We had toyed with the idea of driving over to Maine. Then we talked about heading to Montreal. But when my husband and I thought about it, a trip from Central Vermont to the coast would be quite a journey, especially on Christmas Eve. Montreal would be jammed with people. And, although we had come to grips with the death of our beautiful daughter, Robbin, we instinctively knew we weren't ready to enter into any lively celebrations. Best keep it low key.
We opted for Rhode Island. What we really wanted to do for the holiday weekend was to stay with our dear friend, Bruce. We knew we had made the right choice when we called and he said, "Having the two if you here will be my best Cjristmas present!"
Bruce came from a large Italian family. "You'll eat with the family," he said right off.
I didn't want to get into it, didn't want to have to say that the hullabaloo of the Italian traditions-- all the children-- would be too much. So I told him not to owrry about feeding us. We really wanted to go out for Chinese food.
The truth is, that thought hadn't entered my head untill just that moment. I have no idea of where it came from, but it appealed to my sense of middle-aged rebelliousness over certain traditions. Who, besides the Chinese, eats Moo Goo Gai Pan on Christmas Day?
Christas morn arrived with warm air and bright sunshine. We slept late and then enjoyed a leisurely champagne brunch before Bruce took off for his family festivities and we headed into Providence in sarch of adventure in the form of a good movie, followed by a Chinese meal.
Alas, the capital city was shut up tighter than a drum. Nothing, save the elegant Biltmore Hotel, was open. Besides the fact that we were casually dressed, elegance was not what we had in mind.
We found ourselves drawn up the hill toward the area where I grew up near Brown University, which made sense-- not everyone connected with the school would have been able to leave for the holidays. We were certain that, if not Chinese food, we'd find a suitable restaurant up there. Hunger pangs were making us flexible.
We circled the area a couple of times, but the only promising looking restaurant wouldn't be open until six o'clcok and it was then only three. The Avon Theater, where I had spent many a quarter on Saturday matinees, was closed for the day, so we decided on a little nostalgia tour of my old neighborhood.
This sparked a memory of a diner-- it had always been open, no matter what-- down near the Red Bridge, spanning the Seekonk River beween the East Side and East Providence. Eating Christmas dinner in a diner would more than do, we decided, heading further away from the city.
No diner. No Red Bridge. Instead, we found ourselves being swept along a four lane structure over the river, ending up in a totally unfamiliar maze of highway on the other side. That's another reason you "can't go home again." They've rerouted everything.
Before we got too far afield, it seemed wise to pull off the highway and try to regain some sense of direction. We took the first left.
It seemed logical that a second left would head us back towards Providence. It was looking as though we might take Bruce up on his offer, after all. But one-way streets threw us of track completely. We finally had to admit that we were as lost as two people can get in a residential neighborhood.
We spotted a couple strolling along a few blocks up-- no doubt, exercising after their fine holiday meal, my grumpy stomach suggested. We took off after them. Almost abreast of the pair, ready to stop and ask them for directions, when Lo! what to our wondering eyes did appear, but a litle storefront with dozens of tiny lights all aflashing!
It was one of those moments when you know something before it has been proven.
My husband threw the car into gear and pulled up smack dab in front of what, hours before, we had given up all hopes of finding-- a Chinese restaurant! We just sat there and stared for a few moments. It was as though we had been flollowing a predestined path or... a star.
At that point we would have settled for canned chop suey, but were deliughted to find a charming, magical setting in which to dine, along with an extensive menu. We found ourselves babbling as we tried to explain to our host and hostess our amazement at discovering this place. It is doubtful they had any clue as to what we were talking about, but they seemed genusinely pleased with our happiness.
We were the only customers, but our hosts were entertaining a fairly large gathering of their own friends and family. This enhanced the occasion for, comfortably seated over to one side, we felt a lovely balance between being quietly, contentedly separate, yet a part of the happy gathering.
After we had ordered our meal, our hostess took us on a tour of the small dining room, explaining their wonderful collection of Chinese art. We were joined by several others and soon I realized that, for some reason, I was of more interest to one small, shiney-banged girl than the art.
Her dark eyes seemed to probe beneath the cover I had been determined to wear for the season. I asked her if Santa Claus had come to her house and, at that, her little face broke into a beaming smile, answering my question and filling my heart-- so precisely did it match the smile I thought I'd never see the likes of again.
"He gave me presents, too," I whispered.