My first 'orphan's Christmas'
Being far from home at this time of year can be one of those rites of passage that force you to reassess what matters to you most,
Ispent the lead-up to my first orphan’s Christmas in denial. I did have some family in the unfamiliar land I’d stranded myself in indefinitely, I told myself, so I’d be damned if I was going to spend the Big Day alone.
While the wonder of childhood Christmases had long since faded, for me, the day still held a kind of magic. Ours is not a particularly religious family but, like most in the Western World, we had our traditions: waking early to watch the kids rip into their gifts (their excitement always proving infectious), following an overindulgent lunch with a swim in the sea and an overindulgent dinner with enough nightcaps to dull the inevitable indigestion. It was the only time of year I saw some of my extended family and tradition also had it that we wouldn’t bring up any deep-seated resentments. In that way, the day did become sacred – the issues that usually divided us were kept at bay.
So the thought of spending December 25 in the cell-like bedroom of the frigid London flat I shared with four others (all of whom were heading to their own homes for Christmas) was too much to bear.
Fortunately, my nana in the north of England and her husband Keith invited me to spend the holidays with them, despite my being a relative stranger to them. I’d first met them more than a decade beforehand, when I was still a teenager, and knew very little about their lives – and vice versa. But I accepted their invitation with relieved gratitude: in the dark days of my first English winter they were the only people preventing me from feeling entirely alone.
On Christmas Day, it was their tradition to drive to Cornwall to spend the day with their daughter and her husband and four children. So I trundled along too – the surplus third wheel.
The family in Cornwall are Mormons so spend Christmas, and every day, entirely sober – a thought I must admit filled me with dread. What would Christmas be without bubbles to buoy us along through the day’s more trying and monotonous moments? Would I be able to endure, let alone enjoy, the Downton Abbey double-whammy I’d been told would follow dinner without it?
The answer, Keith and I decided, was probably not, so we stashed a couple of bottles of wine in the boot, excusing ourselves every so often throughout the evening ‘‘to take a breath of fresh’’ air, returning with our glasses of grape juice replenished.
In many ways it was a perfect Christmas. Fairytale in fact. There was the tastefully decorated house full of excited children, the bountiful gifts that really did seem to delight their recipients; a roast turkey dinner with all the festive trimmings (including Yorkshire puddings that actually came from Yorkshire). We even got a flurry of snow (although my English rellies insisted it was really just sleet). The Cornwall family proved to be consummate hosts, nana a teller of intriguing family tales (I discovered all sorts of things about my dad on that trip), Keith in possession of a boyish, mischievous charm that belied his 60-plus years.
And yet it didn’t feel like Christmas. Partly because, for me, it had been tipped upside down (I’m sure most Antipodeans find it hard to feel festive without sunshine and sand). But mostly because the people I’d spent it with every year until then – and where therefore as synonymous with Christmas as pine trees and tinsel – weren’t there.
The following Christmas, nana was unwell and not up to visitors so I decided I may as well spend the few days I had off work doing what I had come to London to do: travel.
Being Christmas, of course, airfares were ridiculously expensive so I booked the only trip my meagre bank balance would allow: a 10-hour coach ride to Paris followed by a few nights in an Airbnb in a suburb I hoped the internet was correct in telling me was now more up-and-coming than seedy.
The fabled city of romance may seem an odd choice for someone travelling solo in the season of spending time with family and close friends, but, if I couldn’t be with mine, I thought I may as well spend the time with what, for me, is still one of the most interesting cities in the world.
And, as I soon discovered, it’s particularly enchanting at Christmas time: the lights and decorations along the Champs Elysees and other grandes rues elegantly spectacular; the displays in the department stores works of art. I spent my days wandering semi-aimlessly through historic suburbs I’d dreamt about since seeing Johnny Depp in Chocolat and developing an obsession with everything French, gorging on truffles from chocolatiers that looked like designer boutiques, and exploring galleries and museums that were far less crowded than when I’d visited in the spring.
On Christmas Eve, I found myself outside Notre Dame as night fell and joined the throng heading toward its golden-lit facade for evening mass. Admiring the Gothic statues and stained glass windows as
centuries-old bells tolled and the organ sounded so loudly I felt the reverberations in my chest, I felt something approaching awe; a sudden connection with everyone else around me. Strangers all of them but seeking the same solace that evening I was sure. Again though, for the same reasons, it didn’t feel like Christmas.
I had my first proper orphan’s Christmas a few years later in LA. Living in San Francisco at the time, I’d banded together with a few others without family in the city to take a festive road trip. The apartment we’d hired proved small enough to enforce a kind of intimacy, which was only enhanced by our first big night on the town. Christmas dinner that year consisted of loaded fries (supersized chips soaked in what was meant to be cheese but looked more like melted plastic) and several rounds of two-for-one cocktails. Then we hit the clubs of Hollywood Boulevard which, while far from glam, are a lot of fun nonetheless.
We did our best to banish our hangovers the next morning with a walk up to the Hollywood sign in Griffith Park followed by a barbecue lunch with all the sides we could eat in Koreatown. I had a great time and got to know some lovely people but, of course, it didn’t feel like Christmas.
Being far from home at Christmas can be one of those rites of passage that force you to reassess what matters to you most, to face your fears and learn to deal with them. It’s a chance to make new connections and even establish new traditions (I now get uncharacteristic cravings for loaded fries every Christmas Day).
Now back in New Zealand, I will be celebrating Christmas with the family this year but births, deaths and marriages mean it will not resemble the Christmases of old. Whether we’re at home or away, change is inevitable and the best we can do is learn to make the best of our lot. My orphan’s Christmases have certainly helped me with that.
How to cope with Christmas away from home
Christmas can be a challenging time for anyone far from friends and family back home, says Mental Health Foundation chief executive Shaun Robinson.
‘‘The holiday season can highlight feelings of sadness, loneliness, displacement and homesickness, which can have a negative effect on mental health and wellbeing.’’
The good news is that there are simple steps we can take to make us feel better – strategies he says have been proven ‘‘to help you feel good and improve your ability to navigate the challenges that life throws at you’’.
The five ways to wellbeing Connect:
Develop your relationships with friends, family, colleagues and neighbours as these connections support you and enrich your life. If you are away from home, you might find a Kiwi abroad group on social media and connect with them, or use technology to stay connected to loved ones back home. It can be a good idea to share how you are feeling.
Be active:
Physical activity helps you to feel good so find something that you enjoy and suits your ability and move your mood.
Take notice:
Be aware of the world around you and see the beauty in nature and everyday things. Notice and appreciate the little things in life that give you some joy. Reflecting on these helps you to appreciate what matters to you.
Learn:
Try something new like a Christmas recipe, rediscover an old interest or take on a new responsibility or challenge – learning makes you more confident and it can be fun.
Give:
Helping others promotes a sense of purpose that can increase your sense of self-worth. Volunteering at a soup kitchen or rest home can bring Christmas cheer to others, while also boosting your mood.
Find out more at mentalhealth.org.nz.