April 2026, Arles, France. The cathedral was built in the 12th century. Nine centuries of holy tradition. A UNESCO World Heritage site. Some of the finest surviving examples of Romanesque sculpture in the world. Taking care of this church is his sacred duty.
He is a gentle, unassuming man. He floats through the sanctuary looking for things that need attention. Anything out of place, anything that isn’t just as it should be. Restock the literature rack. Brush away the little pieces of wax dripping from the votive candles beneath the virgin Mary. Pick up a piece of trash left on the floor by a tourist.
Day after day he suffers them – loud, rude, sweaty tourists. They wander in in their t-shirts and baseball caps and gawk and take pictures then move on. Some are faithful and appreciate the sanctity; but for most It’s just another stop on the tour, another relic of interest, like the ancient fort on the hill or the Roman arena.
It seems to me this would have become unbearably tiresome, the gross discrepancy between what this place means to him and what it means to them, his beloved reduced to an Insta reel. Surely this wears on his soul. Maybe he bears it as a sacred mission, anything to bring people closer to god. Nothing makes suffering bearable like seeing it as a mission.
On this day I was one of them. I made my way through the nave toward the transept, gawking and taking pictures with my phone. As I was getting a video of the vaulted ceiling I dropped some brochures that I was holding. Before I finished the shot he was there, bending down to pick them up.
He handed me the papers and I felt… lowkey ashamed for some reason. Did he think this place meant so little to me that I would have just left them on the floor? That wasn’t true but the truth was just as bad (I was busy objectifying his beloved in a TikTok).
“Merci beaucoup” I said. Then he said, in broken English, “your hat, please,” and made a gesture with his hand like removing a ball cap.
First of all, why did I feel ashamed? Second, how did he know I was American. I pride myself on not being one of those Americans but I guess there’s no hiding it.
He asked in a way that was so polite, so respectful, so meek; but still he was standing up for his church. In civilized society you don’t wear a hat – esp a ball cap – into a house of worship. I wouldn’t wear one in a church in the states; why would I here? I quickly realized my faux pas and took it off. “Je suis desole, desole.”
His response seemed like… relief more than anything. He was expecting resistance. Rude, entitled American resistance. He was ready for it. When he was met with respect and deference, he literally bowed and put his hands together in a praying gesture, saying “merci, merci…” and backed away from me.
It’s like he thought to himself, ‘was that so fucking hard,’ and ‘why can’t they all be like that.’
His response to common decency is what was so intriguing to me. It was evidence that the usual response was not mutual respect, and that the default expectation of Americans was friction.
As I was leaving I saw him again near the entrance, brushing away the little pieces of wax dripping off the votive candles under the virgin Mary.
Polyphonic 