Sunday in two cities

For this day, I have for you many point and shoot photos, one short story about the Ed-ification of dreams and a lot of thoughts on food and the people who prepare it, serve it and eat it.

So, let's start with the last morning in Lyon. Breakfast at the funky beautiful Vintage Loft. I fit right in with my orange pants.




Then a run to the train station and a successful change of rail tickets, for an earlier departure to Paris. And a pass through a mall. Nothing there to write home about. A mall is a mall. I did pause by the fake Santa and listed in my head the many ways in which he was not credible (let's begin with the mittens, shall we?).





The real goal was to make it to Les Halles Paul Bocuse. Those are words that inspire awe in anyone who loves classic French food. Les Halles -- food halls -- are what a fantasy market would look like: all forms of edible extravagance, coveted and beloved by the French, admired by anyone passing through. The halls are named after France's food giant -- the now 86 year old chef extraordinaire, called the pope of the kitchen, the chef of the century -- on and on. Bocuse hails, of course, from Lyon.

I have no ambition or dream to eat in one of his restaurants. Not that I am a stranger to extravagant meals -- I've eaten my share and worked as a cook in Madison's most extravagant restaurant for three years.  But his kitchen is so over the top that I can't see myself enjoying a meal there. Still, I have a great respect for him, as one does if one dabbles in French foods.

So, onto Les Halles Paul Bocuse. Me and a million other Lyonaise folk.







those macaroons!




here, taste my prosciutto




cheeses arranged just so




maman explains lobsters to a little girl



the rustic tart bakery




French people think these are the world's best chickens. Feathers and heads stay on. Don't know who, in the end, does the plucking and beheading...




If you can resist the many oyster bars here, you are a finer person than I am




who wouldn't enjoy a snack of four oysters along with the beverage of choice, served with a professional flair by these young oyster experts?




my relationship to meringues being what it is, these tempted me no end; they just don't fare well in tight suitcases


I leave Les Halles and walk back to the Vintage Loft to retrieve my suitcase. I come upon this humbler market at a quiet square, where it's equally interesting to watch the comings and goings of the Lyonaise. BTW, the city is demographically quite diverse. You would see that at this market.







I watch from below, he watches from above




I mean, the definition of a rogue, no? I got a whole lecture from a shopper on how not to buy orange chanterelles at this time of the year, only gray ones. I didn't realize there even were such a thing as gray chanterelles;




cheap; from Spain, I'm sure




 smelled so great I almost bought one




ah, the beautiful cabbage



And now it's back to the train station, hesitating only for a minute at this bakery. I will always admire a good baguette with cheese.





And two hours later (yes, 465 kilometers in 1 hour and 58 minutes; I will never forgive the automobile enthusiasts in America for depriving me of a right to travel via public ground transportation in the States), I am in Paris.


Let's pause for a little story here about dreams. Because I'm feeding a dream right now and it brings back memories. For years and years I have to admit I was one of those who dreamed about owning a small second house somewhere in France. Within a train ride to Paris.

Then I met Ed and he talked me right out of that idea (mind you, it was just a dream; I haven't such resources). Who would take care of it -- he asked again and again. And the more we traveled, the more I noticed how much landlords are always taking care of problems: the plumbing, the ants, the internet -- always something. So I said -- you're right -- and I switched dreams.

The new one was an apartment in Paris (again, all hypothetically speaking). And again Ed protested (my dream). For a tiny fraction of the expense, you could stay at a hotel you liked. They would treat you as a regular. They'd clean your towels and make your bed every morning. You like that stuff. Why would you prefer your own place?

To return to! Anytime! Often! Just an airfare away!

Again, he did the math for me. So, good-bye that dream. No house, no apartment, no ownership, no responsibility ever again.

A third dream emerged: that I should travel to Paris once a month (yes, that often!), stay in my familiar hotel, eat simply, in a neighborhood place, see every exhibit in any museum, have a grand creme and a croissant every morning.

Life has treated you well if you can have a modest version of your dream. And I do. I live simply, but I travel extravagantly (meaning often). And I am in Paris, if not once a month, than at least once a year. More, if a routing has me passing through this way.

What was missing was the familiar greeting. My (small) hotel is precious and special and it feels like home every time I step through its big glass door, but in the past, they never acknowledged that I was a familiar face.

On this day though, during an off chance encounter, I swear I heard the manager say -- bonne soiree, Madame Camic (have a good evening, Mrs. Camic...)

My heart leapt.

Is there a moral to the story? Sure: we can have our dreams and visions of where we want to be in life, those are fine, but in the end what brings the greatest pleasure is a modest "bonne soiree, Madame Camic." I will remember that always.


So, I arrive in Paris.



The imposing Gare de Lyon (train station) that Monet loved to paint, from a somewhat different angle




I cross the River Seine to catch a metro line there (hi, Notre Dame in the distance!)




the cool retro metro along the M10 line




crepes are a Paris favorite too




it's actually not that cold here now (around 50), but I remember eating here with my daughter two years ago, using these blankets to protect against the bitter cold then




my sweet, sweet (and inexpensive! under 100 Euro, for a major world capital) single room at the Jardin de l'Odeon




the sliver of a moon, this time over Paris




there was a huge demonstration today on the Blvd St Germain: gay rights.




the familiar scenes of this gorgeous city




Pierre Herme's rendition of yule logs



And now it's time for dinner. As I've said here before, when I do not want to think about where to eat in Paris (it's such a complicated decision!), I go to Le Procope. It's never bad, always special, with fine waiters and that old Paris feel to it that leaves me happy to be there. And often, even as a single diner, I get the best table by the window. They really try hard and hundreds of years of opening their doors to the public hasn't toughened them at all. So, tonight I had two terribly unphotogenic dishes -- a mixed appetizer of grilled veggies, prosciutto and a salmon tartare:





...and a coq au vin. I relented and extended the camera beyond the food, so you can feast your eyes on the fine waiters instead.





A final late night walk by the Seine...





...and a happy return to my little room on the next to last floor of the hotel. Always the same, comforting, warm.

from one place to another

Fourteen hours. That's all Milan gets from me this time. I eat an early morning breakfast at the hotel and think yet again how lucky it is that I finally found a place that I like here (Milan is often a good and economical entry point to this part of Europe and public transportation to and from the airport is fantastic and cheap). I'm at the stately but not too large Gran Duca di York. If you book way ahead, you can snag one of their lovely single rooms for 80 Euros -- that's $100, with a huge breakfast buffet and free Internet. Where in the States can you do that well in a major city? (There is also a 3 Euro city tax added: the Italians treat that separately on the bill and they always apologize profusely for its addition. As if to say it's not their fault, they had nothing to do with it.)

I have an 8:50 train out of Garibaldi Station. I know where the station is, but I can't quite estimate the distance. How long to walk there? I ask. Oh, twenty minutes. That damned (or charming, depending on the situation) Italian wishful thinking! I do add some minutes for comfort. Setting out more or less at 8 ought to do it.

I didn't factor in the snow.





Sometimes you can pull a suitcase through it. Sometimes.



(Ocean author)

I'm hurrying, really I am, but it's not easy.





I don't care about the stuff that's still coming down and soaking my cap and backpack. I care that I have to carry my baby case for stretches on end. It slows me down.





I cannot miss this train. There are only two to central France and the other one is very very late. And I don't have a ticket for that one. I have a ticket, purchased on the Internet, for the early one. Oh, Italy, is it because you don't have Tort lawsuits that you don't fuss with snow covered sidewalks? I mean, I know it will melt soon, or not so soon, yes and my boots appreciate the absence of salt, but it does create interesting challenges who those who want to navigate on foot. Especially on foot with a carry on, which right now has to be carried like a baby.





I run the last blocks. I read somewhere that one country is disallowing passangers from boarding bullet trains in the final five, or is it ten minutes.

Luckily, that country is not Italy.





As always, the train ride is smooth and comfortable and breathtakingly beautiful (we go from a Siberia-like winters scape to sunshine in the Alps)...


 






...and there are plugs for laptops even in the cheap seats and my only worry is that I'll fall asleep and forget to change where I must change -- in Chambry. I'm not heading to Paris yet. Since Ed is not with me, I decided to stop first at Lyon. I don't think I've ever been there. So, two nights in Lyon. Followed by two nights in Paris, then home.



Later:

Or maybe not. Within several hours of walking the city of Lyon, I conclude the following:

1. Lyon is very much underrated. Decades ago, Americans (those with burning palates) used to come here for the good French food (Paul Bocuse!), but these days, I suppose there's good French food in all major cities of the world (and not only in cities). So you don't see many overseas tourists here on a December afternoon.  Lyon could well lure some more!

2. But being in a major French city makes me realize that I miss Paris. I did a major walk through the city, I combed hills, entered churches, I ate crepes and watched a ferris wheel and now that I've eaten my vegetables, can I please have my Paris?

So rearrange everything. Paris it shall be. Three nights, not two.

But first, let me get back to my earlier point: Lyon is beautiful! And it's helped by a late afternoon sun (and temps at 11 C, that would be around 50, no?) and a sense of pre holiday contentment as everyone pours out on the streets and squares celebrating… life.

Lyon is where the two mighty rivers merge -- the Rhone…





… and the Saone.





And the rivers cut the city into three parts: the new, the old and the super old (roughly speaking). The new is a hodgepodge of this and that, but not uncharming (and not especially modern) in places.





The old is, as the Tourist Office person tells me -- where all the good stores are! But also the grand squares with a holiday ferris wheel and crowds of happy, untouched by violence families.













Oh, let's not forget the motorcycle rally -- all riders dressed in some form of Santa garb.





As for stores -- I'm not shopping (yet). I have some suitcase hauling to do. I don't want to cary stuff over and beyond that. But, I enjoy the displays. Especially -- yes, especially foods. Yule logs, glazed fruits and the ever popular here macaroons.












And I cross the second river, the Saone, which puts me in the oldest part of Lyon and there's a lot to see and admire here as well, but I get distracted by a young band…





(I'm not the only one who is fixated on their energetic music!)





…and then I decide to do the quick run up by the funicular to the top of the hill where Lyon's Sacre Coeur stands, golden and beautiful in the setting sun…





(and Lyon even has its small Eiffel Tower, or at least a look alike model of one)





And from the top of this hill you can gaze down at the city and doing this at sunset is fantastic!





I'm going to include a closeup of the rooftops in the old old town, because the chimneys are uniquely pretty, even though I have to shoot through brush halfway up the hill, hence the odd blurs of twigs in the photo.





And now I'm down the hill, walking through these lovely old and cobbled streets...


 


...peeking into storefronts (it's not all about wine here: this one specializes in craft beers)...





...In this gallery, someone is giving a class on painting still life:





…and after passing some half dozen street crepe sellers, I finally given in and have one, too, for the road.





Alright. Back across the Saone...





... to the older but not super old part of town. Where the ferris wheel is. Blazing with light now (do you see the sliver of a moon to the right?).





I really wanted to take a break somewhere, but I'd wandered so far away from where I'm staying that I felt there wasn't time. I had a dinner reservation at 8 and that was so very hard to secure. My b&b hosts called every favorite place in town and everything seemed to be booked solid. I know this about the French: they especially love to eat out in the week before a big holiday. Christmas is coming? Excellent! Let's eat out in anticipation of all the good food that's to come! The only place that had a table for me was a huge Brasserie, called Leon. And I mean huge. I had my doubts, but my hosts, Denis and Michel vouched for it and they were right.





I had to have the salad Lyonaise! Ed and I always order that in our favorite Madison venue, Brasserie V. Let's compare:





Quite good! (But so is the one in Madison.)

Onto the second course -- scallops in a sauce with artichokes and leeks. Now that was really exceptional.





Truly a memorable meal. The Leon de Lyon is a bit of a hike from my b&b (maybe 45 minutes), but it's a beautiful evening and I cannot ever have enough of walking anyway in these European cities. And this one has the feel of France. Here, note three things in this photo that shout "France!":



(the dogs, the city bikes and the carousel)


At home, I check the internet rates for my Paris hotel. Still good! In the morning I'll switch my rail tickets.

And let me say a good word for my wonderful Lyon hosts, Michel and Denis, who run the memorable, modern and delightful b&b -- Loft Vintage Lyon. I didn't take many photos, but you're curious you can see their unique modern art collection on the website. They didn't have to release me from the second night's charge (I offered to pay -- the terms clearly state that cancellations are honored if made before 48 hours), but they did insisted on releasing me, with a smile and a wave.

So I'll have just Sunday morning left in Lyon (for a total of 23 hours!). And I know exactly what I still want to see here. (Find out tomorrow!)