She was from France. That was, unfortunately, about the extent of what we learned about this petite, middle-aged woman smiling in our living room, on Thanksgiving Day six years ago. If I could even recall her name I would have changed it-to protect les innocentes-so I will simply call her Nathalie. She had come to visit her son Bertrand, who was studying philosophy in the United States: specifically, studying in Boston for his doctorate. More specifically, studying with my parents who, upon learning that they had no plans for the holiday, had invited him and his mother to the celebration at our home in Cambridge. My mother-a sucker for helpless raccoons, ducks, and college students-had invited one of her other students as well, a quiet young woman named Elizabeth. Between her, the two Continentals, and the six of us, there was an ample crowd gathered to share the holiday’s warmth and cheer. We all ate and drank and joked and chatted.

All of us, that is, except for Nathalie: Bertrand had neglected to mention beforehand that his mother spoke almost no English; no one else in attendance happened to be conversant in French. This, happily, was not enough to dampen Nathalie’s naturally bubbly and conversational spirit; she had a curiosity and enthusiasm for new things that belied her sixty-plus years in Paris’ suburbs. Bertrand soldiered through gamely, translating our questions and then his mother’s answers, as accurately as his own few months of English classes would allow. Between his broken translations, Nathalie’s few words of English-“yes, nice,” “no, thank you,” and “washboard”-and the rest of our combined smatterings of French, we managed a lively, engaging conversation about the quality of life in and around Paris, the joys and hazards of traveling and living in another country, and the peculiar customs and holidays of people on both sides of the Atlantic. Even the usually stone-silent Elizabeth offered the occasional word of French, or some observation or comment to break the many, many awkward silences. When the dusk was settling and the holiday was ending, we drove the guests home. After dropping off Bertrand and Nathalie, we all commented on how much fun they were, and how nice, despite all the difficulties in breaching that formidable language barrier; everyone agreed that it was nice to learn so much about France, and especially Paris. As we stopped in front of her building in Brookline, Elizabeth mentioned,

“Yes, it was lovely getting to talk with them and to learn so much, even after I spent a year in Paris!” Before anyone could speak, she had shut the door behind her and left.

Read the other three Holiday Stories: Click the following links to read The Little Christmas Strongman and Merry Fishmas.