From the Outside In

Eze, a small city on a hill in rural France, is rich with the culture that is signature to the country. In only a day of walking through the narrow cobbled paths that spiderweb through the city, I got an appreciation for the comfortable, intimate nature of the locale. Passing by a winery, a few of my travel partners flagged me down. The shop owner was trying to explain his wares to them in French, but they couldn't understand.

Luckily, I had a better grasp of the language. As he spoke, his hands moved to help emphasize his words; swooping down as he described the location in which the grapes grew. They were at the bottom of a hill, rich with rain flowing down to nourish them. Next, he crushed an illusory handful, demonstrating the care and power of pressing the grapes, now full with the bounty of the many rains. In a more abstract way, he described the special wood that held the wine as it fermented. All the while, my travel friends stood and watched in awe. They heard his words, but didn't know what he meant. They watched his actions but couldn't quite grasp them. I was more rapt, being able to understand a good part of what he was saying, able to connect the dots between how his fingers moved and his eyes darted from one of us to the next, always coming back to me.

As I relayed this information to them, they nodded and smiled. They chose one of the wines he'd been describing and his face lit up. I could tell the shop owner was appreciative of even my limited understanding, and my companions were appreciative of my help. As we departed, the shopkeeper took my hand and shook it firmly. It was more than just a thank you for helping him sell wine. It was a thank you for bridging the gap between barriers. Never before had the words "Merci beaucoup" felt more earned. The rest of that day, walking up and down the streets of the quaint city, watching all the people, I couldn't help smiling.