Lyon: The Tale of the Belle and the Bête

So, as alluded to in prior entries, I headed off to Lyon (rawr!) for the weekend, embracing tourism with open arms – in two and a half days, I saw (at least) three ancient structures, two churches, three museums, a large and varied collection of squares, streets, and traboules, and I also did some shopping. And a bit of evening exploring. And a lot of walking. But I’m getting ahead of myself…

My primary conclusion (and one which, I hope, will turn this entry into less of a journalistic record) is that everywhere I went on this somewhat uncharacteristic tour de force of mine, I saw amazing things and I made a bit of idiot of myself. I am not the belle in this story; I am the bête, the fool. Or at least, the ridiculous American.

Okay. Let’s take a break from the Aix files (you know I had to do it).

Traveling is something I am passably good at, surprisingly enough. Maybe I’m just accustomed, but I didn’t lose any bags, get mugged or irretrievably lost, and I even managed to get on the right trains with my tickets already stamped. I made all my connections on the metro and I tended to know which way was North. On Friday, I left the house before the sun had risen, and was kindly taken to the train station by Isabelle (and Sarkozy’s wife, singing melodiously through the speakers. Who knew?). I climbed into a train full of grizzled men and watched Van Gogh landscapes whizz by while listening to Antics. It’s a guilty pleasure of mine to listen to Interpol while traveling at high speeds…perhaps because I became familiar with those first albums while clinging to faded bus seats and flying around cliff roads on the Amalfi Coast. But I digress.

Upon exiting the train station, my genius for travel rapidly declined. I brilliantly decided to walk without map or directions to the hotel and required the assistance of an entire bakery to get straightened out. I wandered into an odd area of town (full of construction gangs) and got offered a beer at 8 in the morning. I declined. Laden with luggage, I crossed the two green rivers several times in a panic while looking for my hotel, which I thought to be located on Rue Seze, but which was in reality located on Victor Hugo. It is very unnerving to walk up and down cobbled roads for a half hour, thinking a building has been demolished (although in my defense, there was a large pile of rubble on Rue Seze). Or there was the time I hiked up 267 stairs – not including ramps – to see an area quoted by a guide book to be “crammed with boutiques, restaurants, and cafés!” only to find a lot of graffiti, skateboarding emo kids, and an admittedly incredible view.

My favorite travel minute, though, was when I tried to get a metro ticket from one of the automatic vending machines with nothing smaller than a ten-euro note and had to be rescued by a very Keanu Reeves type character. Circa Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. And French.

In typical nerdy fashion, my favorite part about Lyon was the museums. This may have been because I waited to do most of my shopping until Sunday, when the stores are all closed. There’s nothing so tempting as an unattainable shop front…still, the imaginary window shopping (in French, lèche-vitrine, or plate-glass licking) at the Musée des Beaux Artes, the Maison des Canuts, and the Musée des Tissues was good enough. There was a particularly spectacular exhibit of all sorts of fabrics and patterns and colors (the velvet! the velour! the bombazine, lamé, brocade, damask, and satin!) at that last one. I got an extra-long time to look at the fabrics because a massive hailstorm struck while I was on floor two. I aided the museum staff by running around pointing at the leaky window-casings, and shouting in mangled French, “you’ve got water!” or, “icecream! balls of icecream! in the sky!”

Speaking of icecream, Lyon is a city that boasts of its food…the restaurants I tried were pas mal. I do feel I could have done better a second time around. The first night, I struck out on my own into a “hip neighborhood” to find a traditional bouchon where I didn’t bat an eye at the hot saussis and saucisson, or even a dish that on the menu appeared to be some kind of chicken, but turned out to be a bready roll tasting like omelette with the consistency of pizza that bubbled threateningly in a scalding dish…but was very thrown off by the “pommes vapeur” (apples? vaporized apples?) that turned out to be steamed potatoes.

The next morning, I negotiated the patisserie (after being warned to the point of paranoia by Carla and co. that the French Are Out to Get Your Money So Count Your Change) semi-successfully, and was robbed blind at a café – where do they get this? 6-dollar coffee? – while listening to a man play never-ending ambient music. I failed epically (epicureanly?) my last night, though. After being directed to a popular restaurant spot by the concierge, I walked up and down the street looking at menus for a half an hour before confusedly settling on the fishy one at the end. Probably because of tired feet and inclement weather, possibly because of the friendly waiter, I justified the decision by saying that mom likes fish and they served cider and the prices were reasonable. Unfortunately, I think I ended up at the French equivalent of Red Lobster. There were nets on the walls. I sat next to a group of noisy children (accompanied, I assume, by adults, although evidence indicated otherwise) and a guy who looked startlingly like my ex-boyfriend, except that he was Asian, and that he had a face perpetually in expression. For the first half of dinner, I thought he was laughing at me, and for the second half, after he brought out some organic chemistry to work on, I thought he was going to cry. And I had to help him understand that marmalade didn’t just come in orange. An unsettling meal, not entirely because of the suspect tuna steak.

Even though this weekend was the most touristy I’ve been thus far, I didn’t just associate with other tourists. I hung out with some birds and small children, for instance, in a pretty little park. More to the point, I had a long conversation with a museum staff member about Degas, and a short conversation with a cathedral security guard (named Mike) about the lovely twilight views. And in spite of, or maybe even because of, my silly little mistakes, I had a very good time.

I feel like I should sum up more than that, but I can’t really think of anything else to say…in the immortal words of David Byrne…”I have something to say about the difference between American and European cities, but I forgot what it was. I have it written down at home somewhere.”

Except I don’t.