#11 A Giving Spirit

I lived in France for three years in my twenties (2003–2006). I had moved there for love, and despite my best efforts, that relationship hadn’t worked out. Still, I had a work permit, a job, and I was slowly making my own friends.

When Christmas rolled around one year, I decided that I wanted to spend it discovering another part of the country. After all, I had no idea how much longer I’d stay there.

I took the TGV, the high-speed train, from Strasbourg to Paris. Once there, I went to Montmartre, a section of the city I hadn’t had a chance to visit yet. It was an artsy neighbourhood, and I loved walking around there, even going the ultra-touristy route and having an artist sketch my likeness.

After a few expensive days in Paris, I took another train to Nantes and then rented a car to go to Bretagne, on the northwestern coast. This was my first solo trip in France, having previously travelled with my ex or with friends. I looked forward to the freedom of doing what I wanted to do when I wanted, though I did miss the idea of being able to share new experiences with someone.

I drove to Vannes, a small city in Bretagne. I planned to use that place as a base and go on day trips from there, as most of the things I wanted to see were in that general area. Back then, Airbnb didn’t exist, and hotels were too expensive, so I chose a small bed and breakfast run by a couple in their fifties who rented out rooms in their home. Despite being there by myself, the couple gave me their bedroom, which felt a bit awkward. I told them I would be happy in a smaller room, but they insisted I stay in their room.

I spent the first few days galivanting around the area. I visited Carnac and came upon amazingly wild places among forest roads where centuries-old stone ruins, half covered in moss, appeared. I went to check out the dolmen, prehistoric tombs that look like tables scattered about the landscape. It amazed me to think about the people who had lived on that land thousands of years ago and how their mark on the world still stood there all this time later.

One of the other places I was interested in visiting was Belle-Île-en-Mer, which literally translates to Pretty Island on the Sea. Claude Monet spent two months there and painted more than thirty works during that time. I wanted to see those views for myself. At the time, you couldn’t bring a non-resident’s car onto the island, so I took the ferry and entered a quaint bay full of sailing and fishing boats. I then walked around and up to the cliffs for a spectacular view of what Monet used to see.

When Christmas Eve day rolled around, I had a rough plan to go to Vannes and have dinner at a restaurant there. I hadn’t made any reservations. I was just going to wing it and see what was open and looked good.

The couple at the bed and breakfast asked me about my plans that morning.

When I told them, they said: “But it’s Christmas! You can’t spend Christmas by yourself!”

Their concern was really sweet.

“I don’t mind,” I told them. “I’m used to doing things on my own.”

The woman wouldn’t hear of it.

“Please spend Christmas with our family. It’ll be us, the kids, and my mother. We would love to share it with you.”

So, later that evening, I showed up in their kitchen, and they had a big table set up, the whole family milling around the room. I was offered a kir, a cocktail that I was told has its origins in Bretagne. They told me that I had to try their very own drink. How could I turn that down?

It’s a simple cocktail: crème de cassis mixed with white wine. It was sweet and tart and quite enjoyable. (In doing research since then, however, it seems the kir was born in Dijon, not in Bretagne, though the Bretons have a variation called a kir royale, which is made with cider instead of wine.)

We had a hearty dinner and when, at the end of the meal, the gifts were distributed, I smiled along as the kids eagerly opened their packages. I was shocked beyond belief when I was handed a gift as well. It was a box of chocolates. In the grand scheme of things it was a small gift, but it had huge implications for me.

Here was a family who had opened their arms to me out of the goodness of their hearts. I wasn’t moping around their place. I would have been fine going into town and eating there, but there is something about being invited into a someone’s family home. There is something about getting a glimpse of the beauty of the love a family shares. There is something about being welcomed into the fold.

All of these years later, I remember this night and their compassion because it was pure and real. That gift they gave me, on top of the meal and the company, was truly such a surprise. I teared up at their kindness. Everyone needed to have something to open that night, a gift to indicate they mattered. I was no exception.

I do not remember their names, nor do I remember the exact address of the house I stayed at, but I remember that kindness like it was yesterday, and I’m tearing up again with the memory.

I was not suffering in the more obvious way one would imagine when one thinks about the need for compassion. As I said, I would have been fine at the restaurant. But I know that I would have felt a little lonely, a little wistful, a little sad at having to spend Christmas alone. Being welcomed and embraced by this family filled that small hole in my heart and made my trip that much more special. And I’ll forever be grateful to them for the love they showed. It was free and it was long-lasting.

*****

The holiday season is upon us now and many of us are no doubt running around trying to get gifts for loved ones. While we concentrate on those we love, can we also take a moment to extend that love to a stranger, an acquaintance?

Perhaps, in the coming days, we can look for simple ways to show others compassion. A kind word, a small gift, a donation to a charity . . . it needn’t be big, but it might mean big things for the one you give to.

Oprah Winfrey once said:

“A stranger’s compassion can make a world of difference.”

I can attest to that.

Until next time.