A letter from Lyon
Quick takes on the city, thoughts on Thanksgiving, and an unnerving conversation.
Bonjour friends, new and old:
Before I get into anything else, I must let you know that Jason and I just sang “Islands in the Stream” — an 80s Dolly Parton/Kenny Rogers duet for those too young to remember — at a karaoke bar in Dijon. I overheard a “pas mal,” which is good enough for me.
Now that’s out of the way….
There has been a flurry of new subscribers lately, which has lifted my spirits. Thank you for taking the time out of your busy lives to read my stuff! I know you could be doing other important things, like de-scaling the lime from your coffee machine, but you’re here instead. Merci.
This post is a bit experimental—it includes free content about our recent week-long stay in Lyon, as well as some more personal mid-life messiness and struggles that I’m a little nervous about sharing (ergo, the paywall).
Also, a quick reminder to paid subscribers: If you send me your U.S. mailing address, you’ll receive a French care package once we’re back in the States. This will apply to current and new paid subscribers who sign up by December 15th.
xx,
Sacha
P.S. Context is king, so here’s my backstory and the full archive.
Despite what some say, Lyon is not a petite Paris. Yes, there are rivers in both cities, lots of French people, and a gazillion bistros everywhere, but that’s where the similarities end. Jason thinks it’s more like Pittsburgh. So don’t go to Lyon expecting it to be like Paris. It’s its own thing, and that’s fine. Without further adieu, here are my quick takes:
If you want a more authentic “living like a local” experience, I recommend staying in La Croix-Rousse. This former working-class neighborhood, perched on a hill overlooking the city, is where the Canut silk weavers worked. It has a good mix of older people, hipsters, and families, isn’t touristy, and has an outdoor market that runs along the main boulevard most days.
The people were great. Friendly, helpful, and down-to-earth.
This is not Lyon-specific, but people here are REALLY into U.S. and British rock from the 80s. We have heard a lot of Bowie, New Order, and the Cure, and I’m not sad about it.
There is graffiti and street art everywhere. There are also several amazing trompe l'oeil murals like this one:
If you don’t feel like trekking up and down the city’s substantial hills, hop on a funicular or take the subway.
We found two outstanding award-winning boulangeries completely by accident. The one in Croix-Rousse had a line out the door, so that should have been a dead giveaway that the baguettes were worth waiting for. And you can fight me on this, but this bakery has some of the best croissants in France. We went to each place more times than I care to admit.
We happened to be here during the 25th anniversary of La Fête des Lumières (festival of lights), which was cool but very crowded. However, unlike big crowds in the States, I didn’t worry about someone pulling a gun. My favorite installation was “The Return of the Little Giant” (see below), which was projected on the façades of the Fine Arts Museum and City Hall.
And now, a few words about Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving was a non-event for us because we were en route from Bordeaux to Lyon, and honestly, it was nice to sit out that particular emotional roller coaster ride. I used to love Thanksgiving, especially because we didn’t celebrate Christmas so it was our one family tradition, but when my mom died, it became a day I dreaded. Now, 15 years later, I feel a little wistful, but the stabbing emotional pain is gone.
I got a cold while we were still in Bordeaux and by the time we got to Lyon, I felt lousy and was not up for a night on the town. Instead, I ordered room service (an omelet and frites, as one does), took a restorative shower, and lounged around in a comfy king-sized bed, a real treat after being at an Airbnb with a tiny bed and a minuscule shower.
While I was basking in the glory of a luxurious hotel room, Jason went out for a solo dinner at a bouchon, a traditional Lyonnaise restaurant with red and white striped tablecloths, hearty fare, and a convivial atmosphere.
Bouchons are everywhere, and no matter what night it is (except Sunday, of course) or what the weather is like, they are packed full of people tucking into big plates of meat. And not just your typical chicken breast or steak. Oh no, my friends. This is meat with a capital M. We’re talking cow intestines, pork tripe sausage, chicken liver cake, and, of course, lots and lots of charcuterie. Basically, it's a vegetarian’s nightmare.
We’re not big meat eaters (I’m a pescatarian mostly) or fine dining foodies, so even though Lyon boasts about 20 Michelin-starred restaurants, we mostly ate at casual wine bars or at home. In fact, our favorite meal is what the French call le poulet du Dimanche, which loosely translates into chicken Sunday. You get a lovely bronzed chicken from the marché or poulailler, some roasted or gratin potatoes and have a relaxed and wine-soaked feast to fend off the Sunday scaries.
We are making headway on our long-term plans, but after nearly a month away, I miss our friends and family and easy communication. Although I'm now a pro at shopping at Monoprix and ordering food, I wish I could have more than basic transactional conversations in French. That’s why I continue to appreciate the little moments of connection and kindness.
We met a lovely 70-something British/Aussie couple on our last night in Lyon at the Copper Bistro Pub. My ears perked up when I heard them speaking English, and we started chatting and eventually joined them at their table. We spent the next two hours discussing the dreadful state of U.S. politics, the joys of biking across France, the choices we make in life, and how important it is to live on your own terms, even if that means not pleasing everyone.
They were so kind and inspiring—the perfect balm after a conversation earlier in the week, which upset me more than I would have liked…
People say the darndest things