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.
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.
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