Summer Vibrance

After Lyon, it’s straight back to work. I normally take a 'buffer' day of leave but there’s no need on this occasion. The work load is less intense now that most colleagues are away. Plus the countdown to my next, longer summer getaway is already on. No time to waste.

I do indulge in an afternoon off on Friday (technically I’m only at work one and half days that week). It comes in handy. Pete, my good friend and writing-accountability partner, will be visiting that weekend. Fresh from celebrating his 50^th in the UK, he’ll be passing by Strasbourg via Basel, where he’s spending time with an old acquaintance, Gregory.

That Saturday I’ll be entertaining them both. The plan is to do one of the great free city tours and come back to mine for dinner.

I use Friday afternoon to stock up on supplies in Kehl. Pete’s diet is restricted to fish and veg. Greg is less of a challenge. I prepare my signature mixed-meat tagine for Greg and I, baked salmon for Pete and well-preserved remnants of my mum’s jolloff rice and akara bean cakes for all.

The morning of their arrival, I’m still running around like a loon in pursuit of groceries that I haven’t been able to get my hands on. It’s making me grumpy. Jesus’ admonition to Martha comes to mind; albeit a very different context.

Just before 1pm, Pete and Gregory rock up in their rental; a metallic burnt-orange coloured vehicle. Hard to miss. They’ve been taking it in turns on the road. Seasoned driver Pete is still adjusting to manoeuvring on the left. After parking the car, they pop to mine for tea. There’s not much time for anything else before we have to leave for the tour.

I suggest they get a feel for public transport. The car stays in my residential parking lot all afternoon.

En route to the tour’s starting point at the Cathedral, Pete catches me up on the latest news about his charity walk. He’s raising funds for the school he intends to set up in South London. He intends to cover 1000 km over the summer. To chart his progress, he takes pictures in various locations holding up flash cards with the date, the distance covered that day and a map of the relevant country. He and Greg have already done a fair bit in Switzerland and have plans to continue. Pete concludes that we’ll cover a good distance on the tour and strolling around town. I’m happy to offer moral and financial support but have never been keen on the idea of being sponsored. As a compromise, I agree to the photo opp.

The weather is kind to our itinerary.  The tour is guided by yet another charismatic young Alsatian, Leo. I’m impressed by his powers of concentration. He has to contend with more interruptions than usual. A Gilet Jaune protest over the police-related death of Steve Maia Caniço, a covers band performing in Place St. Etienne… Leo takes it all in his stride, literally. Although I’ve done the tour on a previous occasion with mum and sis, it’s a good refresher. Each guide has their own style and different points of emphasis. No two outings will be the same.

Tour over, plans for a cool drink at Oh My Goodness! café come to nought. They’re closed for summer.

In any case, we’re all a bit hot and tired. It’s back to mine for supper. To my relief, the two men are very satisfied with all the grub on offer. During dinner, Pete poses searching eschatological questions. Yours truly segues to uncomfortable passages in the Torah. Christian engagement in the fight for social justice is also a recurring theme of the day. We share accounts of having survived cult-like churches. It's not all heavy or theological though. We compare living standards in the UK and Europe, different approaches to tax and the Swiss' intolerance for jay-walking. After the main meal, Pete and I read each of our latest flash fiction pieces to Gregory and exchange feedback.

Pete is one of my favourite people; one of the few with whom I can truly be myself. I’m grateful we have been able to socialise in the Strasbourg context, no matter how brief.

Early evening. Basel awaits. It’s time for the two friends to be making tracks. Gregory finishes off his (store-bought) raspberry tart. Paul sticks to a mini choc ice whilst I wrap his lemon dessert for the road. I accompany them as far as L’Orangerie before bidding a fond farewell.

The next day after church, I meet up with Serafine at Gare Centrale. Her daughter is at a summer camp and she’s just dropped off some guests. 

Half-Austrian, Half-Gabonese and based in Kehl, she’s invited me to an African Music Festival in a charming small German town. Serafine is especially looking forward to the headline act; Gambian singer/songwriter and kora virtuoso, Sona Jobarteh. The three hour drive there and back will give us plenty of time for conversation. Serafine puts me through my linguistic paces. We always broach thought-provoking topics. Yet she is encouraging and patient and my confidence grows in her presence.

On arriving at the festival, it’s a rude awakening to find that entry is not free. Neither is it cheap. I’m used to community festivals and/or those that have a tier system. But there’s no turning back now. As I’m bringing out my wallet, Serafine offers to pay and won’t take no for an answer. Fortunately for us, one of her generous male acquaintances pays for both our tickets.

To my delight we’ll soon be joined later by my Strasbourg bestie, Gael and his childhood chum, Agnès. Unimpressed by the beer festival they have just attended in a Strasbourg suburb, they hit the motorway to the Afro-Fest. 

Despite their similar Afropean backgrounds and moving in the same circles, it's the first time Serafine and Gael are meeting. They get on like a house on fire. Gael has that effect on folk.

It’s the third and final day of the festival. It’s ‘African’ in the loosest sense of the word; at least as far as music policy is concerned. A female impersonator of advanced years (whom I suspect of skin-bleaching) does an hilarious, heavily-accented cover of Tina Turner’s Simply The Best; signature dance moves et al. Some adorable youngsters -ranging from tots to teens -perform a traditional dance before bizarrely switching to The Black Eyed Peas’ Where is the Love?. Not speaking any German, I haven’t a clue what instigates the change in tone. I don’t want to keep asking Serafine to translate. 

Sona’s headline set is preceded by a German ska-band. We eat mediocre crèpes and over-priced traditional West African dishes whilst we wait for the main act.

I observe the festival’s demographic as the audience slowly but surely drips in. Despite the German reputation for being cold and reserved, this is a far less inhibited crowd than what I'm used to in Strasbourg. It's also quite diverse. Your 'average' German rubs shoulders with hippies and the Afrocentric. 

Other clichés abound, however. You have your dread-locked, white bo-ho types. One woman walks around in what I assume is a very loose halterneck underneath the baby-carrier strapped to her chest. I soon realise she's topless. Only her infant comes between her breasts and the elements (this doesn’t wholly prevent some spillage, mind you). 

There are plenty of proud African men with their European wives/girlfriends in tow; sporting blonde braids and wearing matching wax or kente.

Sona Jobarteh @ The Emmendingen African Festival, August 2019
(c) Gilles Dolatabadi

There are comparatively few women of African descent in the vicinity. A few are selling their wares or mingling in the crowd. 

You could count them all though, jokes Serafine. 

Even at an African culture festival we’re all but invisible.

Some consolation can be found in the fact that the festival is being closed by a strong, talented and resourceful African woman. Sona graces the stage with a regal presence, resplendent in a native red and gold ensemble; her heavy-looking kora strapped to her front (occasionally swapped for the guitar). She has the sharp, figure-eight curves I see on few other women. A little bit of representation goes a long way.

Gael is smitten. He claims her as his wife. Agnès and I threaten to tell his boyfriend, Patric.

T'inquiètes. I’ll just tell him I found better!

I watch with a mix of admiration and unease as Sona pushes past the pain barrier to pluck intricate melodies on her chosen instrument. She does call-and-response stand-off instrumentals with her effervescent percussionist, who habitually challenges his fellow musicians and the audience to keep up. Sona welcomes her son on stage to play the balafon; an African xylophone. The bashful but focused young gent holds his own. He is a pupil at a school Jobarteh has established in Gambia, where local children are immersed in their culture and history alongside standard academic subjects. It’s a superb initiative which she hopes will spread across the continent.

During a rendition of the ode she wrote to celebrate the country's 50th anniversary of independence, Sona calls out to her compatriots. They have shown up in full force to support. There are probably more Gambians present that evening than I’ve come across cumulatively. So elated are they to be represented by their countrywoman, a number of them leap on stage before being ushered away by sluggish security.

Gael is not amused to see other suitors vying for his would-be spouse’s affections.

Is this how they carry on in the Gambia? He says, with mock-indignation. I’m going to write a strongly-worded letter to the embassy!

The feverish atmosphere is contagious. I dance to the very end despite my aching legs. Our group hangs around to chat, take pics (Gael) and stalk Sona (Gael again). 

Unlike me, Serafine has work in the morning.  She nonetheless kindly offers to drop me off home.

At last, we head to her car. A parking ticket has appeared on her windshield. She shrugs it off.

An hour-and-a-half later of deep discussion on the road, and it’s after midnight by the time I step through the door.

Soundtrack: Tabansi Records Sampler– Various Artists (BBE Records)

* LVS will be on a summer break until September. Bel été ! *

La Vie Lyonnaise Part 2

Place St Jean (thisislyon.fr)

Part 1

My birthday is at the start of the week.  I book a place on a cheap-as-chips walking tour that morning. I’ve developed a taste for these guided ambles since living in Strasbourg. Not much else to do on a Monday. 

I’m also looking forward to some human contact in a group setting. Having lived ‘abroad’ for a little while, travelling alone sometimes loses its novelty. As much as I like the freedom, I miss regular conversation all the same.

A sizeable group of us gathers at Place St. Jean in Lyon City Centre. The tour is led by towering Dutchman, Paul. He moved to Lyon six years ago and has never looked back. The free tour is his latest solo business venture, making money through tips. 

For the next two hours, he will take us through a whistle-stop overview of Vieux Lyon; one of the largest surviving Renaissance towns. We weave in and out of a couple of the 600 (approx) traboules -or secret passageways -as Paul informs us of their role during the French Resistance, amongst other things. He explains the City’s ancient, medieval and modern architecture, the ever-changing layout of its religious edifices; its past reputation as a hub of the silk industry and how its proximity to rich arable land gives it a culinary advantage. Throughout the tour, he recommends some eating establishments. 

It’s a perfect summer’s day and Paul is an affable guide. It beats disappearing into some mawkish mental rabbit-hole as I mope about getting older.

It’s midday before we know it. 

I wouldn’t normally entertain the thought of a three-course lunch but heck. It's a special occasion…

Following one of Paul's recommendations, I choose somewhere traditional with a reasonably-priced menu and a head-waiter wearing a rictus grin (I have a Pavlovian response to return the same artificial smile and hate myself for it). I’m seated discreetly in a tight corner of the bistro. 

The amicable American woman sitting next to me, squeezes past to pay her bill. She asks where I’m from. Alas, I believe my anglophone intonation has betrayed me once more. I compliment hers and her daughter’s French. Her husband is Francophone, she shares. When she mentions they're local, I find it reassuring that they’ve chosen to lunch in that establishment.

The meal is satisfying, save for the rubbery texture of the Tarte aux Pralines.

The heavy lunch has made me more flustered still in this warm weather.

I make for the ‘futuristic’ district of Confluence where the rivers Rhone and Saône meet (another of Paul's recommendations). En route, I'm touched to see my French mobile filled with birthday messages from my church family.

Natural History Museum at Confluence, Lyon

Confluence's central area is being transformed into a high-tech, eco-friendly utopia apparently. One that still relies heavily on commerce, mind you.

The district does boast some of the most daring architecture I’ve seen. I miss out unintentionally on the Natural History Museum which, according to Paul, resembles a spaceship. What he hasn't mentioned is the Navly; a driver-less electric shuttle service unique to the area. Given that it’s a pilot scheme, passengers board at their own risk. There is nonetheless a good-natured conductor present to supervise these dry-runs. It’s a relaxing, air conditioned trundle around the peninsula, endowed with stunning Mediterranean views.

I do a quick detour to the flat before dinner. I’ve tried to make reservations at the small but popular Lebanese place I couldn’t get into a couple of days prior. No response. I chance it. I’m not surprised to find the restaurant plunged in darkness without a soul in sight.

It’s a quick and easy metro to Cordeliers, where I’ve spotted another Lebanese eatery in the vicinity.

Once again, I’m seated in a corner; far from the inconsiderate smokers monopolising the terrace, comme d'habitude.

There’s little chance of being disturbed since there's not much of a Monday crowd...

I speak too soon. 

Couples and clans start trickling in. Three generations of a Middle-Eastern family sit opposite. In their midst is a fleshy-cheeked, cross-eyed baby; around a year old. He’s adorable. The only tot in the party, he keeps himself entertained; lost is in his own little world. Occasionally, his fidgeting and whimpering irritate his mum. I watch, transfixed. I start ruminating my own life journey. I sense the same old conflict between enjoying my independence and being somewhat incredulous that I’m in my late 30s, celebrating another birthday single. A lifetime commitment both appeals and fills me with trepidation. It is to open oneself up to the risk of hurt and betrayal as much as love and companionship. At least my life is far less complicated at the moment.

Rue de St Marie des Terreaux (courtesy of Deviant Art)

I marvel at motherhood; at the same time terrified of the life-altering responsibility of being a parent. I’m introspective as usual but not sad. 

This is the life I have even if it’s not what I thought it would be. It’s the life I am supposed to have at this point in time; even if it’s not all I’d hoped it would be. I am alive. I am grateful.

It’s another early-ish start the following morning; the last full day of mon excursion lyonnaise. I am so impressed with the amount of ground covered on Paul’s first tour, I book a place on another. I'm not the only one. I recognise some faces from the morning before, including the Brazilian woman with whom I was making faltering conversation in Portuguese.  

Starting in the Place des Terreaux, we take an uphill route via Croix-Rousse and back down again to the old Jewish quarter of Vieux Lyon. I enjoy this tour even more than the last. Paul leads us through parts of the City’s Bohemian district that I’d never have found left to my own devices when I passed through on the weekend.

He talks and walks us through more of the City’s roman history and identifies the famous Lyonnais that grace a majestic fresco. The traboules of Croix-Rousse might be less famous than that of Vieux Lyon but to me are more enchanting.

I am repeatedly awe-struck by central Lyon’s gorgeous vistas. It’s a shame I’m out of the habit of carrying a camera. I’ve left behind my Nokia feature phone (including basic camera) to avoid being disturbed.

Lyon's size surprises me. I underestimate how much there is to discover. I am used to visiting and/or living in French cities that are more like big-ish towns (from a London perspective in any case). More so than Marseille, Lyon has the feel of a proper city; akin to Paris.

Another two hours evaporate in Paul's company. I pick up some edible souvenirs after the tour before making a beeline for the metro.

I adapt my schedule according to my fatigue. My next main sightseeing stop is limited to Le Parc de la Tete D’Or; a substantial stretch of green that contains within its confines a lake, a botanical garden and a zoo.

La Fresque des Lyonnais (courtesy of This is Lyon)

The morning walk is catching up with me. As much as I’d like to cover the expanse of the park, my feet won’t allow it. I settle for lunch near the lake (fending off curious geese) and a peek at the giraffes, flamingos and deer. Alas, the bears and lemurs are nowhere to be seen.

It’s back to the accommodation for some French TV and a siesta. Refreshed, I venture out to another Trip-Advisor recommended restaurant. 

Thus far, I’ve not had the fortune of dining at any of those on my list. 

Tonight will be no exception. A note has magically appeared on the door of my bistro of choice: closed for a summer break. No prior warning on their website.

Thanks to all-knowing-guide Paul, I have a back-up plan. I’m craving crèpes so re-route to Bananas in Vieux Lyon. The harried-looking waiter barks an acknowledgement as I approach. He’s so unrelentingly abrupt, I change my mind. Not before giving him a piece of it first. Well, as much as I can in a second language. I’m not able to shake off his rudeness for a while.

Against my better judgement, I’m convinced by a personable waiter and cut-price menu to eat at the sort of non-descript establishment our Nordic tour guide advises we avoid. The décor is sombre, there’s no atmosphere and the meat still looks under-cooked despite my instructions (on health grounds) that it be well-done. The courteous service somewhat compensates. 

As far as Lyon being France’s culinary capital is concerned, my experience has been underwhelming. Notwithstanding the fickle-opening hours, the traditional cuisine of any-old-animal parts isn’t enticing. An acquaintance from Alsace warned me not to believe the hype. Maybe a longer stay during a different season could have convinced me otherwise.

Still hankering for pancakes, I order a delicious salted-caramel and vanilla ice-cream crèpe from a parlour I’ve been eyeing up since I arrived.

My attention is drawn to the large flat screen TV. I am fixated by a news report about the tragic death in Nantes of a young man named Steve Maia Caniço. Having disappeared for over a month, his body has just been retrieved from a river. He reportedly fell into the water as an indirect result of excessive police force. Later, on the way to the metro station I’ll notice graffiti on a bridge that has popped up all over France in the preceding weeks: ‘Où-est Steve ?’.

Before then, I take a stroll along the Rhone and join the other dreamers sitting along its paved banks. The Basilica/Fouvrière are glittering in the distance. I should leave to begin packing. Yet I am mesmerised by the combined audio-visual pleasure of the city lights shimmering on water, and good tunes courtesy of the new Tuxedo album.

At last, I pull myself away from the serenity. My journey comes full circle when I find myself back at Place des Terreaux, where some 12 hours ago the walking tour began.

Soundtrack: Tuxedo III by Tuxedo.

La Vie Lyonnaise Part 1

Basilica Notre Dame de Fouvrière

Part 2

As has become tradition, I’m heading down South for my birthday weekend to discover another French city. It’s a toss-up between Avignon (for the Tremplin Jazz Festival; long time on my bucket list), Nice and Lyon. The latter wins out. The Jazz festival doesn’t overlap with my birthday this year. Nice is high on my wish-list but further away and probably best avoided during the holiday peak season.

I’ve heard only good things about Lyon. It is said to be the gastronomical capital of France. This accolade could arguably extend to the world if you took an especially Eurocentric perspective on what makes good food. But I’ll put the seal back on that can of worms.

I plan my sight-seeing and food-eating itinerary for my sojourn with a degree of flexibility. Post-heatwave thunderstorms are forecast for the weekend. I restrict my activity for the first couple of days, on the assumption that anything too ambitious would be a washout.

Mon aventure Lyonnaise begins one Friday night in late July. I’ve taken a half-day off work to catch an evening train. On my way to the station I bump into recent acquaintance, Gustavo; originally from Mozambique. We first met one afternoon when mum was in town.  He spontaneously began a conversation that afternoon and has been keen to keep it going ever since. He defers his own evening promenade to accompany me to the train station. He wastes no time posing age-old existential questions. ‘What are your biggest dreams?’ or ‘Do you know yourself?’. Oddly enough, I’ve been reflecting on the same of late. It’s a good linguistic and cerebral workout, endeavouring to do justice to Gustavo’s transcendant queries in the few minutes waiting for my Ouigo.

After the train’s later-than-expected arrival and a frantic search for my seat, it’s a relatively smooth ride to Lyon. Save for the late evening storms. They apparently can't even wait for the weekend proper to rain on our parade.

Various passengers take a seat beside me during the course of the journey. One woman makes a comment whilst I'm munching on a miniature packet of Haribo. Its meant in jest. I take it as just another example of French hyper-scrutiny. It’s when she’s leaving and asks about my onward journey that I realise, to my regret, she’s only been trying to make conversation.

The incident as well as the short story collection I am reading gives me the urge to write. I grab my laptop from my suitcase. The remaining hours of the journey fly by.

Alighting at Lyon just after 10pm, Part Dieu station is alive with activity. I brave the rain and rush to the tram stop, following closely the transport instructions provided by my absent Airbnb host, Marion. I try and gauge the city’s cleanliness from what I’ve seen so far. Strasbourg has spoiled me in that regards. There are few cities I’ve visited that are as clean.

By big city standards, Lyon is pretty good on that front. In particular, the public transport is new and pleasing to the eye. Jazz, Soul, Funk and Disco classics blast from the metro stations’ speakers whilst we wait.

With little fuss, I locate my accommodation in the suburb of Villeurbanne. I succeed in retrieving the flat keys based on Marion’s espionage-style instructions. They lead me to a deserted car park in the basement. My fertile imagination starts to go wild; conjuring theories of elaborate ruses and ambush.

Nothing to fear. Once safely inside I find Marion’s digs more attractive and spacious than the photos give credit. I unpack, shower, pray and then it’s off to bed.

The following morning my usual holiday/day-off dilemma scuppers any chance of a real lie-in. I know I should take advantage of the fluid timetable to rest for longer. Yet I don't want to waste a minute.

First I need some supplies. It’s a wonder I'm eating at all. I let curiosity get the better of me that morning and use the electronic bathroom scales. I don’t own one myself for fear of it becoming the life-controlling obsession it has been in the past.

I am deflated by the numbers. My body stubbornly refuses to yield to efforts to closely monitor what I eat; always take the stairs instead of the lift, walk regularly and the like. It could also be pesky pre-menstrual pounds. All I know is capitulating to this masochistic urge puts me in a funk early in the day from which I don’t totally recover.

The 4th Arrondissement: Lyon's Bohemian district

On the bright side – literally - the weather is holding up very well. I expect to be awakened by violent thunder and torrential rain. Instead, it’s warm with bursts of sunshine.

I’m cautious nevertheless. I head to the second arrondissement as planned, assuming I’ll only have a limited window before the heavens open.

On the bus to Bellecour, I am disappointed by the number of road and building works marring the City’s topography. It’s only as we pass through the third and then second arrondissement that I notice its aesthetic appeal. La Place Bellecour is impressive; more so the resplendent place of worship overlooking the city on a distant hill. I pop into the tourist centre for some information and a city map. La Basilique Notre Dame de Fourvière is not originally part of my itinerary but I’m open to change. Not least because the storms have not (yet) materialised. It is also an opportunity to take the famous ficelle cable car to the top of the hill. 

Alas, the ride is too short to be great fun. 

On my way from Minimes station to Fourvière by foot, I take a detour via the Lugdunum roman ruins. The site is also the venue for a summer music festival. Strains of West-meets-East arrangements can be heard as an experimental band do a sound check. Not even an entrance fee to worry about during the day.

I’m apprehensive about entering the Basilica on seeing the crowds. I usually like these spaces for their peace and quiet. Thankfully, a polite but assertive steward keeps order with regular amplified shushing. I move around the Basilica’s main hall, crypt and oratory at a leisurely pace. I examine the ceiling design and spend time in front of a mural depicting Christ’s ministry, trying to decipher the sequence of events. I do my best to stop my mind wandering to maudlin places, not entirely successful. Eventually the excessive veneration of Mary is too much for my charismatic-protestant sensibilities. The day has vanished. The heavens finally open. 

By the time I head out for dinner that evening, the modest-sized TripAdvisor-recommended Lebanese restaurant can’t accommodate even a solitary diner. Too late to risk trekking across town in this weather to any of the other establishments on my list. It’s bog standard kebab that night; albeit with personable service.

Sundays in Europe are always a challenge in terms of adequate distractions. The continent might be largely secular but they don’t play with their Sabbath.

I reason that it's a good time to visit the parts of town that might otherwise be busy. After wrestling with and then giving up on my Google maps printout, I eventually make my way to the Fourth Arrondissement; known as Lyon’s Bo-ho district. I descend at Croix Rousse Station and pass a bar/restaurant called ‘The Dog’s B*****ks’ (in English), on my way to a verdant vantage point overlooking the city.

Having caught the eye of some sketchy-looking characters, I keep it moving.

Meandering around these leafy quarters, with its high, clustered citrus-coloured buildings, I question whether it was a good idea to visit on a Sunday. Families are out enjoying the (intermittent) sunshine and not much else. I observe that a number of businesses are shut for weeks on end. It’s the first time I’ve seen these many summer closures in the southern region. (I will later discover that the Lyonnais head en masse even further South or to the Alps for their holidays.)

I’m obligated to postpone some of my other sight-seeing schedule, having set out later than planned that afternoon. To avoid a repetition of the previous evening’s dining issues, I start out earlier. My plans fall at the first, second and third hurdle. My preferred establishments are either closed or too far away. I traverse the City from hilly St Just down to Hotel de Ville Louis Pradel. Agitated, I walk around the first arrondissement wondering whether to risk another wasted journey.

Meanwhile, the sun is showing more commitment than it has all day. I begin to notice the attractive surroundings. I’ve stumbled into the bar and restaurant district. In the near distance is a delicious view of Vieux Lyon. I decide to return to my holiday tradition of letting spontaneity determine where I eat. I take my time to choose. Whilst studying one local menu, my attention is pulled towards an inebriated table singing-or rather yelling- tunes from The Lion King score. Whether they’ve just seen the remake or it’s for my ‘benefit’, I can’t tell.

Tarte aux Pralines

Put off by the either rowdy or gawking crowd (as if it’s a crime to dine alone), I settle on a welcoming restaurant that specialises in tartines. It’s light on the pocket too. I have forgotten that tartine is French for glorified toast, instead of little short-crust pastries. My dinner is really an elaborate snack. Whilst awaiting my order, I jot down notes for this blog. It occurs to me that the establishment might mistake me for a food critic. The waitress appears a little nervous. She’s particularly attentive, asking how I found the starter and main.

Not bad.

I don’t intend to be withholding. At least I can praise the more-ish tarte à la praline dessert (another Lyon speciality) and the good customer service.

Back outside, crepuscular views of the Rhone river call out to me. City lights in the distance beckon me further. I’m hoping to end up at Vieux Lyon metro. Instead, I duck in and out of side streets, paying criminal prices for run-of-the-mill pic’n’mix (I only felt sorry for the sales assistant) and getting wonderfully lost. So much for an early night.

It’s a highlight of the trip so far; all the better for being unanticipated.

I arrive back at Hotel de Ville metro station; just in time to hear Chet Baker’s rendition of Not For Me blaring through the speakers. My soprano gleefully accompanies Chet’s baritone whilst my train approaches. Apart from a couple of chancers making overtures (one more aggressive than the other) and a man vomiting violently at Part Dieu tram stop, it’s a drama-free late night commute back to my accommodation.

Soundtrack: Tuxedo III by Tuxedo.