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.