L'Hiver becomes L'Enfer: That Time Europe Turned Against Me (Part 4)

I got to the train station no problem. Was it thanks in part to the voices on the Strasbourg trams who announce each stop? Unlike other cities, there is a man, a woman, and a child. Each stop is also accompanied by its own special music. It’s a bit strange, actually. No uniformity. Which is surprising given its proximity to and cultural infiltration by Germany.
          Naturally, the train was about 10 minutes late. No big deal, though. Especially considering my former travel woes. Ten minutes is like a walk in the park. When the train pulled to a stop at the voie (platform), everyone jammed on board. Except everyone was super confused because your ticket had a car and seat number. What was missing from this train? Car and seat numbers. So everyone kind of flailed around before choosing a seat that would have approximately been his/hers.
          On the sign next to the train, it didn’t say the train station I needed was a stop. So when I got on, I was a bit nervous. The thing about French trains is that they generally don’t list the stops at all. If they do, they only list the major ones, so you may be able to get to your general area, but perhaps not your actual desired destination. Luckily, someone had put up some paper signs on the doors that said, indeed, Strasbourg—Luxembourg--Bruxelles were stops. Little did I know that they meant Luxembourg the country and not my train station, Bruxelles Luxembourg. The reason I didn’t get off in Luxembourg (as good a story as that would have NOT made) was because my ticket said what time my journey was to end. So I just kind of waited ‘til that time.
           When the conductor came around, though, I made sure to ask if we would be stopping at Bruxelles Luxembourg. He assured me that we would be. Then I realized I didn’t know which stop it was, so when the next guy came around, I asked. He said it was the second. Which didn’t make sense since we were already at the 3rd stop by the time he came around. Oh well. I knew it couldn’t be any worse than my bus ride to Barça so I just leaned back and took some photos of the passing landscape.

God's country?

When I got to the correct station, I wasn’t really sure. At first, I was like, “Yes. This is me.” But then the signage changed as the train furthered into the station. So I was all, “Erm. Maybs not?” Asked the conductor and he assured me that my first inner dialogue was correct!

So I got off and realized that it was rapsotively freezing in there.  So I went to the salle d’atteinte (waiting room) hoping for some warmth.  Pipe dream.  It was marginally warmer, if only because the doors sometimes closed.  But it was definitely obvious to me that this was not a good train station in which to spend oodles of time.  Thank goodness Fiorella, her mom Sylvia (whom I fondly call Consuela), and Sylvia’s BF Manny showed up just then.

            We trudged through the snow back to their hotel where we had a bit of a rest before heading back to the outside.  We made our way to a Christmas market near the center of town.  But since they’ve all been to Brussels loads, they took me on a little scenic tour first.  We first went to “The Grand Place,” which, during the summer, is filled with flowers.  Photos of it are impressive and drool-worthy.  But, since it was the dead of winter, none of that.  But there were Christmas trees, so that’s the same, right?  It also had the City Town Hall.

            We walked through and looked about a bit until Manny led the way to Brussels’s main claim to fame: Manneken-Pis.  It’s a statue of a boy peeing.  Naturally, its origins are unknown.  One story is that the statue was built to commemorate a battle where the then infant Duke Godfrey III of Leuven urinated on the troops of the Berthouts, prompting them to lose the battle.  No matter where he came from, he’s super popular, and they dress him up in all kinds of outfits. 

Kids do the darnedest things.

            We eventually came to the Christmas market where Manny got oysters that were, quite frankly, not good.  But he loved them.  Fi got a snausage, and Sylvia didn’t eat anything, actually.  I couldn’t settle on a meal.  Boohoo.

            Luckily, we came upon the Moroccan tent.  Each year, the UN chooses a country to have a special place at the market and this year was Morocco.  Some country with reindeer did it last time they were there.  Anyway, we went inside, and I think it was supposed to be like, “Look!  You’re in Morocco!”  But in a way that’s prolly super touristy.  But it was nice.  AND WARM.  Which is the most important thing.  They had this massive and massively delicious looking display of food, so I dropped some scrilla to get a pita (HOW I’VE MISSED IT!) filled with chicken. Sylvia got some mint tea.

            When we came out of the tent, I stopped to take a video of what Fi kept insisting was the hipsterest carousel of all time.  She may be right.

Don’t worry, guy!  I wasn’t filming or anything. 
 We went to yet another Christmas market, with some of the smallest carousel seats (as in a little girl looked trapped in one) and walked around.  We stopped into a dish store because apparently Sylvia loves those.  Fi and I jammed to the music.  Why?  Because they were playing Willow Smith’s “Whip My Hair.”  Fi walked me through the music video since I’d never seen it before.  We wandered around for a bit longer, but it was starting to get dark, so we wended our way back to the hotel for a washing up before dinner.  Don’t worry, though.  On the way back, we saw another peeing statue. 

Dogs do the darnedest things.

Apparently there’s another one of a girl, called the Jeannenken-Pis, but, alas, we did not complete the trifecta. 

Also, as we walked, we saw some façade at The Great Place.  It had nothing on the Fête des Lumières, but it did have Santa doing a somersault, so that was impressive.  

No Santa here!

After getting to the hotel, we quickly turned back around to get to Manny’s aunt’s house.  We went inside and went up the three flights to her apartment.  Even though Tia (Maria, but whom everyone calls Tia) owns the whole building of full-floor apartments, hers in on the 3^rd floor.  Her ex-husband has Parkinson’s and she continues to take care of him and has him live on the first floor.  Some girl from Mali lives on the second floor.  I think she’s part of the family in some way?  Anyway, when we walked in, I was introduced to two of Tia’s sons.  Both of their names start with Ds, but I can’t remember what they are.  (UPDATE:  Fi’s informed me that their names are Desmond and Dennis.)  Their wives names, however, are Mitzi and Snow.  The Ds now live in Canada.  Snow is from China.  And Mitzi is from Australia.  Tia is from Portugal.  The whole Manny/Tia family is Chinese, but they collectively moved to Mozambique at some point.  It was an international delight.

While we waited for dinner to be ready, Tia told us we could watch TV.  They have channels in English!  We came in during the last 30 seconds of Saved by the Bell, which was the biggest cocktease of all time.  We searched for more English for a bit but then just settled into talking to each other.  Such a letdown.

We had some Portuguese food.  Much of which was fried.  Then we had some tomato and cabbage soup?  I’m honestly grabbing at straws here.  At some point, I was brought into the conversation, and I kind of explained what Belley is like.  Tia told us a story of how she used to know this man who was strange.  And she said to him, “Why are you so odd?”  And he told her he used to live in Antarctica or the North Pole.  Underground, he would listen to hours of radio listening for codes or something.  So then they told me,

“Jessica, it could be worse.  You could be doing that.”  And they’re right.  But how sad is it that it goes from Belley to living underground?  Sad but true.

We left quite late in the evening, but just in time to make the last metro back to the hotel.

More street lights.
Red means stop!

The next morning, Manny woke us up and told us to get out and do it.  So Fi and I did.  (Manny and Sylvia went in search of a Laundromat.)  Fi and I went back to the Christmas markets from the day before so I could try a Belgian waffle.  1 activity I had meant to conquer: CHECK.  We kept on moving, though, so we could go to this hipster-looking café for hot cocoa for me and coffee for Fi.  It was totally hipster and totally satisfying.  They had hot choc-o-lait on sticks, which is kind of all the rage here.  (With good reason.  It’s delicious.)  Voilà.

Fi and I basically wandered around vintage stores and shopping.  That’s kind of our thing.  In the afternoon, when my feet were just about ice cubes, we decided to stop.  I got some vin chaud.  I had just taken a sip of it and said, “This is not good,” when some Belgian hooligans came by with their brand of tom foolery.  As soon as I put my cup down, BOOM!  A snowball fell straight into the cup and covered me in hot, spiced, red wine.  Was this a relief since I had just said that I didn’t like it?  No.  Was it pretty standard for my luck?  Yes.  There was nothing to do but ask the girl behind the stand for some napkins.  In any other world, when things like this happen and it’s obvious that everyone around sees it (including the salesclerk), another one is offered.  In Europe, though, sucks to be you!  Fi got a crêpe before we moved on.  I was looking for some wool socks or a new hat to replace the one on my head.  But no dice.  I stopped to get some old-fashioned candies that I didn’t really enjoy.  They were super gummy and not what I expected, but I kept them because why not? 

Stumbled upon some permanent art installations.

Was that Japanese game show inspired by this?

It's missing two "ho"s!

Then we wandered around looking for some Belgian chocolate for me to bring back to Jen.  We went into this place called Chocopolis.  It was WAY too expensive.  I mean, I got her some basic dark chocolate drops, but they were legitimately the least expensive thing there besides macarons.  I think the lowest priced box of chocolates was like 35€.  They were also playing Cee-Lo’s “Fuck You” in there.  Unedited!  Again, not speaking English lets you get away with playing whatever you want. 

We ended up going to Leonidas to get a box of chocolates.  Part of me cringed, because I could’ve gotten that on Larchmont at home, but oh well.  From the source!

As we walked, I saw a man painting the window.  Adorbs.

Live art.

We then went back to the hotel because I was going to freeze.  Then we went back and watched some Casper in French.  Fi also offered me her copy of The Color Purple, which was very exciting for me since I had finished Frankenstein on the train to her.  We also watched this BBC news story about this woman who had acquired an accent after having a stroke.  It was really strange and quite easily bogus.  And maybe a little bit racist?

Then we went back to Tia’s for some dinner.  Before we ate, though, Fi and I started playing her Chinese solitaire game.  It quickly became an obsession.  We still haven’t mastered it, but perhaps you can?

More good food and good times.  Snow is an amazing storyteller.  She told us all about how she threw out her back.  I will never forget it.  Sorry.  No video!

Again, we left just in time for the last train. 

The next morning, we left for the train station around 7:20 to get there for my 7:53 train.  Manny and Fi walked me there, and we got there with just a few minutes to spare.  I went down the stairs to the platform.  At 7:53, the train had’t shown up.  Tick tock tick tock.  7:55.  Supprimé.  CANCELLED.  Awesome.  I ran upstairs to see if Fi and Manny were still there.  No dice.  I called and texted Fi hoping that I could just go back with them until the next train, but she wasn’t answering.  Which makes sense since international charges are a mess.

So I got in line with all the others to see when the next train would be.  At 1pm.  Since it was snowing outside, I hunkered in for a nice long wait.  Please know that I knew nothing about this wait would be nice.  Anyway, I went to get some tea and sit in the only open thing (aka only area with heat) in the train station.  I tried to make it last, but after a while, it was obvious I wasn’t going to be buying anymore and I felt bad.  So I went to sit in the waiting room.  I put on a second pair of socks, pulled on my gloves even tighter, and tied my hat under my chin.  I couldn’t take it, though.  So I went back to the “restaurant.” 

I was about to go back inside when I realized that I might need to make a different ticket reservation.  So I got into the line again.  As soon as I got to the front of the line, guy closed the window and said the next woman would be there shortly.  So I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  LIAR!  I went to the other line and he told me just to be at the platform early. 

I went and got a sandwich before taking a seat.  When a table freed up, I left my stool for it.  Because I hate seats without backs.  Does anyone like them?  As I sat there, I wrote a short short of the non-fiction variety on the back of a newspaper after I did the Sudoky in it.  Leave me alone for its overdramatism.

“December 24 Brussels”

The old man wanders back and forth across the large white tiled floor.  Its squares marked by the dirt from roller board suitcases.  His faded parka bespeaks of its former burnt orange glory.  What would have been a glory in the white outside the train station.  That white unblemished but for footsteps and the pinpricks of water droplets from window radiators.

On his head, a forest green knit hat that goes into his white bears and oval glasses.  Back and forth he walks, sliding the flaky buttery crumbs of croissants and pain de noël left by passengers long since on their trains.  He tells a joke to the poorly scheduled girl behind the counter with the red and white sleeping cap who offers tea with a smile and warm wishes.  She laughs with a clap.  He drifts back, his shoulders hunch and his jacket puckers open.  Back to his corner.  A table he had shared with an old woman before she left him there.  “Bon appétit, monsieur,” he calls over and over from the corner.

Eventually it’s near enough to departure time that I figure I can go stand outside and just stare at the departures board.  So I starts to standing and listening to music.  Mistake.  Mariah Carey’s “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)” almost sets me to crying in the station.  Why didn’t I go back home I ask myself.  NO answers.  Anyway, 15 minutes before the train’s to arrive, it says that it’s delayed 40 minutes.  Awesome. 

Eventually, it’s time to go downstairs.  So I go to the voie.  There are a lot of people on it but I’m not too mussed.  When the train pulls up, though, and I see people making mad dashes, though, that’s when I get nervous. 

Sometimes on trains (as I’ve mentioned/experienced here before), one car goes one place and the other car goes another.  So I was trying to find the second class car going where I was going.  So I passed up the first few even though everyone was just clamoring to get on.  I finally found one that looked right and I started trying to get on.  But then the conductor said there wasn’t anymore space! 

The woman next to me started getting hysterical.  She went to the train’s windows and started yelling at all the people inside to move for the rest of us.  Move!  Move!!  I guess they didn’t.  Then the woman started pointing to this girl next to her (presumably her daughter) saying that there were children who needed to get on the train.  This train was legit lifeboats on the Titanic.  (Thanks, Parker Brogdon, for that metaphor.)  She pushed in front of me and said, “People need to get on this train.”

 I responded, “Moi aussi.”  (Me too.)  When the conductor moved, though, she just pushed her way on by herself.  That little girl was just a pawn!  The conductor closed the door and walked away.  Wait, though.  I was still outside.  Ack!  So I stopped thinking I wasn’t gonna make it on and I just opened the door and got on.  Thank god I was using Jen’s little backpack instead of my big bag because I fit like a bug in a rug. 

A different conductor came back later and closed the door.  Success!  It was crazy full in there.  Never have I ever been on so ridiculously a standing room only train.  At the next stop, I got to move further inside so that I wasn’t standing against the door.  Now I could see the sad state of affairs.  People were even sitting in the bathroom—on the toilet, on the floor, leaning on the walls.  The loud woman was still causing a scene because she needed to wee, but where were these people gonna go?  No dice, fool. 

At the next stop I got moved in a bit further so that I was standing in the aisle.  Thank goodness I had my gross gummies with me because I was starving.  Each stop we made took about 15 minutes because we were trying to pack as many people in as possible.  Because of all this and because of some random stops that we made in the middle of nowhere for 30+ minutes at a time, the 5 hours train ride ended up actually taking 10 hours.  So I had plenty of time to take photos.  Here is what those 10 hours were like:

Actual train.

This was later because there was enough space to sit down.  See everyone standing in the background?

I started creeping a mixed family (mother and 2 sons) that was sitting near me.  I listened to Christmas music.  I really wanted to be all cinematic and start a sing-a-long, but they’re European.  And I already felt conspicuous enough when Jen and Katelin (who, oh yeah!, were together because Katelin was arriving in Strasbourg for the holiday on that day.  Christmas Eve.) kept calling to see where I was like I would know.  And I was all speaking in English.  Also, Katelin and Jen had never met before Jen went to get her from the tram stop. 

When we had a few stops left, the mom of the mixed family asked if I wanted to sit down while her boys got off at the stop for a bit.  I accepted.  Guess I wasn’t creeping too creepily after all.  When they came back, I moved and asked some guys if a seat was full.  They said, “It’s free.”  IN ENGLISH!  I was legit shocked and excited and hurried to get my bag and make it mine.  They were Russian, though.  Triste.  As soon as I sat down, they pulled out their legit bag of beers and started throwin’ em back. 

Random side notes: There was a dog (a black lab) on the train this WHOLE time.  S/He was very well behaved and just laid under the seat the whole time.   There was a baby on board (no sign) who was good until the end.

Eventually I got off the train.  And I went to go wait for a taxi because the trams had stopped running at 6pm because of some strike.  Anyway, I went out front to get a taxi but when I asked the only taxi there if he was accepting passengers, he said nah.  Typical.  So I waited out front for a while to see if any would show up.  I kept waiting while the chunks of snow kept falling and nearly decapitating innocent passers-by.  Jen asked if I was in a cab yet.  Nope.  So she called to make a reservation for me.  They said I’d have to wait an hour.  I needed to be in the same taxi area as everyone else.  I thought I was.  But then I went back inside and saw that there was an itty bitty little sign at the last minute that said instead of going straight, I needed to go right. 

So I did.  I waited about 45 minutes.  There was this ragtag family of nearly homeless and fully crazy Frenchies who stole a cab.  Then the group of 5 in front of me started getting in the cab.  They started putting their bags in the trunk until the guy was like, I can only take 4 bags.  They said, what if we put it inside the car?  He said nah.  Then he looked at me and said, “You.  Let’s go.”  As bad as I felt, I had to do it.  So I did.  I think I got to Jen’s just after midnight.  And we had mac’n’cheese, eggplant parmesan, and a shot a whiskey.

The end is so close I can taste it-ly,

Jessica

I Ain't Lyin'--I Was in Lyon.

As mentioned before, my interwebs don’t work so on Friday (Nov. 5?) I decided to do somethin' about it.  Britney style.  So I made my way to the Carrefour et centre commercial (shopping center) to chat up my dear friends at the Telecom booth.  It took nearly an hour to buy a USB internet thingy.  I came out excited at my newfound information superhighway freedom.  I then went around the roundabout to get to the Macdo so that I could take care of some business such as uploading photos to dis blawg, checking Facebook, and purchasing train tickets to Paris for Thanksgiving.  Went off without hitch.

            I then booked it back up the hill to get to Belley center in order to purchase some cheese (Brillat-Savarin, as I had tasted at the food festival last month) and some pastries from the patisserie because, oh my, I had been invited to a dinner party in Lyon.  This came about rather suddenly, actually.  In my pathetic attempts to make friendships out of nothing, I had decided to email one of the girls I met during the stage at Bourg-en-Bresse.  Wouldn’t you know she was considering planning a dinner party for this past weekend.  Naturally, I encouraged her to do it as it would mean an excuse to get into Lyon (where she lives) for the weekend.  I do everything selfishly.  And so she invited people.  I mentioned to Carine that this fête (party) was a possibility but that I had not yet seen anyone respond positively or negatively to the email invitation and she insisted—insisted!—that I ask Katelin if I could come anyway.  This being France, I was less hesitant to impose myself that if I had been in Uhmerrica.  So I emailed and because everyone wants to hang out with me, she agreed.  Carine also offered me a free ride to Lyon and so I accepted because I’m not made out of money.  Carine said we would leave at 5.

            So, having left the Macdo at 3:30, I was a bit nervous about being ready on time.  Well, everything turned out fine and at 5, I was sitting patiently with my bags packed.  Around 5:17, I got nervous and thought that Carine had left without me.  So I started looking around the halls, but obvio no one was there because it was Friday after 5.  So I texted Katelin that I had potentially been left behind.  I went downstairs to do—I actually didn’t have a plan.  I suppose I thought that I would go to the teacher’s lounge and see if anyone was in there or if Carine had already left.  As I was walking to the main yard, though, I saw who I guessed to be Carine walking back with Camille (another prof boarder) to the building.  My paranoia abated and I nearly clicked my heels as I ran back to the building to pretend that I had nonchalantly been waiting in my room.  Even though I had been totally chalant.

            It’s possible that Carine and Camille saw my chalance because Carine said something to me after she returned, but it was honestly too difficult to understand so I just said something between a yes and a no and laughed.  That’s my default answer in many situations.  Unless they look at me quizzically and then I ask them to repetez (repeat for the second plural, vous.  As in Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?  Ce soir?)  Anyway, the three of us walked to Carine’s car (for she and Camille just started carpooling or covoiturage) and set off.  Not much to report about the car ride to Lyon except I felt kind of sick riding in the backseat.  Oh well.  It was fo frizzle.

            Blahblahblah an hour and a half later, I was deposited at the Clinique Tonkin bus stop to meet Katelin.  But since I was to meet her at the Clinique Tonkin tram stop, I waited until Carine drove away and then walked to the tram stop.  Katelin and I made our way to her apartment, which she shares with a 55 (or 75—she’s not sure) year old woman from the Congo.  She’s uncertain of the woman’s age because the woman has not been living there and will not arrive until December 10.  She’s on vacation.  Love France’s schedule.  So Katelin has a real apartment.  With washing machine, dryer, dishwasher, oven.  It’s maaagic.  On the other hand, though, she has an hour-long commute and generally doesn’t finish work on Fridays until 9pm.  So, there’s that.  She was en train de (in the process of) eating dinner when I arrived, so I ate the quiche au fromage (cheese quiche) I had gotten from the boulangerie downstairs.  We had a few glasses of wine before we headed over to her friends’ apartment.

           These friends are three gentlemen from Brazil whom Katelin had met while staying at the hostel when she first moved to Lyon.  Helder, Andre, and Ivo are studying film at one of the universities in the city.  They’re delightful and incredibly accommodating.  They offered us pasta as soon as we came in as well as bread and pesto.  Katelin recently introduced them to pesto, and they seem to think it goes with everything: pasta, bread, spicy barbecue potato chips.  The five of us spent the evening listening to music, drinking wine, and chatting.  Did I mention that all of this happened IN FRENCH?  Because I obvio don’t speak Brazilian Portuguese, and their English was better than my Portuguese, but not great.  They did manage to teach me two words: bottom=fundo and I miss you=saudade.  Isn’t that lovely?  A word to summarize being without someone.  English and French are lacking. 

            I honestly could have listened to their speaking Portuguese all night, though.  It’s such a beautiful language.  My next project?  Mayhaps.  We listened to some samba and it reminded me of some songs that marked my childhood.  Here’s one that has one of the buzzwords from above.  Around 5 am, once the trains and buses and trams had started running again, Katelin and I left for some shuteye. 

            The next morning afternoon, we got up when Livia called to say she had arrived from Bellegarde, another small town where they’ve placed assistants.  Though hers has a train station.  So we went down to pick her up from the train station.  We sat in Katelin’s apartment for a bit, trading stories of assistantship, before Livia and I went to do the tourist thing while Katelin stayed behind to go for a run and tidy up.  We walked towards the Fourvière, which is a famous cathedral of which I had never heard.  On the way, though, we stopped to peruse a street sale of old French books and postcards (with writing still on the back!).

Naturally, nearby, there were men playing pétanque (boules).  Since Livia takes about 500 photos of each place that she goes, we stopped for photos quite a bit.  One of the men playing pétanque posed for Livia.  It was endearing.

             We walked along the river.  Pretty, right?

Please take note of the graffiti.  I loves it.

We were nearing the bridge we intended to cross when we realized it might be a tad difficult.  Why?  Well, naturally, the grève continues and so there were hundreds of people crossing in protest.  Smoke, flares, flags, signs, and the like included.  (Though none of the signs were as great as the ones at the protests to Restore Sanity and/or Fear.)  

But it was certainly a spectacle.  I don’t know if they do this every weekend or not.  Or if it’s like only the first weekends of the months in which they protest.  By the turnout, it would seem like it’s not a weekly occurrence.  But by the French attitude, it could easily happen every day.  I really have no idea.  On the other side of the bridge, they all stopped and this woman sitting on top of a car seemed to be leading the whole thing while people waved different colored flags about.

Livia and I couldn’t be too mussed, though.  So we went through it to this giant flower tree that Livia’s been following around (or its following her around) the world.  There’s one in Shanghai, one in Singapore, and one in Lyon.  One of those is an imposter, but it’s not the one in Lyon.  I can’t recall just now.  Forgiveness?

            So we took the tram up to the Fourvière because Livia’s not too keen on hills.  It’s quite lovely.

    We went into the crypt where they have some statues and paintings.  For example, they have a BLACK Mary.

Livia then informed me that she was dying for a wee and so I finished the crypt while she went in search of a toilet.  I then went outside where nightfall was quickly approaching to take some more photos and wait for her.  Near the Fourvière is this Eiffel Tower imposter that seems to be covered in satellites.

I don’t know if it’s meant to be artistic or functional, but isn’t it delicious that they’ve combined the two?  Livia honestly seemed to be taking ages to come out so I started to do some tap, which has become my custom whenever I’m standing around.  Then these Italian tourists offered me money.  JOKES.  Wouldn’t that be kind of hilarious, though?  (And lucrative.)  But seriously, I considered peacing out because she must have fallen in.  But then she came around the corner raving about the fantastic panoramic view that was at the other side of the church.  So I went to take some photos but naturally, but this point, the lighting was awful and it looked like any other city at night.

          So we went inside the church itself and saw a bit of a French mass.  Sadly, though they weren’t at the one part in which I could have participated, the Our Father.  They were offering each other peace.  I still snuck some photos of the interior, though.  Since it was dark when we left, Livia and I decided to head back to Katelin’s straight away instead of going night-sightseeing.  We stopped to pick up a loaf of bread, some vegetables for les pâtes (pasta), and a bottle of wine (which I decided to get—even though Livia doesn’t drink because of Asian glow.  I’m not kidding.  She basically said she doesn’t drink because she feels like she’s on fire.  And mentioned that it specifically afflicts Asians.  Aka Asian glow.—because it was on sale).  We had a lovely pasta dinner, preceded by the Brillat Savarin cheese I had brought and followed by the pastries I had offered.  Prepare for Belley domination!

            The next day, we got up around 11.  I’m not sure why, but Livia peaced out almost immediately to check into her hotel for the second night because Katelin couldn’t host her Sunday night due to an early Monday morning.  So she left straight away, but Katelin and I went for a walk about Lyon.  We walked through the Parc de la Tête d’Or (bonus if you remember that that was where the assistant picnic had been) and stumbled upon a baby wildebeest drinking from mama.  

Please note that this is probs not actually a wildebeest.  I'm not a zoologist.  

 We were headed to Place des Terreaux and came upon a pavilion with modern art sculptures, including this fountain: 

It reads Permets m'Amour penser quelque folies. oooor "Allow me, Love, to imagine some follies."

Katelin and I crossed the street to find ourselves between the Lyon Opera and the Hotel de Ville, which each place in France has.  

Even Belley.  Hotel de Ville is city hall.  We went to the other side of the building where there’s an open square (actually, Lyon’s quite like Florence and its piazzas) with a giant fountain with horses whose noses sometimes spew smoke and that’s enclosed by the Hotel de Ville, Musée des Beaux Arts, and a shopping mall.  We could see that there seemed to be a small garden inside the Musée, so we went inside.  It was lovely and private.  

Just a small square, but really teeming with art.  It’s spectacular how much art is just lying around France. 

NBD or anything, but that green statue  not on prominent display is RODIN.  Also, note French girl smoking.  As usje.

            Katelin and I then went up to get a better view of the city.  I can honestly say that I was not disappointed. 

            Then we walked about this little carnival where Katelin got roasted chestnuts.  Her first time.  I had had them in York with Kawai and Greg while studying abroad, so I only had a few of hers.  Delightful and meaty and warm.  This carnival had some crazy prizes, though.  Like, iPads, cell phones, televisions.  It was a little ridiculous. 

            We then went back down to the main bit of Lyon and stopped for a pot of tea.  (Katelin had a glass of rosé.)  Naturally, stopping here made me miss my train back to Belley.  No bigs, though.  We went back to Katelin’s and I had a glass of wine and some cheese before getting on the later train.  Marc picked me up from Virieu and dropped me off chez moi.  And what was the best part about the weekend?  Probably when I got back to my room and realized that heat hadn’t been shut off.

Warmly,
Jess