Ambiance is a French Word

When I think of ambiance, I think of someone on a stone wall under a full moon with her legs crossed, just being.

When I look up ambiance on an internet dictionary, it says: 

"the mood, character, quality, tone or atmosphere,

particularly of an environment or milieu."

Yesterday, was full of ambiance. 

We decided to walk to an old bridge. 

Not built in the 1700's, not built in the 1300's, not built in the 800s. The bridge was built 2,000 years ago by the Romans. People in Uzes call it the "Roman Bridge."

We've crossed the bridge before on our walk to Blauzac for the Bric-a-Brac.

I love to say that word! Bric-a-brac, bric-a-brac, bric-a-brac. 

But the bridge this time was our destination. 

When my mom, dad and I talked about it, we were pretty sure that was why it felt so special. Because it was our destination.

We sat with our feet inside the grooves worn from old wagon wheels under the cool vines and trees above us.  We heard the ripples of the creek below us. We saw the light coming through the trees.  The vineyard beyond. The tower of the Duke's castle small in the distance.  We were all alone, but we were all together, eating lunch and enjoying the ambiance.  

While we were eating, we each told a story of a person who might have walked across this bridge--any time since it was built.

I imagined the year 1737 and a woman giving birth on this bridge.
There was nothing more comfortable in sight, so she lay in the grooves.

Frances imagined the ancient Roman times and a little baby in a carriage being carried across the bridge. The baby didn't even know she was on the bridge.

My grandpa imagined the Romans building the bridge.

My grandma imagined a young man who wanted to join the French Revolution in Paris. She pictured him crossing this bridge on his way north.

My dad imagined soldiers fleeing Uzes in the religious wars of the 1600s.

My mom imagined a young woman hiding from the Nazis in World War II.

She pictured her under the bridge. 

Then we noticed the donkey...

My dad, of course, ducked under the ELECTRIC fence to pet the donkey. He says, "Donkeys love their ears scratched." Frances followed right behind him.

If my dad would have caught the little donkey, he would have put Frances on it.

We left the bridge and it was so hot we went to eat ice cream.  My ice cream was mint chocolate chip but it tasted like my spearmint toothpaste.

Then we went to Claudine and Richard's apartment for wine, juice and appetizers. 

Claudine, if you don't remember, is my mom and dad's language teacher.

Richard is her husband.

Their front door was hidden between retail shops.

We rang the bell and she buzzed us in.

When we walked in from the busy main street that circles our town

we were flooded with ambiance.

It wasn't so much the long hallway with the white sidedoors that amazed us.

It was the wisteria and the grass and the tulips and fruit trees and rose bushes of their garden beyond the hallway that made us feel like we were in park. Instantly, we felt like this was going to be an excellent evening.

As my mom says, "if they care for space so much they're going to care for us."

My dad says, "The garden is surrounded by huge walls and the space itself used to be a house.  Behind it is an old silk farm. I think they have one of the few gardens this close to the city center."

While my mom, dad and grandparents drank wine and talked on the terrace, Frances and I read books on how they built castles and how they built old Roman towns and how people built cathedrals. 

My mom says:

As we drank local wine under the vines, we dove quickly and deeply into each other's lives.  

It's clearer to me everyday that traveling brings out an urgency for intimacy.

We have one evening to say and hear it all. 

It's an unspoken contract.

   

Claudine has been teaching French here and abroad for 40 years. She is a warm, loving, interesting person whom Richard says is far too humble.

Richard is an American, retired from the Foreign Service.

His posts include Spain, Honduras, Nigeria, Turkey, Morocco.

They have no children and unlike most people in France, have decided home-ownership is simply not for them. They'd rather travel and meet people.

They leave next week for a 3-week backpacking trip through Greece.

One story Claudine told was about teaching French in Istanbul.

She was introducing the verb "avoir" ("to have"), pointing to her pen "j'ai un stylo," or her book, "j'ai un livre, " and so on. Nobody understood. Finally, she consulted a colleague. That Turkish friend told her there was no verb "avoir" in Turkish. Not a single way of verbalizing ownership. That blew me away. No To-Have? 

Richard says it's the same for Arabic.

We tried to imagine how a culture would reflect an absence of "avoir." 

Of course, I had to bring up Obama. Always do.

It is just plain fascinating how personally people respond to him.

How people respond continually reminds me that we all have our agendas; and more poignantly, it reminds me the guy will have a hard time pleasing everyone.

 Richard said he voted for him but was supremely disappointed by his habit (not unprecedented for Presidents) of appointing friends to ambassadorships in privelged countries,

like, for example, New Zealand.

When I asked each one of them what the highlight of their very accomplished careers was, Richard laughed, pointed to the wine, and referred to it as "pedagogique fluide," took a sip and came forth with generous and fabulous detail.

When I think about ambiance, it's not only the terrace, the flowers, the wine, the perfect temperature, it's the people and their stories.

I cannot, it turns out, get enough of people's stories."

(Today, Jeff caught me scratching notes in Eleanore's notebook--

if I don't write it down when they say it, I'll never remember what these people SAY!)

After Claudine and Richard's, we had a couple pizzas and salads.

And this was the view from the restaurant:

This morning, we were one big happy family (on the same sofa)

looking at my Auntie Joy's email she sent us with photos

of the new lambs and cute baby Eli. 

After dinner tonight, Frances and I read the stories we each wrote.

Frances's story is called Katie's Lists.

I don't have a name for mine yet...but I'm thinking about the name, Perspective.