Lyon

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).

Traboule and the road to coffee. 

Lyon is known for its murals

Fallish vibe going on here, descending from the top of Crois-Rousse

Tunnel to the center of the earth, seems like. It's underneath where people are living.

One of my mottos, "Always go to the top of the hill",  once again proved a good idea. As advertised, a middle class neighborhood, quiet, with no tourists and many small shops, everyone on foot doing their business. I had read that Le Maison des Canuts gave demonstrations of the silk weaving machines, but the Tuesday Canut must have called out, so instead I read about M. Jacquard and the revolts, then browsed through silk offerings in the gift shop.  

​Silk weaving machine invented by M. Jacquard 

Lyon is known as the gastronomical center of the universe, so on the top of the hill I also did a fair amount of peeking in food shops of various sorts, and was lucky enough to run into a local extensive market, full of all kinds of meat; salami, pigs feet, head cheese (A friend once ordered a salad with head cheese and was appalled to find out it wasn't made out of something that came out of a cow, rather part of one. She ate it, though),  Famed dairy included many cheeses, of different varieties than in Provence. Crotins, for sure, but lots of yogurt, creme fraiche and fromage blanc. And vats of butter into which I wanted to dive. The other food specialty there is pralines, so in many of the pretty patisseries, there were lovely pinkish red tarts that looked way too sweet.

Harcha, a North African semolina bread that I love taking photographs of, but find to be disappointingly dry as a bone 

Setting up, pretty fish shop, Crois-Rousse. There was a huge sense of pride in so many of the food displays. 

Plastic tablecloths at the market, could have bought some of each

Sweet little things at my Airbnb, that was an actual cave

1,000 year old door at my Airbnb!

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There were many things to see and another hill to climb, so I checked out of my Airbnb at 8 am and began a march of many miles. The part of Lyon between the two rivers is composed of predominantly Beaux Arts buildings, and there I found the largest  far from most interesting square in Europe, along with the Beaux-Arts Museum, which was sadly closed. On the other side of the Saôrne River is Vieux Lyon, but as far as old streets go, it's hard to find anything nicer than Aix, and as anticipated, they were filled with creperies, dishtowels and every kind of knick knack you'd never be tempted to buy. But it was on the way to the praying hill, so I stopped for lunch, choosing a restaurant by odd criteria which makes me realize I need to back up my story a little.

Who knows why, could have been the glass of red wine I'd had the day before, or perhaps the bitter almond I erroneously decided to swallow, but that morning, I was struck with not only a migraine, which at first leaves one eye blurry and then transforms into a headache, but nausea, which I'd last experienced prior to giving birth. So by 2 my stomach was uncharacteristically empty and in need of filling, but every restaurant was a Bouchon or Bouchon wannabe, serving a wide variety of fresh smoked or pureed farm animals in cream sauce, which,  even on a good day, wouldn't be my choice. A Lebanese place seemed promising until I realized that everything had the common ingredient of mayonnaise. So, first criteria for finding a restaurant was one that serves a salad without an egg on top (learned the hard way there's no asking to hold something off), have a not filthy bathroom, and be a place I'd feel comfortable hanging out alone, for a while. Against all better judgement, I occupied only the second table at Café Amercain, home of the big burger. The salad chèvre, which proved to be rather good. After that, I drank a carafe of water, put my feet up and watched Mr. Bean cartoons with no sound. It was actually a nice way to spend an hour and change when you're no feeling 100%.

After that luxury break, I knew still had 4 hours to kill before my train, so thought to head up to Fourvière by funicular. But something got hold of me and I couldn't imagine not walking, so climbed not the longest, but likely steepest hill I've ever climbed, leaning forward on the sidewalk like a cartoon character such as Mr. Bean might do. The church was some kind of over the top rococo affair and to me, not very interesting, but there was that top of a hill unmatched feeling, and an unbelievable view of Lyon, Alps in the background.

Top of a Beaux Art building 

Vieux Lyon. Do you think anyone buys these? Maybe they're making a comeback like Crocs 

Vieux Lyon and the Saórne at dusk

View of Lyon looking east, from the top of Fourvière. You can kind of see the Alps in the background. Off to the left, there were much higher snowy peaks that are obscured

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. 

"I missed the sleep train", near the Refugee Camp

Refugee Camp

Don't kill the vape! Vaping isn't smoking

​I have to finish with something a little lighter.  Back in Aix today, it's crazy town, a big demonstration at the Place de Mairie. There must be some kind of law proposed that will outlaw vaping, because there were about 50 vapers (it's so big here), almost all men, standing around with clouds of strawberry smoke floating above them, holding (actually most of them had them leaning against various things because they needed their hands to vape) protesting and quoting a union law about removing jobs. One of the signs, of which I wasn't able to take a photograph,  said VAPE = SANTE, or VAPE = HEALTH.  Maybe compared to eating asbestos for breakfast....