Saint-Mystère Remains Silent: The Tourists 07

The Swiss.

They arrived in an older red car, polished and humming softly, like it had been freshly tuned just for the journey. The Swiss couple stepped out without hurry—he in a well-pressed suit, she in a heavy wool cardigan and a skirt dotted with quiet flowers. They looked like they had stepped out of another time, or perhaps into one.

They brought their own chairs and sat near the edge of the village green, backs straight, hands folded. From a small leather bag came their lunch: thick slices of Zopf bread, cubes of Sbrinz, a tightly wrapped bundle of Bündnerfleisch, and a thermos of warm Ovomaltine. A bar of dark chocolate followed, divided evenly in silence.

They said little. Observed much. A nod here, a glance there. No sunglasses, no camera, no music. Only a sense of exactness, as if their being here had been calculated, pencilled in years ago.

They left just before dusk, without speaking to anyone.
Only the flattened grass where their chairs had stood remained.

In Saint-Mystère, no one tried to smooth it out.

Saint-Mystère Remains Silent: The Tourists 06

The Spaniards.

They arrived with the morning sun—by car, music playing, laughter echoing off the stone walls. Spanish tourists, full of life and colour, sweeping into Saint-Mystère like a festival no one expected.

They brought everything with them: enormous hams wrapped in cloth, dark bottles of red wine glinting in the light, tins of olives, fresh garlic, and tomatoes so ripe they seemed to glow. On a folding table near the fountain, they prepared pan con tomate with the care of a ceremony. Passersby slowed their steps, drawn by the scent, the ease, the joy of it all.

They toasted often. To life, to friendship—perhaps even to Saint-Mystère, though no one could be sure.

And just as the sun slipped behind the hills, they packed up. Not hurriedly, but without farewell. No plates left behind. No trace of where they had gone.

We never learned their names.
But for one day, the village remembered how to breathe.

Saint-Mystère Remains Silent: The Tourists 05

The Italians.

They came in a small, overpacked car with northern Italian plates and the smell of dried herbs trailing behind them. A couple—cheerful, expressive, and visibly confused by the silence of Saint-Mystère. They had rented a gîte just beyond the old well, insisting on a kitchen. They wanted to cook like at home.

French food—troppo complicato, they said with a shrug—they wanted proper pasta. They brought everything with them: olive oil in dark glass, garlic in braids, vacuum-packed pecorino, tinned tomatoes, and enough spaghetti to feed a village that wouldn’t ask for any.

Every evening, the scent of boiling pasta and fried onion drifted through the alleys. Once, Madame Lefèvre waved from her garden. They waved back enthusiastically. No words were exchanged.

They stayed for six days. On the seventh, the scent vanished.
They had run out of pasta, packed their car, and disappeared before dawn.

Only the empty tins remained, stacked neatly by the recycling bin.
In Saint-Mystère, we did not touch them.

Saint-Mystère Remains Silent: The Tourists 04

The Austrians.

They arrived in late spring, when the air still carried the scent of damp stone and last year’s leaves. An Austrian couple—no one knew their names. He wore bright red suspenders and a hat far too round for the region, like something from a travelling circus. Children whispered le clown autrichien behind cupped hands.

They stayed at the village’s only chambre d’hôtes, run by Madame Jourdain, who spoke no German. They spoke no French. Still, somehow, keys were exchanged, a bed was made, and they were shown to the room with the floral curtains and the sagging double mattress locals call le lit français—too narrow for sleep, too wide for comfort.

They stayed just one night. Ate nothing. Said little. By morning, they were gone.

No note. No payment. Only this photo remained—wedged behind a mirror frame, discovered weeks later when the light fell just right.

In Saint-Mystère, that was enough.
It always is.

Saint-Mystère Remains Silent: The Tourists 03

The Germans.

They came in a tidy black car, quiet and efficient, just like them. A German couple, passing through on their way to somewhere else. He wore a suit and she had a colourful dress. They spoke softly, but with purpose.

They chose the bench near the linden tree, unpacked a neat picnic—rye bread, cheese, hard-boiled eggs, potato salad, and something in a glass jar. Everything arranged just so, on a clean cloth. A proper German picnic, someone said.

They ate in silence, glancing now and then at the shuttered windows.

Then they packed up, nodded politely to no one in particular, and drove off.

That was the summer Saint-Mystère stopped appearing in brochures.

Saint-Mystère Remains Silent: The Tourists 02

The Dutch couple.

They arrived one morning in a large sedan. A Dutch couple—middle-aged, polite, the kind who read every sign and carry their own thermos. It was sometime in the early ’90s, during those strange, brief years when Saint-Mystère began appearing on maps it had never asked to be on.

They walked through the village. Took a photo near the fountain. Had coffee on the terrace, though no one remembers what they were looking for.

By late afternoon, they were gone.

They didn’t stay the night, … they never came back.

But the photo remained—tucked behind a loose board in the café wall. No one knows how it got there. Or why.
In Saint-Mystère, we don’t ask.

Saint-Mystère Remains Silent: The Tourists 01

The Czechs.

For a brief moment in the 1990s, Saint-Mystère was a destination.

No one quite remembers how it started—an article in a forgotten travel magazine, perhaps, or a whispered recommendation passed along border checkpoints and backpacker cafés. What is certain is that, for a few years, strangers arrived. Not many. Never in groups. Just a slow trickle of curious visitors drawn to the village where no one spoke and every window seemed to be watching.

The ones in this photo came from the Czech Republic, not long after the fall of the Iron Curtain. They stayed a week, maybe two. Camped just beyond the orchard. Kept mostly to themselves. In the mornings, they wandered the lanes. In the evenings, they sat near the war memorial and sketched the rooftops.

Then they were gone. Like the others.

No one comes anymore.
And in Saint-Mystère, no one talks about that time.