October 27

This part of France boasts no big city; only numerous small towns and villages that spring up organically and precipitously within valleys and cliffs. You can travel far in this area without seeing much change in landscape other than the gently shifting hills. From this village in the north to those in the south near Toulouse, the cliffs are blanketed with thick trees that start to burn gold in late October, and everyone knows there are caves and underground rivers far beneath.

You might drive quite peacefully from village to village along the narrow connecting roads, the roughly hewn limestone tunnels the only other indication that human beings have made their way here. The towns are also linked by footpaths, and it is truly a hiker’s paradise: you can trek by day and rest in a different town each night.

By mid-October, the cafeteria cooks at the elementary school had already gone on strike at least twice, President Sarkozy was becoming visibly strained over economic discussions with Germany, and we were enjoying the first of many week-long vacations that make up the French academic calendar. We had yet to receive our first paychecks, so lack of funds kept us mostly confined to our small corner of France. But we would profit from the break all the same, exploring the local cafes, taking in afternoon movies at the single-screen theater down the street from school, and leafing through stalls at the open-air market on Saturday morning.

On Wednesday, one of the language teachers at the high school took us on a day trip to see Rocamadour, an impressive compound of churches and monasteries jutting out of the limestone cliffs. The site is a network of chapels and churches that flow into each other all while perched over a valley some 500 meters deep. If you concentrate hard enough, you can ignore the tawdry tourist trade that threatens to overtake the town, and the whole thing really is breathtaking.

As we drove back through the fading autumn light—mounting and descending the hills as they came to us—I thought about Saint Amadour, the hermit whose death made Rocamadour famous. Legend has it that Saint Amadour’s incorrupt body was found in the cliffs by religious zealots some years after his death. The town became an important holy site, and pilgrims began flocking to the town to be cured of their pains. The once-mighty kings of England and France came to climb the 223 stone steps on their knees while seeking enlightenment, guidance, and spiritual protection.

I felt a little sad and embarrassed at the idea of the still-intact Amadour watching this 21^st century debacle from his stone crypt. After all, how would it feel to know that Rocamadour’s once mystic setting now attracts secular-minded tourists who come to gawk and buy worthless souvenirs from street vendors along the cliffs?