It’s Christmas Eve and I could start this note in the same way I did the last blog entry: “Christmas in France. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” Right now, the ring is of church bells from the many temples surrounding us. It is 5:30 p.m. and every carillon in the neighborhood is actively calling the faithful to its inner sanctum.

The Catholic churches sound the news of the imminent birth of Jesus. A musical cacophony of dissonant sounds – some loud enough to overtake others, some so soft they are heard only between the loud clangs of bigger bells – all mixing together to create excitement of great things to come.

It draws me out, this musical interlude like no other. I want to see, hear, feel what the bells announce. Leaving the comfort of a warm home, a husband cooking dinner and a lovely glass of white wine, I venture out into the dark streets following the sound of the bells.

As I get closer, I tag along with dozens of people approaching the medieval church with its stone carvings chewed away by wind and rain. The entrance is busy: a bottleneck is created by the dipping of a finger, the making of the sign of the cross and the quick half-kneel of the penitents. The portico fills and creates a queue of the faithful.

I photograph the eerily lit church – little public lighting down this one-block street. No one pays attention to me except for one man. He stands across the one-lane pedestrian street watching people going in mumbling first to himself, and then louder: “Maudite putain. Je pourrait te cassez la guele.” (Damn whore. I could smash your jaw.) Is it aimed at me? What kind of language is that so near a church?

The violence of his words is inescapable. The only other women around are too far to hear. There really isn’t anyone nearby. What does the man think I am doing? Moving in on his territory? I shuffle down the street a little and keep a safe distance as I photograph more people arriving for church.

When I’m a few hundred feet away, I begin noticing that three men are not being swept up by the believers entering the shrine. Instead, they stand at the entrance of the church: one of them is my ‘putain’ guy. They all look like street people: wild hair, unshaven faces, ragged clothing. One presents his woolen cap to Catholics entering the church asking for alms. Alms, like in the old days. These men – whether street people or otherwise – know a good gig when they see one.

Believers continue arriving. There are very few now. I follow a small group quickly approaching the church, everyone is distracted by their tardiness. I see the three men awaiting the riches that are sure to come from penitent Christians as they leave their hearts filled with the glory of Christ. A few coins are nothing to those so filled with love.

I follow the late-comers past the beggars to the ancient wooden doors that keep the cold out of the temple. I peek inside the small leaded glass windows. Do I go in? No, it is very crowded and it would cause a ripple as believers moved in their seats. It would be impossible to leave before the end of the service and that is too long for me.

The priest is sitting on an antique golden throne, speaking into a microphone. The church is so large, the elaborately carved ceilings so high, he wouldn’t be heard otherwise. Hundreds of faithful – at least at this time of the year – face the front intent on getting the Good Word. Their faces glow: maybe from their faith or perhaps from the thousands of candles reflected in the gold relief of the carved beams.

More late worshippers dressed up for Christmas pass me by to enter the church. The three men awaiting their paupers’ rewards pay no attention to me. I’m obviously a tourist. Not a repentant: not a donor.

On my way home, I run into more late comers. They are rushed, looking for the structure they haven’t visited in twelve months, is it this way, that way? Parking is so difficult in the old city: why they have to come here, who knows? They walked half a mile from their parked car: will they find their vehicles again? They are late, they are distracted, they pay no attention to the one person walking against the flow.

WHAT’S NEXT: We’re in Carcassonne at least until mid-January, then we’ll likely spend a week or two in Vietnam if we save enough money, and then move to China for Jacob’s job in Wenzhou in February 2010.

NOTE: My “This Expat Life” & “Writing on Wednesdays” blogs are on hiatus until we settle down in Wenzhou in February 2010. Between now and then, I’ll be writing only about Baby Boomers Traveling. Hope you enjoy coming along with us.

If you would like to subscribe to this blog, click on the envelope next to the word ‘subscribe’ at the top of the left-hand menu. You will receive notification by e-mail every time this blog is updated. I solemnly swear to never sell, trade or give away your information to anyone!