The trip from Paris is easy on a high speed TVG—quiet, comfy, air conditioned. Only one stop between the two cities, we rolled past miles of sparsely populated farmland; the French reject city sprawl.
Neither of us knew anything about Lyon, so just going there seemed a tad chancy. It’s a large city, and the hotel was also a stab in the dark. Sometimes leaving one’s destiny to the fates works out. And so it was with Lyon.
We dropped our bags and set off in the sweltering Sunday heat at about 15:00. The place was deserted. Two blocks from the hotel, toward the Saône River lies a pedestrian-only street (there’s an occasional motorcycle, but you find those racing down the hallways of most hotels) lined on both sides with outdoor cafés. Seats galore.
Hours later, looking for a seat for dinner, and ruling out the pizza joints and other crap, there was nothing. Sure, indoors, where there was not a hint of breeze, the chairs were gathering dust, but of the hundreds earlier vacant in the evening heat, not a rickety chair was absent a warm fanny.
Mildly discouraged, we crossed a long foot bridge (now that sounds like an oxymoron) we were astonished to find this, apparently homo-erotic, statue on the distant side.
Not exactly what it first appears, it is a political statement and is called “The Weight of Oneself,” referring to societies (like ours) that leave people to fend for themselves. The statue is carrying a copy of himself, not just a guy with narcissism issues. It is hard to imagine a man so engagingly dressed without offers of support from somewhere.
We found a table at one of the best restaurants seated next to four “family” members. The cute one smoked…how sad. We acknowledged each other with nods, but conversation between our disparate tongues (a loaded phrase, to be sure) was impossible.
Lyon is a foodie’s paradise. Both nights were fantastic experiences.
More bothersome essays about nothing.
Sambandar 