Oh the Christmas Memories - Christmas in Paris and Cambridge

Preface / Introduction
Everyone has a most memorable Christmas. Here are two I'm sharing with you.

Oh the Christmas Memories - Christmas in Paris and Cambridge

Oh the Christmas Memories - Christmas in Paris and Cambridge

First Christmas away from home. Paris. 1967. November 22, 2012 | Author: Jeffrey Lant | Posted in Dr. Jeffrey Lants Article Archive by Dr. Jeffrey Lant. Authors program note. Today is the day I sign up to receive Social Security. It will be a day when low level bureaucrats will prod me, asking questions they already know the answers to, all designed to prove (or not) that I am the Jeffrey Ladd Lant born 66 years ago in Illinois, into a time and situation which now only exist in my imagination. I wonder whether the clerk will smile or even look at me when the inevitable queries are asked? Im not counting on it, for they see a generation advancing to old age, while I consider only myself. I want human contact but will have to do with sign here and get the money. And so, under the circumstances you will understand that I need something quite different; a kind of cosmic pick-me-up composed of equal portions of youth, energy, hope and optimism, all things in shorter supply today, here and now, than then. I need Paris. Since you probably do, too, let me share some with you. the better to remember and pass a kindred moment when not a single word is required or expected. I love Paris in the winter when it drizzles. For me, only one song would do for the musical accompaniment to this article; Cole Porters seductive tune I Love Paris. It debued in 1953, in the film Can- Can and like so many of Porters haunting melodies it immediately touched the soul of the world; in this case setting us to recall the bittersweet memories of a youth that can only be tapped infrequently, so powerful is even the smallest part. I like Ella Fitzgeralds rendition about this timeless town. It cuts to the heart and does with you what it will just like love itself. Youll find this bijoux in any search engine. Go now and play it again and again and again. If its cold and misty outside and the memories come thick and fast, you are ready for what follows. Paris, destiny. In 1967, I was the luckiest 20-year-old in the world. Though the Great Republic was at war, gravely divided by whether we should have more of it or less, I was going to Poland for my Christmas holidays. Now as all the world knows, the way to Warsaw most assuredly goes through Paris, at least in my atlas. Thus I found myself for the first time in the City of Light at the best possible time in life to be there, that is to say whatever time you are there; in my case December,1967 just a few days before Christmas. My trip, hurriedly arranged which is to say (in the way of young men) not arranged at all, came about because of a notice hung on the campus bulletin board at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland, where I was spending, and happily too, my junior year abroad. It promised high times and hijinx in Zakopane, the site of the Eastern Blocs 1967 Winter Olympics. The trip was sponsored by the Young Pioneers, Communisms equivalent of the Best and the Brightest. The cost could be scrapped together and was just affordable at just about a hundred quid. Of course we wouldnt tell parents where it was we were going, much less under whose auspices. Bright young men seek to shield the rents from any inkling that they might have had, were having, or would have a good time. That was always the best possible course, especially where Communists and Paris, mind were involved. Paris first. Our trip to Poland was to have begun in London where we were to meet the tour guide and organizer. He had been a Tory candidate for Parliament in the last General Election; time now hung heavy while he waited impatiently for his next chance at greatness. Like most young, ambitious, aspiring Conservatives he didnt believe in much of anything; principles, you see, get in the way of success. It was always better not to have too many or to believe them too seriously. As a result our guide, youthful, good looking and unscrupulous was excellent company and game for anything. Its a pity Ive forgotten his name hes undoubtedly a retired cabinet minister now, full of sage advice and pompous aphorisms the Right Honourable the (first) Baron Twitsbee-on-Thames. Such a man, of course, approved our traveling to Paris first, meeting up with the group later, pleasurably fatigued as men of the world would most assuredly be at that point. He undoubtedly wished us luck and winked, salaciously. And so I went to Paris and to a passionate embrace which has never ended. Every true Parisian believes there is Paris and then there is everything else. There is no known antidote http://www.20WaystoProfit.com Copyright Patrice Porter - 2013 3 of 8

Oh the Christmas Memories - Christmas in Paris and Cambridge to this belief. Once in Paris, walking the Champs Elysee, you are glad it is so. No antidote desired; none imaginable. And thats as it should be. So I came to see that Paris was not merely a place but an idea, a dream, a journey, a vision and where, in grander style and sureness of touch, there was a better me waiting for the ordinary me to arrive. Le beau coup. I remember everything about those days no detail too small or inconsequential. Paris is like that, transforming even the slightest of matters into Events, primed with Significance. Paris is, after all, the greatest mise-en-scene on Earth, a place where you find yourself, see yourself as larger than life, mesmerizing, captivating, the very person you have always wanted to be and now are, to the gratification of self and the satisfying envy of the folks back home. No other city on Earth, no other place at all holds such power, such magic, and so you, like Josephine Baker sing this: Jai deux amours. Mon pais et Paris; you are suddenly, unmistakably, to your complete bliss a boulevardier au fait with everything in this place which now forever holds a piece of your heart and means to keep it forever with fierce possession. And so it started in a boulangerie within moments of arrival. I ordered a baguette and thanked the proprietor for her beau coup. O, monsieur, she said, just for a moment no longer of a certain age but young again, with gracious curves well worth the seeing. She patted her haunch, she giggled, she pointed O monsieur, cest le beau coup. I had made her happy. It was a portent of other happy encounters to come. Is this what I think its for? Later that day, I stood with Mark Morris at the ticket counter of the Opera, Baron Haussmanns great creation begun in1861, a venue fit for God Himself to make music. We barely had enough for two tickets high up in the rafters and needed to count it twice over to be sure of even that.. but there was something about us, two acolytes butchering la belle langue determined to worship everything we saw, that touched the heart of the woman ticket seller. Voila, she said, an empress dispensing largesse. And so we came to possess a box at the Opera for the evenings performance, compliments of a Parisienne determined to turn by a graceful touch the quotidian into a lifetimes happy memory. Everything was new, notable, marvelous.. including how two young men of decidedly limited means, dressed just a shade better than tatterdemalions had their box unlocked for them, then locked again with them inside. And of how they soon discovered a ceramic pot on the floor festooned with the grandiloquent Ns of the master who ordered such monumental awe and splendor. Yes, it was used and so the customs of Paris turned the most natural function into art and protocol. Last night, first visit. Venite adoremus. Notre Seigneur et Sauveur. No young person wants to slow down the pace of time. Speed, not savor, is always their order of the day. But then comes Paris and the dawning fear one has too little time, hardly any time at all to enjoy each thing, every thing. And so youth comes to know a secret of age: that the best lived life is patient, paced, distinguished by care not merely celerity. Thus one grows and matures, another of Paris insights and benedictions. And so in my final hours of what I vowed must be the first of many visits, I made my way near midnight to one of mans great achievements, Notre Dame. I went as a curiosity seeker, for I was, after all, the son of Puritans who would decry my very presence at such a Romish place. But G od was present that night, and I knew why men of vision had dreamed this place and worked so hard to achieve it. Here was a place where one might look for and even find sanctity, belief, peace, and be touched by the greatest light that shown that night in the City of Light. And it was good. I sang the words of the great hymn Venite adoremus with conviction Notre Seigneur et Sauveur. And then it was over. I was, in the middle of this Christmas night, en route by rail to Poland via Belgium enraptured by the greatest reason for loving Paris, the reason found in the last line of Cole Porters great tune. By Dr. Jeffrey Lant O Little Town Christmas comes to Cambridge, Massachusetts, December 25, 2011. 12:54 a.m. 20 degrees Fahrenheit. Winds W-NW 8 miles per hour. O little town of Bethlehem. Find in any search engine and listen to it now. Authors program note. Before I left on my Christmas walk-about at not quite 1 a.m. Eastern today, I turned on every light in my brilliantly lit house. On the lights in the hallway thereby exposing in http://www.20WaystoProfit.com Copyright Patrice Porter - 2013 4 of 8

Oh the Christmas Memories - Christmas in Paris and Cambridge I turned on every light in my brilliantly lit house. On the lights in the hallway thereby exposing in radiance the wistful picture of a young 18th century prince of the House of Brunswick-Luneberg. Dead too soon, not even 20, he craves all the light I can give him, and that is much. On the lights, all the lights in the Red Drawing Room, on the lights, all the lights in the Green Room, on the lights, all the lights in the Blue Room from where I am writing you now, where the chandelier throws out over 10,000 facets of light. So the seller told me; I have long since given up counting them but their colors entrance while its welcome heat warms me What kind of mania is this that demands every light lit, every treasure burnished, everything bold, audacious, polished, warm and, to my uttermost ability, welcome? Just this: It is Christmas Day, this very day, this day of days, to come but once and go and I am alive, ready, eager to take myself from here and see how this 2,011th Christmas is evolving from my vantage point in Cambridge, Massachusetts. I command all this light, first, to celebrate the advent of this day and its great meaning, that on this very day, over two thousand years ago the Prince of Heaven was born, a boon to mankind, our sustaining hope unto the ages. And I want Him to know that He is welcome here and always has been, though often I did not know or show it And, too, there must be light, an explosion of light, to welcome me home, for I mean to go out and see for myself how this Holy Night is faring and what my neighbors may be doing. Red hat, white fur, my lassez passer. This is my 63rd Christmas; the year when my many friends worldwide, of so many climes and countries, offer their advice freely before I venture out into the dark and cold. Bundle up, says Mark Anderson. Remember to cover your ears, proffers Dale Thomson. Dont stay out too long, offers David Mobile. Such words, each one on any other day lese majeste, convey care and love and make me smile. A man like me knows well the warmth of such words and how to conjure them; they cheer the heart such as no fire can. Age hath its wisdoms and privileges; no one knows that better than I do, and I crave them as surely as air or sun; and get them, too. And so I put on the foolish Santa hat I was given by a young friend who looked raffish when he wore it, whereas I look just silly but I know that wearing it out this night of all nights, will safely mark me as harmless, eccentric, a man who has imbibed too much of the grape, erroneous conclusions to be sure, but useful when a man leaves his cozy house at midnight, and warm bed, too, to venture out into the piercing cold of a Bay State Christmas in pursuit of but you must come out of your snug world and along with me to see. Presents for me In the lobby of my building where I am now, I think, the senior resident or close to it, I see two boxes for me. These neat parcels, festooned by words like FedEx and UPS and the numeric mysteries of their tracking systems, firmly establish me as a card-carrying person of the middle classes and of means; poor people shop at stores and carry home their packages, often on buses and late-running subways. Mine ascend by elevators and are given by delivery men, exceptionally polite at this time of year, who say things like Something else for you, Dr. Lant. Somebody loves you But I have no time for such packages now I have a mission. Cold air, colder Puritan. The cold of midnight is piercing but by no means the worst I have felt; the Internet weather report (the only place I go for weather intelligence anymore) says the wind chill factor is 10 degrees Fahrenheit. I feel superior to that, and further plunges, too. I am glad to take it, and to know I can still take worse; more evidence of my evergreen condition; of increasing importance as I get older The Cambridge Common, where by ancient law and privilege I could graze my cows (should I get some), is vacant tonight but the statue of John Bridge continues its austere duty, scrutinizing the lives of Cantabridgians, ensuring not that we are as worthy as he (for that is impossible) but that we do not stray too far from his noble example. Bridge was a Puritan, a man of God and Gods affairs and ran these, no doubt to Gods satisfaction, for Bridges all-worthy career prospered in mid-17th century Cambridge. Such men, the very fibre of moral rectitude and self-assurance (my ancestors, too, for the nonce) made a point of destroying the olde English Christmas of God rest ye merry gentlemen. Bridge would no doubt have disapproved the frivolity of my chapeau and so I walked on, glad he was not coming to disdain my liberated Christmas. The artistry of ice. Burdened by winter as I often am here, captive of the chill Atlantic and its perishing cold, I more often avoid the ice than consider it. Tonight I rectified this error and stopped to scrutinize the random beauty of ice, frigid patterns that turned http://www.20WaystoProfit.com Copyright Patrice Porter - 2013 5 of 8

Oh the Christmas Memories - Christmas in Paris and Cambridge yesterdays puddles into tonights etched allure. It is beautiful, the kind of sharp avant garde pattern in black and silver a stylish billionaire might use to dazzle every penthouse guest; here this transient beauty goes unremarked by all but me. There is livelier fare across the street, when seven squad cars spurt police, busily at work at the main gate of Harvard College, just opened days ago from the thrall of the hapless revolutionaries who Occupied Harvard, but not effectively or for very long. The police are out in force, a tow-truck at the ready, a fellow human being in their arms, his Christmas and destiny to be paid out in hospital or jail cell. I look instead at the statue of Senator Charles Sumner (1811-1874), a man of such austerity and respectability that when he escorted Mary Todd Lincoln there was no touch of scandal at all, though he was reckoned the most handsome man at Harvard and in Civil War Washington. I often wonder whether the burden of such rectitude made him happy. Certainly his statue does not show it. He was cold in life, and perhaps the coldness of this statue is its truest aspect. I prefer to spend my Christmas night with another Harvard man, the Reverend Phillips Brooks (1835-1893). He is memorialized in Harvard Yard, but not in copper and stone. His is a memorial of people, for the people who admired and loved him created in 1904 Phillips Brooks House Association, a student-run, community-based non-profit public service organization whose mission is the true meaning of this holiday, to give and give until it truly helps and makes a difference. Brooks took the fine tune by organist Lewis Redner and graced it in 1868 with the words we know as O Little Town of Bethlehem and whose words are my prayer for us all this day, and every day. O holy Child of Bethlehem Descend to us we pray O come to us, abide with us Our Lord Emmanuel. (Concluded and sent to the world as the authors gift, 5:05 a.m., Christmas Day, 2011). By Dr. Jeffrey Lant About the Author Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Services include home business training, affiliate marketing training, earn-at-home programs, traffic tools, advertising, webcasting, hosting, design, WordPress Blogs and more. Find out why Worldprofit is considered the # 1 online Home Business Training program by getting a free Associate Membership today at http://www.20waystoprofit.com/associates

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