There is plenty of allure, challenge and excitement to living abroad, but those with a proclivity for homesickness can find themselves awash in it during the holiday season. Have you spent your holidays overseas, on assignment or by choice? Where did you go? How did you celebrate? Here is my story; tell us yours. We?ll post our favorites during these last weeks of 2012.
The day I love most ? Christmas! ? is the day I?m most dreading this year. Three years into an assignment abroad, I?ll be spending my third Christmas away from home. I?ll work on Christmas Day; there won?t be much to do. I?ll have dinner with friends who are also far from their families.
In thrall to the chance to live overseas for the first time I had somehow missed the fine print: that I?d be working throughout the holidays each year. Or perhaps three years ago, Christmas at home didn?t feel as urgent as it does now.
On Dec. 25, technology willing, I?ll Skype with my daughters. They?re grown up enough that they no longer expect the wonder world under the tree, but like me, not grown up enough not to miss the cooking, the wrapping, the Christmas music. They?ll have that this year with their father in New York. I?ll call my mother, and my siblings. I?ll miss my own father; he died in March.
My family came to visit that first Christmas in Paris. It snowed every day, as I recall, soft white flakes making this most beautiful city even more so. We saw ?My Fair Lady? at the Th??tre du Ch?telet, took a ride on the Ferris wheel at Place de la Concorde and had a bona fide b?che de No?l.
Last year Christmas was on Sunday. My marriage had finished its unraveling by then; the girls and their dad stayed in New York. I fled France for England, where old friends welcomed me into their cozy house in the country and enormous family celebration ? a lot like the celebrations of my own childhood. We went to the Anglican village church, to the children?s service. Said the prayers, sang the carols. We paid a visit to my friend?s mother?s grave in the well-kept cemetery. We listened to the Queen?s Christmas message; worried about Prince Philip, who was feeling poorly. We hung mistletoe cut from the nearby woods and set the table, with Christmas crackers (party favors that open with a snap), and everyone from the two nonagenarian grandmothers to the youngest children wore colorful foil crowns throughout the feast.
?We go all out for Christmas in England,? one of my friends? three daughters said, as if she had to explain the over-the-top-ness of the decorations and the parade of dishes, no one of which could be done without. Roast parsnips and carrots, Brussels sprouts, roast potatoes, red cabbage, bread sauce, cranberry jelly, red currant jelly, sausage stuffing, pigs in blankets (sausages wrapped in bacon, no puff pastry here), gravy and of course turkey and then for dessert ? er, pudding ? it was mince pie and Christmas pudding with a choice of brandy cream or brandy butter.
?We don?t have your Thanksgiving,? she said as she mixed up the bread sauce. ?Christmas is our only chance.?
The country goes so all out, in fact, that trains don?t run. A cab arrived to whisk me to Heathrow, but, thankfully, not till after Christmas pudding was served. The warmth, the unabashed jollity, the familiarity of the traditions and not least the comfort of my own language kept the ache for home manageable. I only wished I could have stayed for Boxing Day.
I know well that my circumstances don?t qualify as hardship. It?s Christmas in Paris, after all. Those on military duty far from home, especially those in danger: those are the people, and their families, for whom separation at the holidays must be roughest. This year has been rough for so many, close to home: the unimaginable horror of the shootings in the Connecticut elementary school, the devastation of Sandy. The promise of renewal that the Christmas story tells feels farther away, harder to locate, within and without.
Twice, when my girls were small, kittens magically appeared under the Christmas tree ? always the biggest tree we could carry home. There was delight, and surprise, and a lot of cuddling. Even if I were at home, it wouldn?t be that kind of Christmas. Christmas with older children is different; they like to loll around in family togetherness, but only to a point. Their friends are in town; they?re restless to see them. Soon they?ll be so restless that they may choose to spend Christmases away from home altogether. I did when I was their age. That?s probably as it should be. Presents are still a delight, but they prefer to have their lists strictly observed. Surprises are less welcome than they used to be.
It?s a rainy December in Paris, but I?m resolved not to mope. The clouds broke for a few hours this weekend and I carried home a fat little tree from the corner, strung the lights and hung some little ornaments. There?s an ice-skating expedition in the offing, and some nice evening gatherings. Maybe I?ll do some baking and invite my favorite neighbors over, although my oven is tiny and I don?t have an American measuring cup. I?d have to approximate ingredients and temperatures. And really: baking, in Paris? The epitome of redundancy. Maybe I?ll succeed in sending some Christmas cards instead.
I?ll go to the American Cathedral on Christmas Eve; I haven?t been there yet, and I?m told the organ is stupendous. I?ll retrace my steps to hidden Sainte-Chapelle, and marvel again at the soaring verticality of its stained glass. Or I?ll go to the American Church, where our yoga class meets on Saturdays. As the holidays approach we practice amid Christmas trees hung with humble, beautiful construction-paper ornaments. Stray flecks of glitter sparkle on our mats; the trees are fragrant ? the woods in winter. We hear the choir rehearsing their carols.
I might check the airlines one more time, to see whether, miraculously, a ticket has appeared at a reasonable price that delivers me to New York next weekend and will get me back to Paris in time for work on Christmas.
It?s only a day, I keep telling myself. When I?m home again, I?ll love it even more.
Source: http://rendezvous.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/12/18/home-for-the-holidays-or-not-tell-us-your-stories/
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