Autumn 2017: Lyon

Of course I got stuck at the Pigalle turnstile, but a merry family behind me helped get my blue Delsey through, and I arrived at the Gare de Lyon without any further mishap.

Oh, I do like this station! Didn’t stop at the famous Blue Restaurant, but I did while away the time with a coffee and a pain au chocolat in one of the light-filled halls, trying to understand as much as I could of the announcements. Another armed patrol thudded past, and I need to get past security on the platform.

Uh. It takes a moment for my brain to cycle into survival French.

Où est la deuxième classe?

The man gestures as he replies; bits of it I don’t catch, but I do hear la porte verte and I know what that is.

Merci! I trundle down the row of carriages before spotting the green door, and having stowed my luggage and myself safely in place, I settle in for the trip to Lyon.

Naturellement, all the announcements are in French – I breathe a little prayer of thanks to my Alliance Française teachers every time – and I even fill out the survey randomly handed to me!

Why do they assume I can understand it – presumably because I am sitting by myself on a French train with no visible signs of panicked incomprehension – but I do and feel a bit of pride in completing it and handing it back to the conductor.

My Airbnb in Lyon 

Welcome to French 101

Took me some time to find the correct bus, and even then I had to make sure – Est-ce le No.13 bus? and Je dois acheter le billet dans le bus? but the locals understood and were helpful, and finally I got off at the city center.

What now?

I crisscrossed that plaza a couple times before spotting the road my Airbnb host said I should take – he was out of the country, by the way, but his friend Marli would be there, and she spoke no English.

Google Maps did not help – for the life of me I could not understand why the pin was almost where I was standing; the sun was setting, I was starting to get anxious standing on a street corner with my luggage, and finally I had to send a distress call to Marli.

Je suis perdue.

I don’t know how I managed to let her know where I was exactly, but I understood she was sending her husband to rescue me.

And he spoke only French and Portuguese!

It was a fun walk to the flat though; as is so often the case, it turns out it was located at the end of an alley that was only a sharp right from the street I’d stopped on.

And the flat itself looked just like its listing; the fridge and pantry were well stocked, there was a washing machine, the bed was comfy and the Wi-Fi fast.

That will be 16.30 euros, please

The best way to get to know a new city is to walk, so I did that. I had nothing specific to see and no one specific to meet, so I was free to ramble lazily around whenever I pleased.

That meant waking up late, of course, and fixing a leisurely breakfast before venturing out for the day.

That also meant braving the supermarkets and pharmacies (still kicking myself for not buying more Embryolisse moisturizer), and nervously waiting for my turn at the till. The numbers would whiz over my head but I could read the amount, and after a few times I figured I was being asked whether I wanted my purchases in a plastic bag or not. Je ne comprends pas,I would say apologetically to each cashier in turn. Vous parlez doucement, s’il vous plait?

On my last day I discovered a fancy little stationery shop where I put my refreshed numerical skills to good use and was able to pay correctly without peering at the register and tell them definitely that no, no plastic bags please.

La vie est trop courte pour boire du mauvais vin

…or eat bad food, for that matter.

One afternoon I decided to walk all the way to Les Halles. Wanted to buy everything in there, especially the oysters and the cheese, glorious cheese; settled for small bites of this and that, shopping for tea and confectionery, and making a final stop at a pastel-coloured candy shop.

Quel est le meilleur bonbon? I inquired of the pixie at the counter.

La fraise, she said, and so I walked out with a strawberry treat that I enjoyed by the river.

Two rivers, actually

The Presqu’île, where I was staying (another Sebastien recommendation) is bordered by the Rhône and the Saône rivers – and where, as I discovered one marvelously sunny afternoon, if you sit long enough on the riverbank watching the supremely self-possessed swans, an attractive local will stop, pay you extravagant French compliments, take your photo for you, and casually mention that he’s usually over there at 6 pm. (The last part I may have misunderstood, my French not really up to flirting speed.)

I spent another afternoon along the Rhône with a chocolat chaud and a handful of cannelès, watching the world jog and bike by, and marveling at the city’s youthful energy.

Evenings I would spend outdoors on the wonderful Place des Terreaux.

I would eat alone but it was never lonely, surrounded as I was with warm light and the hubbub of easy melodious conversations, the pleasant whir of a liveable city winding down yet another day.

Au revoir

With some surprise I realized that I had managed to spend a whole week in France alone, living in other people’s houses, without being mugged, or speaking much English. Nobody was rude or unhelpful, and I didn’t need to look for embassy assistance or send an SOS to anybody. Sebastien had managed my expectations a little too well.

But I was ready to cross the border to Switzerland now, and besides, one of my favorite people – let’s call him K – had already arrived in Turin, my last stop on this holiday.

Next up: Geneva.