Christmas on the TGV

(FYI: Internet a bit sketchy on the train so pictures to be updated later!)

Dear friends, family, and anyone who has accidentally found themselves here,

Merry Christmas from seat 260 on the upper deck of coach number 2 of a OuiGo train hurtling south out of Paris. I am currently wedged somewhere between Bordeaux and Agen, watching suprisingly un-wintery farmland blur past at speed, drinking mediocre coffee, and contemplating the strange reality that Christmas Day now often arrives for me in transit.

At 17:28 this evening, we will pull into Toulouse Matabiau, where I will politely - let's be honest, apologetically - interrupt my Airbnb owner’s festive cheer and ask them to hand over the keys to the apartment that will be “home” for the next month or so.

Last night, Paris was bitterly cold. I spent the evening perched in the organ loft of a strikingly modern church in the 11th arrondissement, singing an exuberant O Holy Night—in French and English—during the Christmas service. From my elevated position, I could sense the parishioners’ surprise. This may have been due to my slightly optimistic belief that I could sight-read French fluently without my glasses (yes, I have reached that age), or possibly because the high notes rang out rather more boldly than expected. For the sake of my self-esteem and Christmas glow, I am choosing to believe it was the latter.

This is my fourth Christmas in Europe since leaving Australia in mid-2022, and my first in France. It is not my first Christmas away from family, nor my first alone—but it is the first time I’ve been struck by how dramatically different each one has been.

2022 was, frankly, idyllic. My first year in Linz, working at the Landestheater, I arrived to a chorus and theatre community that immediately folded me into something resembling a family. A few months earlier I’d moved into a tiny studio apartment in the Altstadt— with a kitchen so small that turning around too quickly was a health risk, which also proudly featured no dishwasher whatsoever. Somehow, that apartment hosted a Christmas lunch for about ten people. Plates were balanced on the table, wine glasses perched precariously amougst a table filled with Cauliflower risotto with roasted hazlenuts and burnt butter, my friends recipe for baked Salmon, smothered in sour cream, horsradish, Dijon, Dill amoungst other naughty and nice dishes. And thus was born the first Linz “Orphans Christmas”—a tradition that would grow far beyond that room’s square meterage.

2023 was less romantic. That year had included a life changing summer in Canada for La Bohème, and the heinsight filled ill-advised decision to engage in a LDR. By Christmas, combined with the brutal reality that opera chorus contracts rarely permit annual leave over the fesitve period, the distance between myself, my family in Australia and New Zealand, and that someone in the US felt genuinely cruel.

I attempted to channel festive optimism into baking by constructing a “Pavlova Christmas Tree,” a tiered architectural disaster involving whipped cream, raspberry coulis, lemon curd, and misplaced confidence in a Delicious Magazine recipe. It did not survive - sacrificed instead into a New Years Eton Mess.

That year’s Orphans Christmas was hosted by two dear friends. The day before, I helped transport my extendable dining table across town in preparation for what would become a gathering of more than twenty people. We carried that table through the cobbled streets, through the cold snowy weather, through crowds of Gluhwein drinkers and shoppers alike.

Before going, I was adamant that both I’d be fine - while simultaneously being in total denial that what I actually wanted was to be on a plane home, surrounded by people who knew me before I became an expatriate with opinions about European train systems. Still, I went. And it was fun. A strange, tender, chaotic gathering of Germans, Mexicans, Austrians, Americans, Australians, and me—the token Kiwi—doing our collective best to manufacture Christmas together.

2024 arrived during a period I can only describe as deeply disorientating. I was floating between countries for auditions, lessons, coachings, and work, eventually landing back in Linz to house-sit for a friend who had sensibly escaped to Spain. Once again, I pretended Christmas did not exist. Denial is a theme. Where's that therapist??

On Christmas Eve, however, I cooked dinner for two: filet beef steak with mushroom and brandy cream sauce, potato gratin layered aggressively with Gruyère, cream and garlic with a dash of nutmeg (Thanks Annabel Langbein), followed by homemade Ottolenghi inspired chocolate mousse topped with Amarena cherries and an unnecessary amount of whipped cream. I had to reassure my fellow tenor and friend that this was not a romantic gesture—just culinary overcompensation.

On Christmas Day itself, a friend messaged to say she was “passing by.” She arrived with what I can personally describe as a Santa Sack—the exact thing I grew up finding at the foot of my bed every Christmas morning. It was filled with snacks and treats that existed exclusively for me in December. It would later be revealed that she had spoken to my mum, seeking her out online, who explained the tradition and conconted this plan. Somehow, that childhood ritual had crossed continents and landed back in my hands - just for me. I'd spend the rest of the day so happy and honoured to have such people in my life.

And now, 2025.

This month began with a difficult departure from Australia for more reasons than one. But since, it has been filled with work that feels grounding and affirming: performances for a foundation supporting young people, Puccini’s Messa di Gloria in Mirepoix, new friendships forming in a country I hope to call home one day. I’ve made recordings, prepared repertoire, watched friends perform at the opera in Bastille, wandered the Palais Garnier—and still managed to lose a free ticket to Le Nozze di Figaro, despite it being “safe” in my pocket.

On Christmas Eve, I stood outside Notre-Dame with a teacher from my high school days, catching up thirteen years later. It was quietly profound—a reminder of where all of this started.

And today, Christmas Day, I am on a train again. Heading somewhere familiar. Preparing to rehearse, and in January, to make my mainstage debut at the Théâtre du Capitole.

That little kid from Invercargill who woke up to a bag of treats at the end of his bed ever Chistmas morning could never have imagined this life. It is often inconvenient, frequently confusing, occasionally exhausting—but it is also generous. Filled with kindness, thoughtfulness, and the love of people scattered across the world who somehow still show up.

Well...those are today’s thoughts. Thank you for being here, and for being part of another year.

Till then...

Z