Joanna Biggar's Blog

Aix-en-Provence, the little city where I currently live, has been in its time a capital—for the Celtic Salluvii, for the Romans who succeeded them, and for the kingdom of Provence in the Middle Ages, before it became part of France. Now, some say, because of its sophistication, warmth, charm, intellectual life, its cafes and restaurants, it is the 21st arrondissement of Paris, 500 miles to the north.

A stretch? Perhaps. But if Paris is the City of Lights, Aix is a glittering jewel of its own, and never more so than during the Christmas season, which stretches from the end of November to Three Kings Day on January 6th, when it lights up end to end. Then with that celebration comes an official end to the festivities. And the lights come down.

This year the dark fell swiftly on January 7th.

With the attack in Paris on the cartoonists and staff of the beloved satirical publication, “Charlie Hebdo,” and the subsequent bloodbath, France is experiencing what Le Monde has called “The French 9/11.” The French everywhere are in shock and mourning.

But to live in the shadow of its ancient walls and towers and spires is to understand that the light is always born of darkness. Here in Aix, every corner, every stone tells such a story. From the Celts slaughtered by the Romans, to warring fiefdoms, the reign of the Caliphate, the Religious Wars, the Revolution, and World Wars of the 20th century, to say nothing of plagues, famine , and persecution of Jews, Aix has seen much darkness. Yet it has emerged as a little capital of art, learning, tolerance and grace. Of light.

Our experience of Christmas here followed a similar arc. Our first festivity was to attend what is now part of the season in Aix, a night of traditional Swedish songs beginning in the St.-Sauveur Cathedral. In the dimly lit gothic nave, the cathedral suddenly went completely dark. Then, bearing candles, Scandinavian youth of the city, dressed in white robes, marched to the front and lit the hallowed darkness with their candlelight and song.
Afterwards, a procession filed down a cobbled street to the town square of the Hotel de Ville for cookies and glogg.

There, as everywhere in Aix, the trees, balconies and shops were a blaze of brightness against the night sky. And the fountain, like others in this city of fountains, overflowed not with water but with dazzling light.
From the smallest lanes to the famed main street, the Cours Mirabeau, lights festooned and blazed.

Rides and shops meant to delight children blinked, whirled, circled.

When dark came, it fell quickly and hard. The lights even went out on the Eiffel Tower.

The end of the Christmas season was one nobody foresaw. But we gathered again in front of the Hotel de Ville with our fellow aixois. Hundreds came at night, at noon. In silence they carried or wore black signs or buttons with the new mantra of solidarity and defiance on them, “Je suis Charlie.” And they waved not candles but pencils in the air to signify that the right to freedom, and freedom of expression—light—will prevail.