Image via Wikipedia Very early this Christmas morning, pajamas tucked away, hidden under coat and stuffed into boots, I wandered around , looking for a boulangerie, in the small town of Chartres where I ive. I didn't have to, and never usually do on Christmas morning, but somehow, once you know the shops are closed, that's the time you really need something. I knew most boulangeries are closed on Christmas morning, but still wanted to go out and breathe the fresh, crisp white air. I slipped into the boulangerie at the corner of the Town Hall. It was just behind the stables they had set up in the open, with the life-sized crêche. Last night the place was teeming with activity. Not the rush you find in cities where people are so intent on buying gifts at the last minute that it becomes almost a push and shove experience. Here in smaller French towns, though there are lights, decorations and trees, everything seems to be done in a peaceful spirit, more or less. The "Marché de Noël" still has the simple country feeling that the whole family can enjoy at a leisurely pace. Christmas Eve night is an opportunity for a last stroll before the midnight feast, greeting others and looking at the animals brought from farms nearby to create the scene of the baby Jesus in a stall. No white-washed or decorative stables. No dry-cleaned cows or blow-dried, manicured sheep. Instead there were real donkeys and cows with their dung dotted around. There was wreaking straw and other grimy animals a-bleating! Why, even this morning, the stench of the animals, now home and sheltered I trust, still hung thick in the sharp winter air.
"Joyeux Noël!" I piped, along with the old door chimes that jangled as I entered the warm boulangerie. "Vous avez un air aussi bon que votre pain, aujourd'hui!" ("You look as good as your bread this morning!) I winked at the ruddy-cheeked boulanger who roared with laughter. I was sniffing the tantalizing aroma of fresh bread, between cold drafts of air and hot steam of oven. My eyes roamed the shelves with its rows of natural loaves, seed, raisin, fig or nut breads. Huge mounds made with buckwheat, einkorn, spelt, emmer, kamut, long baguettes or shorter pudgy squares with crispy, pointy tips (usually broken off and eaten before you arrive back home). The baker picked a short slim baguette with dark, pointy tips. A five-grain cereal bread. " Un pain comme vous pour vous" (bread like you for you) he said, bowing gallantly. His bald head glistened. I clutched my gift and loved it even more, for his hands, warm from his oven had grasped the bread and laid it in mine, with a twinkle in his eyes. French bakers have taught me a new meaning for " the laying on of hands." as far as bread is concerned. It comes wrapped in the loving, intimate touch of the artisan's hand, far superior alternative for the cold, wrapped bread kept for weeks on a lonely supermarket shelf. For those who prefer this sanitary option, there's more bacteria on your lips than on the bread you eat, handled by the baker's hands! So I have heard.
"Joyeux Noël!" he said.
"Merci bien Monsieur, et bonne journée!" and I turned to leave. It was crusty and warm, as bread should be. I broke it. The holes yawned wide. And I laughed. Far cry it was from processed bread you can roll up into a ball and use in a sling to stone a poor cow to death. I laughed again, as I looked up at the sloping rooftops , glistening with crystals of ice like jewels in the early morning sun, now glowing orange as sunset. Underfoot, the thin ice crunched like toast. Staring up at a rooftop window with a chimney from which fine, lazy smoke curled, I saw one woman, still in nightwear , gazing out from behind half opened shutters. She stared with a wistful gaze down the road. Then suddenly, she turned and saw me looking up at her . On an impulse, I grinned and waved my baguette. It made her laugh.
Now the cathedral bells were ringing, insistent, and with a kind of hollow echo. The narrow deserted street came suddenly alive as busy heels cracked against the cobble stones. A finely dressed family hurried towards the cathedral steps. Later they would again sit around a table, laden with rich Christmas fare left over from last night's celebration.
This day, some homeless old man will also find his meal, perhaps, from the ample scraps off someone's Christmas table, or maybe he'll clutch a loaf of fresh sweet-smelling bread, a Christmas gift from the baker.
What a fine day, this day!
