Top of the mont in Montpelier, which in reality isn't on a mountain, but a pile of rocks

The original plan was to zip over to Spain to spend a few nights with Mary in Sitges, but when we did the math, the time spent on the train exceeded time there, so we put it off until February. But still I had the traveling spirit, and as the train to Barcelona was going to stop in Montpelier, it seemed the right direction to head. 

Sometimes we just don't realize how much we know. Lately I've been thinking about this in relation to booking travel, and this old dog has been doing slogging through learning some new tricks and it's taking a while. There's a helpful app called Omio which provides here to there quotes for whatever ways are available, and I've taken to doing what it tells me, which is book a round trip, which has to be at a particular time, even on the local train. As with Lyon, I got tossed out of shelter at 10 and had until 5 on a cold day. Hopefully next time I'll remember to wait on the return....  Can't, like in NYC, commit to the round trip and then decide later which return to take. I suppose it's much more organized here, with assigned seats and all. 

The non-TGV, i.e., slow train, was clean, had wifi and a funny little cart that came banging along, selling of all things, M&Ms. We were all, for some reason, crammed in next to each other on the same side of the train, the other side empty. I waited to see if anyone would move, no one did. There's something peaceful about being on a train, with nothing that needs to be done, so I watched an agrarian world go by, mostly vineyards. The walk from the Montpelier train station to the center of things was short, but windy and my new version of bone chilling (high forties), But palm trees greeted me, asking why I hadn't chosen a locale to live where they were as well. I could smell the sea air coming off the Mediterranean nearby. though never caught a glimpse.

After a fine meal of the Korean Kafe's best clumped up box linguine doused in a sweet "chili" sauce that tasted like burnt wok meat doused with artfully zig zagged mayonnaise on top, I returned to my monastic but perfectly nice Airbnb with an English language book!! (gold) I'd picked up at Le Bookshop and cracked open Mighty Red by Louise Erdrich. Meh. 

Weirdly awake for a lot of the night, I slept in, only just hauling my ass out by10, in search of caffeine. I think it unkind when Airbnbs provide Nespresso machines and no pods. Who knows why we pick certain things over others, for there were many cafes I walked by, but L'Arca called out and I answered, walking into an almost empty cafe that is going for a 50s diner meets 1970s plants vibe. I sat down and ordered a cappuccino and a pain au chocolat in a peaceful room from a young bearded man. The only other patron, a lanky man with beautiful silver hair sat nearby, I believe reading. While my coffee was being made in front of me, I sat still in the silence of the cafe, paying attention to the details of his movements,  the spider plants, the overhead lights that look like fans, and then the woman who appeared, first putting her frizzy hair up in a ponytail, then washing her very white hands with a simple gold wedding ring, tying on an apron and stocking the small glass cabinet with croissants. It was an intimate feeling, the four of us being in this silent room together, making me think of tumbleweeds rolling across the desert. The other patron turned to ask my name, and when I told him, he told me his (I've forgotten) got up and gave me the French kiss (not that kind!). We chatted about life, the lack of importance money has, what we like to do and his daughter, a professor of Ecology who makes only €2700 per month.

When we finished up, he invited me to have another coffee at his apartment nearby, I demurred easily. He asked if I'd like company wandering the city, I again, demurred easily, he held no offense. I asked if I could take a photograph of him as I might mention him in my blog, he came in for a selfie, kissed me again both sides and then on the hair, paid for my breakfast and left. All day long it felt as though there was a shawl of affection and kindness on my shoulders, the day was brighter and kinder. 

My friend thecomedian/poet/Indian jewelry seller

It was that bright sun you only see by the sea, and as the Jardins de Plantes didn't open until 11, an uninformed wander was in order, leading me to the oldest medical school in the world, where should you desire, you can peruse exhibits at an anatomy museum. The building is attached to St. Peter's Cathedral, which though only built in the 14th century, is at a most staggeringly large scale. The turrets and moat were exciting, conjuring up visions of Black Death and heretics. Sadly, the tower, which visitors are sometimes allowed to climb, was closed.  

Further along, I got stuck behind a recycling truck, which contrary to working with mechanical arms that lift up the bins and dump, instead hold a man who gets out of the truck, closes the door,  takes his wee bin the size of a basket, knocks on a door and is handed bottles. Chatting does happen.

Inside the Cathedral, looking towards the back at the organ

And then it was on to les Jardins, which was beautiful enough that I put a reminder in my calendar to come back in May, when the immense camelia tree will be in bloom. It was only on my way back to the train that I saw a contemporary art museum which looked interesting. And when reading something about Montpelier after I got home, realized I had missed the big tourist square and the water tower. Oh well. Je reviendrai.

And it turns out I busted out right in the nick of time. As the train from Bordeaux pulled in for those of us heading east, it disgorged about 50 very pale, dirty blonde haired young people in conservative clothing, with large suitcases. There's something a bit skewed about American people of faith coming to tell the French about God. 
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A PS of sorts. Thank you to those of you who leave comments, I appreciate them, but don't reply because it's public and complicated logistically. 

Dear little kitchen that needs to be de-airbnbed

Here are some of things that make me smile

Calatrava's St. Exupery train station in Lyon

When I worked summers at Tanglewood, the HR office was wedged between the Box Office and the Friends' Office, where donors, most of them tri-staters as we called them, lined up to get their parking passes, invariably wanting upgrades that provided access closer to the Shed. One of my colleagues, herself a New Yorker, as was I, so I can say this, would do an on-point imitation, nasal and outraged  "This is unacceptable, simply.unacceptable!" to the likely 20-year old intern who had no power to do anything about their passes. On a side note, this college was very funny and once dressed up for Halloween as a Friday afternoon Symphony Hall subscriber, i.e., old Brahmin lady. As well as a pillbox hat and handbag from the fifties, she he'd a styrofoam plate with one of Billy's sandwiches that were bought by the multitudes who believed spending more than $2 on lunch was an obscene show of wealth.

Though it was many moons ago, I still think about this colleague's mockery of Tanglewood Friends, both because she nailed it so perfectly, but more currently, because it begs acts as a reference to a question that's been on my mind recently. How much should we accept and how much IS unacceptable?  And after accepting  something, how is it best to come to terms with whatever it is? There's a line, on one end the angry New Yorker always pushing for more, on the other, the human speed bump who no longer notices being run over all day long. Is there a happy medium, or has the human speed bump decided that she is happy that way?

When I compare myself to those by whom I'm surrounded, I'd grade myself closer to the speed bump than the New Yorker. After all, it took five years of chiropractor visits before she adamantly told me I had to get rid of the wooden dining room chair I'd been using at my home desk. Yes, I could feel the discomfort, but if I distracted myself... I've stayed in almost every job for too long, things are fine, they could be worse, I have friends, I'd think. Men and all kinds of people, I've stayed with both, despite an inequality of their taking taking taking. For many years when I could afford more, I'd stay in crappy places while traveling, thinking that I was only sleeping there, what did it matter? Two nights on the marble floor of the Athens airport, wrapped up in a towel, a night in a tent in a park on Victoria Island, brushing teeth at the bus stop restroom. Once I'd made a decision to do something, it was fine.  

But I can also compare myself to someone I used to know, whose famous response after opening a gift from me that was a sweater:  "Thanks, but I already have a sweater", I'm a prima donna. It's all relative. And that's what I'm trying to sort out now.

​I had such a wonderful place to live last year, and it gave me a vision of what I was going to look for in a place that would be home here. To me, it doesn't seem much, but somehow, my criteria doesn't seem to be being met and it's beginning to cause frustration. So ask I ask myself: Am I an entitled American looking for, oh brother, her dream apartment?  Or am I a woman who, after making compromises in her past she wishes she hadn't , wants to do well by herself and live somewhere that will feel like a home? It seems reasonable to me that my person is beginning to get frustrated. But is also seems reasonable that I'm holding true to what I want, which I promise you does not include a gold plated toilet. So, on the advice of yet another Philippe, this one whom I met at the French meet up and  works at World Bank, I booked a round trip to Lyon with the intention of getting myself out of this swamp of compromise. 
 
The Ste. Exupery train station, a beautiful welcome to the city, was the culmination of my first TGV journey. Did you know that the TGV and many other trains in France travel on the left-hand side, having been built by the Brits? And that the train provider I took, Ouigo is the Ryan Air of the TGV? I'll admit to wondering why my round trip was only €48 instead of in the more common €148, but everything became clear when I got my first glimpse of the Miami Vice party going on in the carriages, bright pink and teal seats, families and individuals and their stuff spilling out all over the place, not quite sheep and chickens, but almost. Unlike with Ryan Air, I might use them again, though I'd try to not make the same mistake of paying extra for an aisle seat. 

It's an hour or so from the Ste. Exupery  to downtown, but it was a civilized ride, half above ground, traversing different suburbs. Lyon is a city with two rivers running through it, the Rhône and the Saône. From my minimal viewings of the Rhône, I'd categorize it as an ugly river that does beautiful things. Likely, closer to the source it has more natural beauty, but in Lyon, Arles, Avignon and places in between, it's as uninteresting as the Mississippi delta. But the light reflecting off it is something breathtaking. When I was riding through these somewhat nondescript suburbs, mid-afternoon, the sky was both blue and yellow, making shadows on buildings that were pronounced.

Loved this subway story

Adam from Brisbane told me about a friend of his who only stays in secondary cities, or half an hour outside of primary cities, which gave me the idea of, as I begin traveling the French countryside, staying in middle-class residential neighborhoods . So in Lyon, home was the Crois-Rousse (reddish cross) arrondissement, which didn't disappoint. Most of it is at the top of a hill, but my place was lower down, amidst record stores, tattoo and coffee shops. A long time ago, my hill was called the hill that works, while the other, Fourvière, was called the one that prays.  The people who originally settled and worked on Crois-Rousse were Canuts or silk weavers, Lyon having been the capital. The Canuts were, of course, not treated well by wealthy industrialists and became disillusioned, now known as the first band of workers to revolt, causing ripple effects around the world.​ 

Crois-Rousse up top, with Saône River in the foreground

​The hills are very steep and there are lovely stairs, many of them painted, making moving around easy. To get coffee, I first went through a traboule (tunnel) and then climbed 75 steps. There are also bigger tunnels, engineering masterpieces, really, underneath the hills and buildings, that I suppose cars and trucks use, as there were few on the roads.  Lots of bikes, scooters and runners. But also very very old people climbing the steps (and standing on the subway, seemingly unconcerned they weren't offered seats).

Can you see what the light is like? Amazing! On the way up to the top of Fourvière, I took a path, on the way down, where this photograph is taken, there were stairs. I counted about 700. There were a bunch of people walking up, including a woman who looked like a great grandmother.

Lyon is much more diverse than Aix, but less so than Marseille. Things go on as they do in a city, there are headquarters and trams and commuters and suburbs that stretch out forever (see photograph above). And there are refugees. On my way down Crois-Rousse, I stopped to look down at the river view and saw a huge tent population. As I got closer, I took the photograph below. Everything in the community was set up thoughtfully and tidily, there were rows and rows of portapotties and portashowers, a canteen truck serving food and lots of clothes hanging out to dry on various things. If you had to be a refugee living in a tent community, it couldn't get much better than this one, but it is a tent community and a difficult way for any human being to live.  There were only Central African men visible, but likely women and people from other countries were there as well. It was quiet, clean and orderly. I stood there for a while, not to stare, but because this refugee community filled with humans no different from me literally stopped me in my tracks. You hear about things like this, but seeing it was both moving and shocking; the will strong enough to invest in a better future, but then life circumstances so dire that this is a better arrangement, and was worth the risk. It's near impossible to really understand. As I walked away, there was a well-dressed man walking in the other direction who must have seen my shocked face, because he gave a smile of compassion, whether for them or me, and nodded.