A throwback to the medieval times

Toulouse, the capital city of France’s Occitanie region is called the pink city due to the color of the bricks used for most buildings in the city. It appeared on my world map owing to a friend who moved there and could not stop talking about how typically European it was. Mainland France has thirteen different regions, of which my visit was contained to two, Occitanie and the Île-de-France of which Paris is the capital. Occitanie is famous for quaint, colorful towns, castles that seem to be straight out of fairy tales, and the like. As always, not everything went as per my travel plan and I was left to fend for myself while visiting as my friend had to travel for work for a couple of days.

 I had flown to Toulouse from Paris, made a trip to Barcelona the very next day for a weekend and was back in Toulouse in the wee hours of Monday, tired and sleep deprived. If there is a super power I wish I had, it is the ability to be able to sleep anywhere, anytime I like. My sleep deprivation was made worse with the vicious cycle of anxiety about not getting enough sleep which led to even more sleeplessness. I crashed soon after reaching my friend’s apartment, only to be woken up a few hours later to some delicious breakfast he had made before he took off to office and later, the official trip. I spent most of that day in bed, wailing due to period cramps; the pain unbearable when I was alone and indoors, worrying my mom who was too far away to do anything about it. I was all right by the end of the day. What is a trip without some unpleasant days, after all!

 Early in the morning, I dragged myself out of bed with great difficulty to catch an early morning train to the city of Albi, a UNESCO world heritage site nearly an hour and a half away. I walked to the train station in the cold, watching some roadside vendors set up shop at the outdoor markets. The day did not start very well, a person at a café at the station not finding it easy to understand what I asked and choosing to raise his voice and make some comments on what kind of people turned up at his shop early in the morning, turning away from me abruptly. I was offended and walked over to a nearby shop instead. Perhaps the French were not all that amicable, I had started to think. I quickly put my emotions in check. I was not supposed to pass a blanket judgment on how the people of a country behaved based on how one person treated me. Some fellow passengers waiting for the train helped bring my faith in the French back. The arrival platform of the train was changed and I was clearly the only person who did not understand a word of the announcement. They made sure I got on the right train at the slated time. I got off the train to be greeted by foggy skies, making me wonder if I was there a bit too early. I picked a nice-looking coffee shop to spend some time warming myself up. They made up for my woes due to the earlier mistreatment, tending to me with a little extra everything mostly because I was their only customer at that time. I would like to think that I had won them over with my Bonjour!

 The Sainte-Cecile Cathedral of Albi is what people came to see, with the nearby red buildings making for perfect photo ops, only on a bright day. The cathedral is believed to be one of the largest brick buildings in the world. Usually, the cathedral would be visible as we walk up to it, but not on this foggy day. I stood admiring the doorway to the building that looked like a fortress, which is what it was earlier. Anybody who entered it was sure to let out a gasp! If every church looked like this, I would not mind going on a pilgrimage. Built in the southern French gothic style, it houses the largest ensemble of Italian renaissance painting in France, according to Wikipedia. There were few other tourists, which meant each of us could spend our own sweet time to take it all in. I had never been inside a church with such detailed, elaborate works of art. The paintings and the sculptures made me remember whatever little I knew from the Bible. I was struck by how realistic some of the statues looked, probably made so to remind believers that someone was watching us, while we were there, or always! I sat in the choir for some time, thanking the author of the blog about Albi that I had read while looking for suggestions for places to visit near Toulouse.

 I stepped out feeling like I had taken a peek into the past, centuries ago, and had just made it back. There was an art museum next door, the Musée Toulouse-Lautrec housing the works of the painter Henry de Musée Toulouse-Lautrec. As I tried to push open the door, I noticed there was a sign nearby that said it was closed on Tuesdays. Only if I had paid more attention while planning! That meant that I had many hours with nothing much to do apart from walking around the pretty town. I was not one to get dejected if my plans faltered though. Armed with a map and good shoes, there was no place I could not conquer. It was still foggy and I tried in vain to recreate the photo of the red buildings by the Tarn river. I was soon inside another church nearby, the Collégiale Saint-Salvy, a much smaller but imposing structure from the thirteenth century. I walked across the bridge to a lesser known museum, only to discover that it was closed between 12 and 2 PM! So were some other museums, during winter. What was I now to do but check out the very expensive boutiques lining the streets close to the cathedral? Quite unlike me, I shelled out a considerable amount of money for a crimson red woolen cap as a souvenir in addition to the usual magnet I buy, only because the lady at the shop was very sweet.

While I picked up a sandwich for lunch and finished it in a hurry, I noticed that the fog had started clearing up and there were suddenly a lot of people nearby. I retraced my steps across town, stopping at every spot I had stopped at earlier, this time for a bright blue sky in the backdrop. It was as if I had seen and experienced Albi in two different seasons. I still made it back to the train station about an hour before my train would leave, preferring to read a book instead of hurrying through one of the museums for a few minutes.

  I was on my way to another UNESCO world heritage site the following day; the fortified city of Carcassonne. I had caught a glimpse of the castle at a distance while on my bus ride to Barcelona and was thrilled to be at close quarters now. The citadel was visible from far as I walked from the train station, only the clouds diminishing my spirits a little bit, afraid that I would not get the best pictures. Like Albi, Carcassonne was by a river too, the Aude. I had made it quite early here as well, and was not sure if the path I took to climb up to the ramparts was the right one, not seeing a single other soul around. I walked around, feeling like a conqueror myself, only that I did not have any idea how to wield any weapons and would rely on my feet to take me as far away as they could if faced with adversity. Unable to withstand the cold wind, I entered the fortress, surprised to find a small town inside, mostly small shops and restaurants catering to tourists. The castle was not open yet, leading me to explore the Basilica of Saints Nazarius and Celsus, thought to have been originally constructed in the sixth century! Though the outside imparted an eerie feeling to me, I was captivated by the intricate stained glass as soon as I stepped inside. I could not help but notice how all the visitors treated these places of worship with the utmost reverence, never once raising their voice or not engaging in any conversation at all, while there.

 The tour of the castle started with a video that briefed us with the history of the place. The dingy, narrow interiors of the Château Comtal were very uncomfortable to walk through, revealing to us commoners that castles only looked beautiful from far. I sauntered all around, every step leading me through thousands of years of history and legends. Again, I had read a blog where the author thought Carcassonne was just “meh!” and that anybody should skip it if they had a choice. He had probably visited it when it was far more crowded during summer. I could see why it was a tourists’ favorite.

 It had started raining as I walked back to the town to grab lunch at a scanty-looking place, lured by the many small vegetarian dishes, buying one of each. The owner seemed very grateful and offered the WiFi password when he noticed that I was talking on the phone in a language foreign to him. Surely, I was talking to someone outside France, he must have thought. The canal du midi, running all the way from the city of Toulouse to the Mediterranean Sea, also a UNESCO world heritage site, is where I was headed next. In the summer, people liked to cycle along the canal, but here I was, again, all alone. It was pleasant, but I walked just enough so that I would be at the museum of arts when they opened after an afternoon break. I was getting used to a slightly special treatment at most places, especially when they realized I did not speak French and turned protective, trying to help me in the best way they could. It was no different at the museum, the lady at the reception allowing me to leave my bag and jacket in a locker for free. Was it because I was one of the very few tourists they saw all day or simply because I looked helpless and lost, like I needed someone to take care of me? I hope it is not the latter. The museum, although small, was well worth a visit, especially since they did not charge an entry fee for us to see the paintings from the renaissance age as well as art from Carcassonne. I spent a lot of time looking for a souvenir shop to buy a magnet as was customary, but was dejected that I could not find one and headed back to the railway station. Perhaps I should have thought of it while I was in the citadel.

 I made dinner soon after I was back in the apartment, excited that I was finally going to spend some time catching up with my friend who would be back that night. The next day was the nationwide strike against the pension reforms, which meant we would mostly be home. However, we languidly headed out for a bike ride in the morning along the Garonne river, cutting it short when I released it was not a good idea without any breakfast. We bought some croissants, visited the Japanese garden, a stone’s throw away from the apartment and were back indoors. We headed out in the evening again with the intent to explore the heart of Toulouse. I did get to experience the protests first hand when we saw some smoke at a distance and people running, shouting slogans. I felt brave being out there at that time. There were police everywhere. We window shopped near the Capitole for a while and decided to check out the Christmas market right in front of it. It was packed in spite of the protests. Apart from some savories, there was no food to entice vegetarians. In fact, the smell put us off and we stepped away, strolling towards the Pont Neuf, a historical bridge in Toulouse. It was chilling by the river side, but calming all the same. My friend could not stop talking about how the entire area would be bustling in the summer, as opposed to how it was then.

 We walked to his friends’ place later to enjoy a delicious homecooked dinner and amusing conversations. A notification on my phone that my flight to Paris the next evening was cancelled, intervened and prompted us to say goodbye sooner. I immediately booked a bus ride which cost me more than the flight ticket. I was now slightly jealous of my friend, staying in a pretty city with easy access to so many historical places and even different countries. All he had to say was that I should visit again in summer. I would, eager to take a pause, travel back in time if I wished to or to explore the scenic outdoors.