Somewhere between the vin chaud-soaked and cinnamon-scented Champs-Élysées — where Santa flew overhead — and the blue robes of the Christmas Eve childrens' choir, I found myself in front of our lady with a few moments to create a super-resolution image. There is so much about our short time in Europe that's burned into my memory, but this one is special.
Oliver was at my feet, surely wondering why we were in the cold and the dark and the December wind long before the sun was due to rise. Whatever the reason, I like to think he was happy to spend a few moments gazing in wonder at that enormous Christmas tree. As I write this I realize, the edges may not be as sharp, the context certainly is fuzzy, but I'm certain this moment is burned into his memory as well.