I present three evenings spent in Lyon. You may contrast and compare at leisure.
Night One
I decided to embrace my status as an outsider rather than desperately attempting to fit in (which is what made me bored). When I go on vacation, what do I do but explore alone all the time? I love doing it in new places. I've been so caught up in trying to establish myself I forgot about my most reliable partner: the city.
I ate dinner at home with Laurent; he made an omelette with (I think) Raclette and a salad. We discussed the methods of omelette making. He uses rendered duck fat instead of oil for sauteing, which he grew up with. Duck fat, he claims, is a lot healthier than butter OR oil which I need to research. It tastes great though, no significant difference from oil; less of a taste. Sometimes olive oil can demand its own presence in your dish even if you don't want it to contribute a flavor, particularly with cheaper quality. Duck fat is light and buttery only. Looking online: apparently duck fat is a contributor to the 'French paradox' wherein they eat more fat and have less heart attacks; Laurent did tell me that it doesn't clog the arteries. The salads here are also very simple; they come with every meal and are just lettuce and dressing. I miss my mother's salads a little, with fruit and nuts and cheese.
I grabbed my ebook, my journal and took the bus to Vieux Lyon, vieux being old; it's cobblestoned, cathedraled, and caféd. Like an romantic ass, I decided not to pick a café until it 'felt right' which meant I passed by dozens of suitable ones until I almost walked out of Vieux Lyon. I settled at a Bar du Vin when I saw a man in a striped shirt. 'Ah, yes, this is France.' 6 euros for a glass of rosé and I settled in with my book (Hemingway's Movable Feast because I will attempt to construct moments like that).I talked to no one and wrote a lot. Sometimes I wish I could do nothing but journal but that would leave a lack of time to do things to fill in the journal. I'm home a little past midnight, taking the bus up.
Night Two
Felt itchy and Clara promised me that we would go out clubbing until five am (which is normal, what the hell). She slept on a couch and was exhausted but once we got out she perked up, especially when we meet Morgan (Mor-gaaaihne) on the bus; Morgan has a voice that resembles a satin dressing gown and the mannerisms to match. We started at a cafe ironically right next to the wine bar I went to the night before; Clara's friend Charline had her photography displayed there and it's funny how these kinds of things are universal as I went to a similar 'showing' with the girls from LG Roasting Co a month before. This time, though, I am ready and willing to buy something. Charline's photos look like Annie Lebowitz work and one of them has a blonde girl smiling lightly with 'Pour quoi tu es méchant?' (Why are you mean?) written behind her. This photo is clearly meant for me.
All of Clara's friends---most French that I've seen really---have natural beauty in a very present way. They're all clear-skinned with perfect lipstick and clean, unstyled hair. I feel like a toucan next to them; loud and colorful and a little fake. That's something we have as Americans--a prevalence in our dress of costume. We don't mind if we look unnatural or you can see the work that goes into it. I may be the only girl with green hair in the country.
We spent something like two hours at the café, eating dinner and chatting. Smoking in France, by the way is largely incidental in that it occurs because they are designed to expel smoke, not CO2. By the time we left the cafe, it was almost eleven, but I wasn't tired---it's relaxing to sit and listen and not be expected to speak. I try to count how many slang words I hear. Clara asks me often "Do you understand?" especially if it's funny, and then tells me the story in English.
From the café, we went to the Rhône River quay. The bank is lit in soft multicolor; it was almost midnight but it felt like dusk. The quay is liberally sprinkled with groups of jeunes Francais (young French people) sitting and chatting. Kids are darting around, adults walk sedately past; the bottles of wine and beer are many but seem incidental. Clara & Co & I sat and talked for another hour and a half, working on a few beers and a bottle of rosé. It's wonderful, it's exactly how I prefer spending my evening if I'm going out---good thing I found an entire country that agrees with me. At half past midnight, we got up and strolled over to the line for the club---and that is the worst part of the evening, standing in line and moving ten feet and watching the funnel effects of cutters. Thank god we gave up after an hour and just went home by taxi.
Night Three
I spent some time at home with Clara's friends since she's having a small party--which means sitting around the table, smoking, chatting, drinking. It's a lot of fun to watch her boyfriend Jessie pick on people; he's acidic and snide to the girls who either laugh or jab back. There's lots of tongue clicking and "Ah, typiquement," with verbal eyeroll. And then I escaped to meet the Americans, who are drinking in Croix Rousse---and that's difference, because the night before I 'went out' and this night I 'went drinking'.
Croix Rousse is on the other hill of Lyon, and we dangled our feet over a piazza edge, determinedly drinking wine. The French boys we're with are rude and irritating--one speaks flawless English (mother from Cleveland) but is unfortunately pretentious, and the other suggested a girl and I should kiss each other to prove we're bisexual. I asked her if I'm allowed to break his nose instead.
We walked across most of the city, laughing and slipping and getting lost; we reached the base of my hill and then they had to all walk home and I had to hike up home; so, an Amazon in tweed shorts and heeled boots swinging and swilling a half-empty bottle of wine. Everyone I passed was concerned about me. I was concerned about the hill and completely forgot my dad's hiking rules about small steps. It took an hour, and today my legs hate me.
French vocab:
moeuf: slang for 'femme', literally just 'femme' backwards. Apparently that's how most French slang is constructed. Female/French version of 'dude'.
mec: slang for 'homme'. French/male version of 'dude'.
Pas grave: Not serious, don't worry about it.
Ça marche: That works, that's good.
Night One
I decided to embrace my status as an outsider rather than desperately attempting to fit in (which is what made me bored). When I go on vacation, what do I do but explore alone all the time? I love doing it in new places. I've been so caught up in trying to establish myself I forgot about my most reliable partner: the city.
I ate dinner at home with Laurent; he made an omelette with (I think) Raclette and a salad. We discussed the methods of omelette making. He uses rendered duck fat instead of oil for sauteing, which he grew up with. Duck fat, he claims, is a lot healthier than butter OR oil which I need to research. It tastes great though, no significant difference from oil; less of a taste. Sometimes olive oil can demand its own presence in your dish even if you don't want it to contribute a flavor, particularly with cheaper quality. Duck fat is light and buttery only. Looking online: apparently duck fat is a contributor to the 'French paradox' wherein they eat more fat and have less heart attacks; Laurent did tell me that it doesn't clog the arteries. The salads here are also very simple; they come with every meal and are just lettuce and dressing. I miss my mother's salads a little, with fruit and nuts and cheese.
I grabbed my ebook, my journal and took the bus to Vieux Lyon, vieux being old; it's cobblestoned, cathedraled, and caféd. Like an romantic ass, I decided not to pick a café until it 'felt right' which meant I passed by dozens of suitable ones until I almost walked out of Vieux Lyon. I settled at a Bar du Vin when I saw a man in a striped shirt. 'Ah, yes, this is France.' 6 euros for a glass of rosé and I settled in with my book (Hemingway's Movable Feast because I will attempt to construct moments like that).I talked to no one and wrote a lot. Sometimes I wish I could do nothing but journal but that would leave a lack of time to do things to fill in the journal. I'm home a little past midnight, taking the bus up.
Night Two
Felt itchy and Clara promised me that we would go out clubbing until five am (which is normal, what the hell). She slept on a couch and was exhausted but once we got out she perked up, especially when we meet Morgan (Mor-gaaaihne) on the bus; Morgan has a voice that resembles a satin dressing gown and the mannerisms to match. We started at a cafe ironically right next to the wine bar I went to the night before; Clara's friend Charline had her photography displayed there and it's funny how these kinds of things are universal as I went to a similar 'showing' with the girls from LG Roasting Co a month before. This time, though, I am ready and willing to buy something. Charline's photos look like Annie Lebowitz work and one of them has a blonde girl smiling lightly with 'Pour quoi tu es méchant?' (Why are you mean?) written behind her. This photo is clearly meant for me.
All of Clara's friends---most French that I've seen really---have natural beauty in a very present way. They're all clear-skinned with perfect lipstick and clean, unstyled hair. I feel like a toucan next to them; loud and colorful and a little fake. That's something we have as Americans--a prevalence in our dress of costume. We don't mind if we look unnatural or you can see the work that goes into it. I may be the only girl with green hair in the country.
We spent something like two hours at the café, eating dinner and chatting. Smoking in France, by the way is largely incidental in that it occurs because they are designed to expel smoke, not CO2. By the time we left the cafe, it was almost eleven, but I wasn't tired---it's relaxing to sit and listen and not be expected to speak. I try to count how many slang words I hear. Clara asks me often "Do you understand?" especially if it's funny, and then tells me the story in English.
From the café, we went to the Rhône River quay. The bank is lit in soft multicolor; it was almost midnight but it felt like dusk. The quay is liberally sprinkled with groups of jeunes Francais (young French people) sitting and chatting. Kids are darting around, adults walk sedately past; the bottles of wine and beer are many but seem incidental. Clara & Co & I sat and talked for another hour and a half, working on a few beers and a bottle of rosé. It's wonderful, it's exactly how I prefer spending my evening if I'm going out---good thing I found an entire country that agrees with me. At half past midnight, we got up and strolled over to the line for the club---and that is the worst part of the evening, standing in line and moving ten feet and watching the funnel effects of cutters. Thank god we gave up after an hour and just went home by taxi.
Night Three
I spent some time at home with Clara's friends since she's having a small party--which means sitting around the table, smoking, chatting, drinking. It's a lot of fun to watch her boyfriend Jessie pick on people; he's acidic and snide to the girls who either laugh or jab back. There's lots of tongue clicking and "Ah, typiquement," with verbal eyeroll. And then I escaped to meet the Americans, who are drinking in Croix Rousse---and that's difference, because the night before I 'went out' and this night I 'went drinking'.
Croix Rousse is on the other hill of Lyon, and we dangled our feet over a piazza edge, determinedly drinking wine. The French boys we're with are rude and irritating--one speaks flawless English (mother from Cleveland) but is unfortunately pretentious, and the other suggested a girl and I should kiss each other to prove we're bisexual. I asked her if I'm allowed to break his nose instead.
We walked across most of the city, laughing and slipping and getting lost; we reached the base of my hill and then they had to all walk home and I had to hike up home; so, an Amazon in tweed shorts and heeled boots swinging and swilling a half-empty bottle of wine. Everyone I passed was concerned about me. I was concerned about the hill and completely forgot my dad's hiking rules about small steps. It took an hour, and today my legs hate me.
French vocab:
moeuf: slang for 'femme', literally just 'femme' backwards. Apparently that's how most French slang is constructed. Female/French version of 'dude'.
mec: slang for 'homme'. French/male version of 'dude'.
Pas grave: Not serious, don't worry about it.
Ça marche: That works, that's good.
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