lyon, france...

Traveling through France at the moment, in Lyon meeting with a 100-year old silk manufacturing company- pure heaven. Working in an old Renaissance-era building surrounded by meters and meters of vibrant, luscious silks is my idea of a hard days work. While there, I cant help but think that the “new part” of Lyon, and many cities across Europe, was built before the United States even existed!

The metro system in Lyon is clean, modern and efficient, but today I found myself standing at the bicycle kiosk, wanting to join the ranks of local Lyonaisse riding the town on free city bicycles. (This incredibly successful program is also done in Paris- hundreds of bicycles are kept at kiosks across the city, and for pennies you can take a bike, use as needed, and return to any other part of the city. And on the whole, the people use the program correctly and respectfully!) After too much time attempting to translate the details of the program with my less-than-poor French, I gave up, unable to discover if or when I would get my rather large deposit back. I decided to save the bike riding for another day just as a chic you girl- unfussy but elegant in a way only the French women can accomplish- locked her bike back into its spot.

As a traveler, as a rule, I try to appear as far from a tourist as possible. This visit, however, I couldn’t help but be drawn to those typical clichés of an American in France, and be completely amazed by it all. The beautiful rows of baguettes for sale in straw baskets, the stacks of meringues two feet high in the windows of every patisserie, the endless unique flavors of the French chocolates, the wine. Oh, the wine!

I was headed to dinner at a traditional bouchon- think the birthplace of French cooking, but with an emphasis on strange cuts of meat- and wouldn’t you know it! It begins to rain. No shops were open and not an umbrella man in sight! You know those mysterious men in New York City who seem to stalk the Weather Channel reports, and then pop out at just the right moment, umbrellas in hand, on every street corner. They price gauge their wares to relieved tourists and locals caught unawares. Well… where were they? None to be found in Lyon, I’m afraid, nor any cabs. After a drenching jog over the Saone River to the vieux ville, or old town, I tucked into a salad Lyonnais with warm, soft poached egg over fresh lettuces with warm lardon. Heavenly and rustic. I found myself eating alone (traveling alone), but was thrilled to be out of the rain and enjoying the Lyonnais cuisine. Directly across from my solitary seat was a large portrait of an early Renaissance man in full, white pleated collar looking directly at me from the sides of his eyes, smiling, and toasting me with his glass of wine. I lifted my glass of cote du Rhône (being in the Rhône valley, of course) and toasted my dining partner back. Bon appétit!