Taming the Lyon (title courtesy of JLPDR)

 

 So! Here we are once again – or at least, here I am. I have finally touched down in the mighty Lyon and it is with great excitement that I am able to report that everything is going just swimmingly. I’ve taken the bus, had a linguistic spar with an official, had a madeleine induced Proustian flashback (although managed to condense it into just the one volume) and rescued a dog from being crushed by a tram. All in a few day’s work.

Aside from my heroic feats of both bravery and francophilia, I have mainly been exploring. I was unbelievably relieved to arrive at the gate of my apartment complex and have to enter a code, then use a key, then another code, then a code for the lift. Arduous, yes. Secure? As Fort Knox (or Fort Irénée, the area in which I am actually living.) My flat is a haven. A lovely white, tiled haven of Frenchness complete with balcon, piscine and resident French bulldog. It is a world away of the oak beams and uneven floors of Oxford, but in a way that is exactly what I wanted. My flatmate (who may or may not be reading this!) is lovely. Even if she isn’t reading this, it still stands. She has a reassuring large collection of l’alcool on her shelves, and perhaps more significantly for any gentlemen who fancy a holiday over here, she is a legitimate babe.

 

Property pride apart, the rest of the city is just as brilliant. Lyon is a funny mixture of Mediaeval, Renaissance, Modern and Post-Modern architecture. You can’t walk down the street without wanting to gawp at at least three different buildings. (Although sometimes that is just due to the signs on them. I am still unsure as to why the key cutter proudly displays its license to sell “tampons.”) There are two rivers running through it, the Rhone and the Saone, and a long-running Lyonnais joke (get me and my insider knowledge) is that the third river is the Beaujolais due to the impressive rate at which wine is consumed. I think I’ve found my spiritual home.

The food is another matter entirely. Lyon may well be the gastronomic capital of France, but only in this wonderfully bizarre country could BOILED DONKEY SNOUT be considered a delicacy. That isn’t a mistranslation – I checked three times – boiled donkey snout is a thing. Horse meat I can just about take, having probably inadvertently eaten it anyway thanks to my penchant for Ahmed’s, but Eeyore? No wonder he always used to look so bloody sad. Thankfully the Lyonnais cuisine has redeemed itself in my eyes by also offering a wide range of exclusively cheese and potato based dishes, along with plenty of DIY food experiences like fondue and raclette. I love a bit of interactive food.

 

It hasn’t all been mind-blowing boulevards and donkey-based delicacies however, for my explorations have in fact introduced me to Lyon’s one and only Scottish pub! They appear to have got a bit confused along the way and sell copious amounts of Guinness, but their whisky library, comfy chairs and softly blaring New Wave music enveloped me in a lovely alcoholic embrace. They’ve even got a Burns Night evening planned with free haggis for anyone wearing tartan. I feel so loved and included. Vive the Auld Alliance! Notably the English theme bar “Elephant and Castle,” looked rubbish and totally craic-free.

 

However theme bars and questionable delicacies aside, my parents have finally left me all on my lonesome and lonesome it does feel. I’m having to do all sorts of grown-up things like get Social Security, open bank accounts, buy toilet cleaner etc and, sad as it may sound, I want my Mum. I’ve found a few other English girls who seem fun and that’s all great, but I have an awful long time stretching ahead of me with what feels like very little to fill it. After all of the mind-numbing official paperwork is completed, I’ve only really got 12 hours a week filled (by work.) I’ve planned my entire Saturday around picking up my dry-cleaning. This is my first plea: come and visit me please.