Destination: France

Specializing in Eastern Europe, I spend a lot of time in Europe’s little countries, where there’s a finite number of cities worth exploring. Traveling through France, though, I’m struck by how deep this country’s bench is. You could spend weeks in France, never set foot in the heavy hitters, and still have a great trip. One of my favorite examples of this is the utterly underrated city of Albi.

Like its most famous former resident, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Albi is a lovable underdog. Sitting an hour off the freeway between Carcassonne and the Dordogne, Albi gets missed by most tourists. Maybe that’s why it’s such a delight. It’s a red-brick, sun-parched town with a  strollable old center, a magnificent fortress-church, and a half-day’s worth of engaging sightseeing.

Albi was the home city of the Cathars, those “heretical” Christian rebels who stood up to the Pope in the Middle Ages. (They’re also called the Albigensians, after their home city.) After they were defeated, the Vatican built this huge, humorless cathedral — more fortress than church — as a stake in the heart of Albi, and the Albigensians.

Inside, the cathedral’s opulent artwork drives home this same fire-and-brimstone message. The Last Judgment altarpiece makes the consequences of disobeying the Church gruesomely clear.

Next to the cathedral sits the Toulouse-Lautrec Museum, with the finest collection of the talented artist’s work outside of Paris. And just beyond is this stunning garden overlooking the Tarn River. Some cities are characterized by a color, and when I think of Albi, I think of the gentle maroon of sunbaked bricks.

From the cathedral, inviting streets fan out through town. And, like any great city, Albi hides plenty of surprises behind its eye-pleasing veneer. This medieval cloister — packed with a picnicking field-trip group during my visit — is a tranquil eddy that sits, almost unmarked, off the main drag.

The fortified medieval villages (or bastides) in the countryside near Albi are equally enchanting. I dropped in on a few recommended in our Rick Steves’ France guidebook, but my favorite was Castelnau-de-Montmiral — with what may just be the cuddliest main square I’ve ever seen. If I hadn’t had a long drive ahead of me, I could have happily settled in here for a drink…or a week.

Most travelers give Albi a miss. But that’s a mistake. Stop here for a lunch break — or even spend the night — and you’ll have this fine city all to yourself.

Next stop: the Dordogne River Valley.

I love reading a movie critic teeing off about a film that just drives him nuts. And, in that vein, I think there’s something very satisfying in a travel writer bashing an overrated destination. So in the spirit of Roger Ebert, allow me to turn my negativity up a notch.

The medieval fortified town of Carcassonne is a challenge for guidebook writers. We understand that no amount of convincing will persuade you to skip it. So we do our best to offer strategies for enduring it. The Rick Steves’ France guidebook suggests arriving in the evening, spending the night, then getting outta there as fast as possible the next morning. Could it possibly be damned with fainter praise? And based on my second visit — this time for two whole nights — I agree that this is the only way to go.

First of all, I’ll concede that the city walls and towers are, without a doubt, magnificent. Carcassonne is well worth a one-hour stroll to appreciate some of the most remarkably intact old fortifications you’ll ever see. Unfortunately, Carcassonne is a few hours away from anything else that’s really worthwhile, so most visitors get stranded here with more time than they need.

When it comes to touristic metabolism, Carcassonne has two speeds: overwhelmed by tourist hordes, and tumbleweed town. By day, you’re fighting your way through a mosh pit of elbows, dodging tacky candy and souvenir boutiques. By night, you’re the lonely, last Cathar defending a lost-cause fortress. Some people enjoy the tranquility of after-hours Carcassonne; to me, it just feels empty and melancholic — a reminder that virtually nobody still lives within the walls of this once-thriving community. (And to be fair, I may be slightly jaded because of my regular visits to Dubrovnik, Croatia, the only walled town in Europe that trumps Carcassonne.)

Normally French chefs can do no wrong, but even the food in Carcassonne manages to be underwhelming. The most famous local dish is a bland casserole of beans and old meat called cassoulet, which I believe is French for “bowl of farts.” If it’s not a lutefisk-style “hardship food,” eaten only in desperation, then it should be. Despite my reverence for French chefs, I desperately want a dash of Sriracha (or even ketchup) to jazz up my cassoulet.

All of that said, I found a few things to enjoy during my stay in Carcassonne. The town has almost no sights worth entering, but the one exception is the castle-within-the-castle Château Comtal, with a well-presented, one-way walking route through the keep and up onto the ramparts. Exploring here with a good imagination, you can envision a far more appealing age when the city would have been inhabited by smelly, raunchy, aggressive soldiers. The moat surrounding that château is filled with a very scenic garden, where pooped sightseers enjoy a restful break. And after dark, the city — while deserted — does have a certain floodlit magic.

What it comes down to is this: In my travels, I’m most drawn to places that feel vital and authentic. And Carcassonne may have the widest gulf between glitz and substance of any place I’ve been. It feels like a stage set: Perfect for a postcard or a coffee-table book, but torturously dull to explore. It is, simply, soulless.

In the interest of saving you time, here are a few pretty pictures of the city from my last visit. (Well, I hope it’s my last…) Staring at these for a few minutes releases you from the obligation of visiting Carcassonne, freeing you up for so many other, underrated things France has to offer.

It’s striking, sure. But for my money, playing the game Carcassonne is more enjoyable than visiting the town Carcassonne.

Tourists wander the old moat of Carcassonne…seeking an escape, I imagine.

I must admit, the Château Comtal’s garden is one of the most enticing picnic spots I’ve seen in France.

After hours, as the blue hour of twilight dawns, a good tripod makes Carcassonne worth the trip for photographers.

If you think I’m being too hard on Carcassonne, you’re probably right. Have at it in the comments. And here’s one positive tip to balance out all of my curmudgeonry: If you’d like to stay someplace with far more substance on your swing through Languedoc-Roussillon, take a good, hard look at Albi. This captivating city — about an hour and a half north from Carcassonne (on the way to the Dordogne) — is the focus of my next entry.

Driving from the Mediterranean up toward the Dordogne River Valley, I pass through some arid terrain that — as evidenced by the imposing castles and fortified cities at every turn — has survived a hard-fought history. I’m following the cultural fault line between France and Spain, and while this area is now firmly part of France, for centuries that was far from a foregone conclusion.

This was the land of the Cathars, a medieval movement of Christians who pursued their own anti-materialistic understanding of spirituality that flagrantly ignored the Vatican. Condemned as “heretics,” these pre-Reformation reformers had to dig in and fight for their right to worship — until they were wiped out in the brutal Albigensian Crusades of the early 13th century.

An hour and a half north of Collioure, driving on a highway flanked by steep ranges of limestone mountains, I notice a bulbous little knob clinging to the crest of a stone curtain. I decide to pull over and explore Peyrepertuse and Quéribus — onetime strongholds of the Cathars. Today, tourists park at the base of a mountain, then huff their way up into the stratosphere to scamper over evocative ruins.

From afar, the most striking castle is Peyrepertuse. Aptly nicknamed “the Carcassonne of the Heavens,” its towers scrape the brilliant blue sky, disrupting the gently passing clouds.

Don’t hike up here expecting to explore an intact structure. Peyrepertuse is a ruined field of rubble. But the views are smashing.

For the best panoramas, hike up even farther to the topmost tower of St-Louis, where all of southern France spreads out at your feet.

From Peyrepertuse, you can peer several miles away — across the valley, to an adjacent line of peaks — to see Quéribus, an even higher vantage point.

Vertical and vertiginous, the rocky trail up to Quéribus rewards hardy hikers with a top-of-the-world feeling that rivals even Peyrepertuse.

Of course, the biggest, most intact, and most famous of these castles is Carcassonne. And that’s where I’ll be spending the next two nights. Stay tuned.