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.