Hidden Treasure: Ambialet, France

In the heart of France’s Midi-Pyrenees lies a secret gem, a tiny town, a fairy tale. Ambialet. Here, on a September evening, the sunlight’s rays are Midas’ fingers, transforming the mountainside into a tiara that puts the Crown Jewels to shame. Leaves of emerald, topaz, and ruby adorn gilded branches; at the mountain’s summit, an eleventh-century stone church and ancient monastery, glowing with golden-hour light, complete the diadem. Below, the Tarn River encircles the presqu’île, a peninsula by virtue of a strip of ground narrower than the river itself. And on a cliff above, held captive by the sunshine’s spell, sits a speck of a human being.  Me.

I doubt you will find mention of Ambialet in Frommer’s or the Michelin Guides, and I’d be more than a little surprised to see it featured on the Travel Channel. The community boasts only a few dozen residents. Its restaurants can be numbered on one hand; its recreational facilities on the other. Yet the unique setting of this place and its natural and historical richness have made it a destination for French tourists and even a handful of international visitors, who climb or drive their way to the top of the mountain for views of the rugged terrain and a glimpse of the ancient architecture. No monks live here now; rather, the monastery’s courtyard echoes with the laughter of American students. They hail from Saint Francis University in the equally obscure town of Loretto, Pennsylvania—and for them, this mountaintop perch has become an unforgettable second home.

I arrive here for my semester in France with very little in the way of expectations. I studied abroad in Italy the year before, making beautiful memories and forging bonds that shattered the barriers of language and culture. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could top the power of that experience. Ambialet might be good, but it won’t be Parma.

Yet, as the bus winds around the mountain and I catch my first glimpse of the majestic edifice that is to be my dorm, it takes my breath away.  Soon, one thing becomes overwhelmingly clear. I was right.  Ambialet isn’t t train rides and bikes and cobblestones. It isn’t dinnertime with my Italian host family or street musicians or gelato, or any of the things I loved about life in Italy.

Instead, Ambialet is tripping over three big slobbery dogs as I try to get in the gate. Ambialet is a winding medieval road of pink-tinted granite and blue-gray slate snaking down the mountainside, connecting our isolated roost to the village below. Ambialet is a community so aesthetically aware that its denizens built a chateau to house their hydroelectric plant. Ambialet is dancing and karaoke with the locals on a Friday night. It is the echoing of a single guitar in the simple chapel, a handful of French voices raised in praise on Sunday morning. It’s kayaking down the rushing river, then jumping in with all of my clothes on. It’s running with crazy confidence over the rocky crags because I know every crack and crevice.  It’s roaming the wilderness with my easel and paints, full of wonder and strength and freedom. It’s late nights in the art studio, hovering over a space heater to keep warm. It’s the sweet breath of lavender and rosemary on the morning breeze.  Pink, wispy clouds rising from the riverbed at dawn. A starlit sky clearer and more brilliant than any I’ve ever seen. Waves of wild heather. A garden swingset. Cats pouncing my rake as I dig up potatoes. Analyzing medieval churches and French pedagogical methods. Making my “r’s’ come from my throat and my “e’s” from my nose. It’s Nadine and Marie, Sophie and Tim, Eric, Bernard, Peter and Margaret. It’s two-hour-long dinners where a dozen former strangers make each other laugh so much that eating is hazardous. It’s slicing baguettes and flipping crepes and tasting fresh sheep cheese; it’s chasing mice and hiking hills and exploring long-abandoned castle ruins. It’s life unlike anything I’ve ever known—and for this, I am grateful.

In Ambialet, I have learned that the experiences of travel are as incomparable as proverbial apples and oranges; that each place, each unique moment, is a priceless gift.  And of all the discoveries I’ve made here, the most beautiful has been the elasticity of the human soul, the incredible ability of the spirit to hold, to love, beyond ration.  When people ask me if I like Ambialet or Parma better, I can only laugh. I love them both. And I will love wherever life takes me next.

 

I dangle my feet over the cliff. The sun slips behind the mountain, the golden color fades, the air cools. But my heart remains warm and aglow with gratitude, keenly conscious of the unfading treasures it holds within.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Gratitude Travel Writing competition and tell your story.