weather through the Tuileries, then crossed the bridge to the Musee d’Orsay and warmed ourselves in the Impressionists’ light: Manet, Monet, Seurat, Van Gogh, Renoir. Going home, we split up, Karen staying on the Left Bank with a couple of missions in the Latin Quarter, and I crossing the Seine to vendors’ stalls near the Chatelet.

We also wanted to attend a midnight Mass. The classic would have been Notre Dame, but Karen, walking past in the afternoon, reported throngs in the thousands already milling in the plaza. She had voiced another preference anyway, for a small church just around the corner from our flat, the Paroisse Sainte Elisabeth. Their Mass was to begin at 10:30 p.m.

My other errand was to our local supermarket, the Monoprix, very well stocked but very compact by American supermarket standards. We had decided on chicken for our Christmas dinner. A whole, four-pound chicken at the Monoprix was almost 20 Euros. I was not going to pay almost $25 for a chicken, and I wondered why chicken in France was so expensive. Later we learned that, on Christmas Eve, Parisians flock to Les Halles, a huge marketplace near the Louvre, where mountains of chicken and oysters are piled for holiday feasting. I wondered if the demand drove up the price of chicken. But two days after Christmas, I checked again, and Monoprix chicken was still hovering under 20 Euros.

They had a meager selection of cut chicken. I bought a packet of boneless, skinless breasts, some potatoes, onions, garlic, haricots verts (green beans), a couple of baguettes and a couple of bottles of wine, and figured we wouldn’t starve. I had learned a trick: In Paris, there is no supermarket parking lot with your car waiting just outside. Parisian shoppers bring a sturdy bag to the market with them if they have a lot to carry home. I stopped by the flat and got one of our carry-on bags and was glad I did. I was lugging it toward the Monoprix door when Karen walked in. On her ramble, she had gotten lost! Took a Metro train in the wrong direction, a moment of panic, then recovery and successful return.

The church was classic stone columns and high ceiling, an altar, brightly lit, at the front, and gloomy light in the back. No pews, no kneeling boards, only straightback chairs. In a dark balcony behind us was a substantial pipe organ and, for this occasion, other instruments – a couple of horns and strings, like a chamber orchestra. The sanctuary would seat probably 300, and about 250 were there. Maybe others were non-parishoners, or even Americans. No way to know. Coming in, we were given a program, four pages, presenting the liturgy, in Latin and French, for “Nativite du Seigneur, Messe de la nuit.”

After the entry of the priests and acolytes, and the processional march, the organ sounded a very quiet introduction to our opening music: “Silent Night,” or, in the program, “Douce Nuit.” The congregation sang the first two lines:

“Douce nuit, sainte nuit,
“Dans les cieux, l’astre luit.”

It was one of the most beautiful things I ever heard. We understood them perfectly. Language divides, music unites. Yet in our world, the speakers have evolved as the leaders, and singers only entertain.