I was living in Paris, but at Christmas, all I wanted was a CVS aisle.
It was all incredibly beautiful— irritatingly so. It was as if every element of the Christmas I knew had been extracted with tweezers, dropped into a bucket of antiseptic solution, and plucked out cold and sparkling, stripped clean of all nostalgia—the very things, really, that make Christmas, Christmas. I lay in my attic bed at night in my winter coat, and longed for the tiny, particular, irreproducible—even kitschy, unpoetic, and garish—moments of home.
I expected to be homesick, of course. But I was surprised to find that I longed for something sharper, far more specific: I wanted to drive home from the grocery store with my family in a dark car two or three days before Christmas and sit on my mittened hands to keep them warm.
Bizarrely, above foods and even people, I missed fluorescent lights. All light in Paris was soft and romantic and completely lovely. Therefluorescent lights, of course. But they weren’t the same: Even the lights in Monoprix seemed to glow a little hazier and more politely than the ones in the U.S.
The last few days before I was scheduled to fly home for Christmas dragged on. School let out for the holiday, and I could see—through the windows in the dark afternoons—families gathering in the apartments on our street, and with every Christmas party I took the kids to I felt more yearning for home.The day before I left, I took them for a walk through the wet Luxembourg Gardens, theof trees rain-dashed and grey. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. The next day, I landed at Logan Airport.
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