Last year at Christmas time, my wife, three boys and I were in France, on our way from
Paris to Nice. For five wretched days everything had gone wrong. Our hotels were “tourist traps”, our rented car. On Christmas Eve, when we checked into a dingy hotel in Nice, there was no Christmas spirit in our hearts.
It was raining and cold when we went out to eat. We found a drab little joint shoddily decorated for the holidays. It smelled greasy. Only five tables in the restaurant were occupied. There were two German couples, two French families, and an American sailor, by himself. In the corner a piano player listlessly played Christmas music.
My wife ordered our meal in French. The waiter brought us the wrong thing. I scolded my wife for being stupid. She began to cry. The boys defended her, and I felt even worse.
Then, at the table with the French family on our left, a father slapped one of his children for some minor infraction, and the boy began to cry. On our right, the German wife began berating her husband.
All of us were interrupted by an unpleasant blast of cold air. Through the front door came an old French flower woman.; She wore a dripping, tattered overcoat and shuffled along slowly.
“Flower, monsieur? Only one franc.”
No one bought any.
Wearily she sat down at a table between the sailor and us. To the waiter she said, “A bowl of soup. I haven’t sold a flower all afternoon.” To the piano player she said hoarsely, “Can you imagine, Joseph, soup on Christmas Eve?”
He pointed to his empty “tipping plate”.
The young sailor finished his meal and got up to leave. Putting on his coat, he walker over to the flower woman’s table.
“Happy Christmas,” he said, smiling and picking out two corsages. “How much are they?”
“Two francs, monsieur.”
Pressing one of the small corsages flat, he put it into the letter he had written, then handed the woman a twenty-franc note.
“I don’t have change, monsieur,” she said. “I’ll get some from the waiter.”
“No, ma’am,” said the sailor, leaning over and kissing the ancient cheek. “This is my Christmas present to you.”
Straightening up, he came to our table, holding the other corsage in front of him. “Sir,” he said to me, “may I have permission to present these flowers to your beautiful daughter?” In one quick motion he gave my wife the corsage, and wished us a Merry Christmas!
The piano player began to belt out “Good
King Wenceslaus”, beating the keys with magic hands, nodding his head in rhythm.
My wife waved her corsage in time to the music. She was radiant and appeared twenty years younger. The tears had left her eyes, and the corners of her mouth turned up in laughter. She began to sing, and our three sons joined her, bellowing the song with uninhibited enthusiasm.
“Cut! Cut!” shouted the Germans. They jumped on their chairs and began singing the verse in German. The waiter embraced the flower woman. Waving their arms, they sang in French. The Frenchman who had slapped the boy beat rhythm with his for against a bottle. The lad climbed on his lap, singing in a youthful soprano.
The Germans ordered wine for everyone. They delivered it themselves, hugging the other customers. One of the French families called for champagne-made the rounds, kissing each one of us on both cheeks. The owner of the restaurant started “The First Noel”, and we all joined in, half of us crying.
People crowded in from the street until many customers were standing. The walls shook as hands and feet kept time to the Christmas carols.
The miserable evening in a shoddy restaurant ended up being the very best Christmas Eve we had ever experience just because of a young sailor who had Christmas spirit in his soul. He released the love and joy that had been smothered within us by anger and disappointment. He gave us Christmas.