Feeling frisky and in need of daring adventure, the trio of girls from Tour de Buis set off earlyish hitch-hiking for Grenoble. Normally about 1.5 hours by car, the feat seemed 'tout a fait' doable. The night before was spent decorating our spiffy signs, some of which, maybe for the best, weren't tried...
A beer, some Adele, and three rides later, we found ourselves in the middle sunny Grenoble thanks to a chap who decided to go waaaay out of his way. I like to think my 'Soyez Gentils!' sign made a slight difference.
I was adamant we began with the ride in the téléphérique (or what we fondly called 'hot balls'), up to La Bastille, high above the city spread, castle walls-turned bar in a thick forest at the very peak. Enough for anyone with vertigo to take several balance checks.
River Isère
Raven, Sprinkles, Yoshi
Given the view seemed the best attraction, we settled in for pina coladas and tried to avoid work talk. Breathing in the crisp heat (summer in the alps is just that), this day off seemed just too sweet.
Walking back down through the shops and parks gave us a glimpse at the Switzerland-France border. In Toulouse the spanish influence creeps in with beiges and pinks, the food and the music. In the northwest, the English history, rain, and white marble. I haven't yet been to Strasbourg but I have it on good authority that the German influence abounds.
Don't do it, Sprinx..
Here in the valley of the alps, the apartments had a definitive Swiss feel, sometimes more narrow, taller, painted in pastels with iron railing balconies less ornate than Paris but seemingly more refined.
But then the easiest of eastern indicator were the surrounding peaks not yet snow glazed. I'm already itching to ski!
Jardin de ville
Le couche de soleil
The trip back again (after much deserved monacos and giant mexican burritos), took 3 kind pick ups (a sweet young girl, a worrying lady, and a nice guy just off work) but with a bit more pressure to be on time for evening meeting. Here's to more highly entertaining hitchhiking with the desperada trio...miss you girls!
With only a few weeks left in la pays français, I had thought a good scouting around of Lyon was going to have to wait. Pleasantly surprised to be assigned a camping location just outside the city, on my first day off I wasted no time (and a kindly given car ride by Jazzy and her mom) getting my camera charged and my little notebook noted up with directions.
My dear co-counselors at the camp gave me two strong pieces of advice, surprise, both relating to cuisine. "Eat une tarte aux pralines, and un quenelle," Dori and Jazzy were adamant. The first patisserie we passed offered the pastries filled with bright pink goo, where I hesitated at the idea of ingesting such an obvious amount of sugar.
The kindle always serves as an
agreeable lunch date
Although I kept my word and had a tart at the end of the day (and woooosh went my blood sugar), I thought it more adultlike to begin with the quenelle. After parting from Jazzy and her mom, I settled into a Bouchon (traditional resto) in the Old Town. The thing they proudly set down on the little table seemed a confusion of cheese and potato, maybe some kind of pasta, or rice...flour...paste...dunno. But the lyonnaise potatoes on the side and the ambience were instantly something I recognised as yummy.
During my five minute research on LonelyPlanet the night before, a museum of Cinema and Miniatures had popped up which I quickly brushed away. However as I walked by the open door in la vielle ville (old town), I was enticed by the old creaky wood doors promising me 'the best attraction of Lyon'. Quite frankly, this is the first museum I had seen since the sex museum in Prague that was less a museum and more of a housed amusement park. I gazed around the stone rooms with my jaw having fallen open as if my mother had promised me a second christmas. The place was like the end of the rainbow for hollywood, all kinds of props, scenery, and costumes had no other place to go but this little crickety 4 floor used-to-be castle in eastern France. I won't go on a tangent naming everything (you have to go see for yourself), but these two pictures display my favourites.
One of the miniatures. An authentic Lyonnais restaurant.
No bigger than a dollhouse room.
Once I came back to the real world and lifted my jaw off the cold floor, I geared myself to go back out into the stifling heat to lumber up the mountain for the view of the city, and wander into the cool dark eery Basilique Notre Dame de Fourvière.
Ever so tempted to languish on a patch of soft grass and write in my journal, or better yet, sleep, I willed myself to continue the mission of Lyon in a day and caught the bus to the park of the golden head or le parc de la Tête d'Or (always sounds so much more elegant in French). Lonelyplanet's number one attraction in Lyon, yes indeed, was it ever. Only parks in England can compete with the Head of Gold, which provided a languid lake with rentable boats. The rose garden was down the lane sprinkled with friendly ducks, and amongst the vines strewn around the Middle Land type trees, a gazebo with a piano played by a passer-by induced us all to stop and absorb.
I knew there was some Tolkien influence here
Even your typical shirtless french men
My short time limit was neatly arranged for Lyon, and luckily so as I never made it back that month. But my overall impression was this--I had finally found the most stereotypical city in France. Unlike Paris and all its tourists, Montpellier and its swag, pink Toulouse and its old country music, Nante and its English influence, Nice and its English invasion-- Lyon was undeniably French, through and through, from the heart attack treats to the 14 Michelin restaurants to the little cobbled streets with old art galleries and bars offering belgium beers.
I'd recommend Lyon to the dreamer going to France only once.
Summer camp location assignment this year was a strike of luck. A region in France I hadn't yet explored, and just outside the last city on my must-see list (see next blog which I haven't yet written).
But before running off to civilisation, some exploration/team-building close to sweet home Tour de Buis was in order.
We definitely did not climb those hay bales infested by snakes (warning!). This is an optical illusion by the clever Dori.
Mostly we found hay, and fields, and other nature stuff. We also found big juicy red slugs, much to my curiosity. I had thought Aztec was joking when he adamantly recounted last year's hike.
Nobody really knew what to do with the little guy. Second breakfast?
Isère, outside of the cities, was exactly what you'd expect from French countryside. Farms, sheep, little creeks, and (most) insects provided a sweet little walkabout.
Let's have a hayday
I finally learned to duck to avoid the merging of face-web
smallest hummingbird known to american village
With 'Jazzy' herself
A trip to Vienne (france, not austria) on our day off together happened to be the time of their renowned jazz festival. Don't mind if I do!
Outside the festival deciding between a nap and shopping
(the authentic french lifestyle)
But back in the little town of Cour-Et-Buis, while waiting (because the waiting took much longer than the actual watching) for La Tour de France on a day off with Sprinkles and Yoshi (camp names, don't start judging parental choices), several select villagers swept us off right our feet with kindness, giving us a touching insight into la culture française.
Sprinkles prepares herself with the stats for the bikers
the anticipation grows...
It was over in maybe 20 seconds. Hope nobody had chosen that moment to go to the toilet.
After a few drafts (nobody's counting here), a couple grinning guys with thick northern accents invited us back to theirs to have a good 'french barbecue' with them and their wives.
The ever famous stinky fromage, including
Munster St Felicien and St Marcellin
Sprinkles and I exchanged hesitant glances and agreed with a shrug, 'why not?' They drove us down a winding road to a lovely cottage where we spent the day chatting, sharing music favorites, gorging ourselves on tomatoes, cuisse de poulet, brochette de sanglier (which I think they explained after the fact as being simply 'roadkill', and by which time we didn't mind) and all kinds of delectable cheeses, drinking wine from the Côte de Rhone, having siestes in the garden, and gently waking to continue the festivities with ice cream and champagne.
Everyone appreciates a good set of melons.
(please forgive me, Sprinx)
With Denis, Hélène, Laurence, and Daniel, our adoptive french family
What royal hospitality IS this? The exchange seemed to be based merely on our youthful presence and haphazard french while trying to tell stories about our little campers. We must have been amusing enough as they then took us to watch the 14th of July (the French independence day) fireworks in Vienne.
As a passionate couchsurfer, I can attest to many encounters with generous down-to-earth europeans. However, my experience from the site just makes the more random connections even more meaningful.
I don't need to read someone's 50-odd references or pore through their selfies in front of national monuments to know they have a good heart...
I just need to verify their supply of mouldy, smelly milk-based products.
Feeling frisky and in need of daring adventure, the trio of girls from Tour de Buis set off earlyish hitch-hiking for Grenoble. Normally about 1.5 hours by car, the feat seemed 'tout a fait' doable. The night before was spent decorating our spiffy signs, some of which, maybe for the best, weren't tried...
