This past weekend, I made a visit to Lyon in the Rhone-Alps region of France. A beautiful place with some very neat Gallo-Roman ruins up the street from my hostel, this lovely city is a sort of mini-Paris. I knew it had been the center of the silk trade and manufacturing in France, and was very important for most of western Europe's fashion trade, but I was not expecting to find myself inundated with haute-couture fashion boutiques. It was stunning, really. I find that with each city I visit, (if I am alone), I end up walking it from end to end without thinking, and consequently stumble upon some of the truest aspects of its culture.
In walking across Lyon, I found its old city center, complete with tourist shops of "ancient" crafts and restaurants of classically "lyonnaise" food.... a subject to which I will return later to elaborate on my interesting experience. I then crossed the river onto its island of a modern city center, housing leading fashion designer from New York, Paris, Milan, etc, and a great deal of fast food. (I personally loved the "walk-up" McDonald's window.) I have gotten in the habit of taking every side street possible not only to avoid touristy-tourists (yes, I know, I am a tourist as well), but also to find the mom&pop boulangeries and artisans. I was particularly successful at this in Lyon. In turning just the right corner, I came upon a window of stunningly innovative fashion pieces with display boards describing the artist's inspirations. After a few moments, I came to the realization that these were school projects... and WHAT SCHOOL PROJECTS! It always helps to know the intention and inspiration behind an artwork when viewing it, so as to appreciate it fully, but I can honestly say that the work done by the fashion students in Lyon have a true grasp of fashion meets function with timeless grace and a modern edge. I continued walking a few feet and was greeted by the sounds of live music and laughter, then by a welcome table and flowing ribbons suspended as an entry to some sort of gathering. Having found a new sense of being daring, I walked passed the welcome table so as not to pay if necessary...(an action badly viewed in the US, but all but uncommon in France), and found myself in the midst of a couture boutique community, all with free wine and hors-d'oeuvres in hand. I sauntered through the mix of boutiques awkwardly, sneaking a few bites, but foolishly neglecting the wine (I guess I felt guilty or something...). The work was incredible, full of color, interesting materials and fascinating composition. I did have one woman try to sell me a cocktail dress that looked like it was meant for someone 3 times my size and 50 years old (still very fashion forward, however, because all french women are), and I attempted to overt the situation my telling her I was a tourist and student of the arts. I always feel weird in situations such as that one because I know I am not going to spend money, and they know I am not going to spend money, but there is always a sort of forced conversation--an attempt at a sale despite the inevitable, and an attempt at appearing to be nothing short of a Kennedy or at least raised with such experiences of wealth. Awkward, really, but she was nice enough. People in Paris won't even give you the time of day.
I made my way out of the fashion-forward gathering, worn jeans and tee-shirt intact, and progressed up a hill through what seemed to be a continuation (while less concentrated) of the fashion community. Complete with vintage garments, and ethnically-inspired everything, this area was quite pleasing to the senses... minus the steep hike. I turned a corner, where two North African men in tradition garb were chatting, and made my way down what appeared to be a docile side street. It was calm, yes, but I soon discovered that with the exception of a couple of ethnically covered women, and two tourists loading a car, I was surrounded by men--mostly middle eastern, I think--in every cafe and epicerie. It was the middle of the day, and there was really no reason to be fearful, as I was not being cat-called or threatened, but I nonetheless turned right around and headed back the way I came.
I worked my way up to the summit of the impossible mount to discover the most incredible view of the city in its entirety, which seemed to stretch out forever. My feet finally screaming loud enough for me to pay attention, I looked at the map for the nearest metro, only to find that I had all but walked off the map. "Well, damn!" I thought, and hiked my way to the end of the nearest line. The museums were closed at this point, and the vintage market was not until the next morning so I headed back to the hostel before going back into the old part of town for some "classically lyonnaise" dinner. Oh, and what an idea that was.
All I have to say is, "When in Rome...don't always eat as the Romans do." I sat down at one of the many "Bouchons Lyonnaises" with excitement mounting. I had read that Lyon was the capital of mind-blowing cuisine, but did not take into account that I was reading it off a Lyon tourist website. I have now learned that when the waitress is not too keen on a dish, DONT ORDER IT. I mean, that usually goes without saying, but I am always eager to try out something daring and new, especially when it is traditional to the region. We learned with the fish in Cannes, that sometimes this mindset does not fare well, and that in such cases, it can be beneficial to order something with at least one word you recognize. I ordered some appetizer that sounded like a collection of meat with lentils, which was the case when it arrived, but was covered in a sort of gelatin and one of the meats had a consistency of a hardened lard or muscle--like eating rubber covered in jelly, and not the strawberry kind. Next was the "andouillette lyonnaise," which I was anticipating to be similar to New Orleans andouille. Oh, no. Sausage, yes, but swimming in a sea of yellow mustard sauce and potatoes. While it may sound tastey, and very well might be for other people with different tastes, I ate as much as I could handle and pushed the rest around to look like I ate more than I really did. I hate wasting food, and the french are very weird about it. I am sure the waitress was having a good laugh, though, so at least someone was having fun. For some reason, profiteroles are popular in Lyon, and in finally following the waitress' recommendation, I ordered the dish for dessert.... too much food, but it was a sort of 3 course meal. The dish arrived as what we would call in the States "profiteroles-as-big-as-your-head," and I told the waitress she would be eating half. She laughed, I groaned, and the profiteroles glared tauntingly at me. I ate what I could manage, and vowed to myself to never again order against the recommendation of the waitstaff, unless I know for certain what I am ordering.
After running frantically for an hour to find the water bus that would get us safely back to the hostel, we came to the depressing conclusion that in the not-so-distant future, Venice will be our modern Atlantis. Its paintings disintegrated by the lapping water, all that would remain would be its splendid mosaics and architecture, hinting at its once colorful splendor, then reduced to white stone with green algae accents. If global warming and the melting of the polar ice-caps threatening the existence of California does not bother you, think on the disappearance of Venice, and the loss of its unmatched beauty. 
We ventured to a market in Cagnes-sur-mer where I found some perfect photo opportunities of the local cuisine and color palette. 
