The Village in the Sky

by Natasha Ayaz (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find USA

I sat on the curb, watching the swirl of ants move across the hot pavement, traversing the plains of my bare feet with lilliputian determination. The bus stop was crowded with people, many of them wet with the Mediterranean as we were, toting picnic baskets and umbrellas and impatient toddlers. My mother and I, having taken the afternoon to relish in the cerulean waters of Villefranche, were sedated by summer and content to wait, but even we had to admit: the bus was taking its sweet time. The unspoken concern was that not all of those waiting would fit. I could feel others’ scanning eyes, anxious to secure primary access to the door. The final step of our journey to the village of Èze was to ride the shuttle from our current perch at Èze Sur Mer up into the lush, labyrinthine hills. We were equipped for the outing with a crisp baguette, sun-melted chevre, and swollen oranges from the markets in Nice (a few stops West along the coast). When the bus pulled in, we jumped up and boarded hastily, provisions and beach towels in tow. Somehow everyone fit aboard, albeit snugly. The ride to the village was winding and lofty, bringing us to the cliff’s edge and triggering my mother’s vertigo on multiple occasions. When at last we arrived at the summit, we disembarked and immediately began exploration. At first glance, Èze is a medieval memory transposed upon the French hilltops: a circuitous maze of stone and fortress. Once you enter the walls, you find that whatever path you choose is one of subtle ascent, carrying you higher and higher above the expanse of sea and greenery below. We wandered upward, stopping frequently to overlook the world as it lay outstretched before us. We walked on narrow, cobblestone streets, passed through old, stone archways, and strolled beneath archaic buildings until, at the turn in a road, I spotted a stray cat. He cocked his tiny head to one side, watching us, and then flicked his tail around the bend like a gesture to follow. We looked at each other, grinning, and began to jog along in pursuit. The cat led us along the path until we reached the final plateau: a lookout point with a perfect view, beside which stood a yellow stucco church. From this height, the houses below the old village were cubes of white amongst dense green foliage. A light mist hung over the trees. The ocean beyond was pure glitter, vanishing into the sky. There was a profound solitude to the elevation: to look down upon the world necessitates removal from it. The air seemed to carry the solemnity of this position, the experience of centuries of loftiness. We entered the church without a word. Inside, the high, marigold ceilings were painted with religious imagery. The pews, a dark, rich wood, were empty. There was classical music playing, a pristine strings-heavy piece, but there was not a person in sight. I was struck by the lasting power of architecture. This building had held so many lives before ours, so many people mourning, celebrating, and praying. An altar of white candles radiated beside the entrance, with a basin of unused ones and an open notebook beside it for visitors to honor loved ones. My mother and I lit a candle for family members past and placed it among the others. It burned slowly. As we turned to leave, the intimate violin recording came to a soft close. It was as though the village were bidding us goodbye, signaling that our journey in Èze was complete.