Morning Wandering

I get up earlier than Mary or most people. Several women I know are early risers because we require an hour or two of quiet solitude before the world (children, jobs, whatever) presses in. Nothing beats being outside on a walk as the sun rises in the east with brilliant colors promising a good day. Mornings always hold the promise of a good day, just as a newborn baby promises joy and great achievements. Neither works out all the time for all mornings or all babies, but at least both start with pure joy.

In France where people stay up so late, even 7:00 a.m. is early. So around 7:00 on our last day in Lyon, I left the Grand Hôtel de la Paix (the left hand circle on the map) and wandered over to the Saône river but decided to go north along the quai rather than over the bridge. Only the street sweepers and some few others were about.

Look at those pictures! I didn’t know this marvelous “Mur peint La Bibliothêque de la Cité” (wall painted as the Library of the City) existed! [Did you notice that I’ve finally learned how to put the accents into French words? Yay me! Now they look right.] Yes, it’s on the map just off the Quai de la Pêcherie, but no guide book mentioned it, nor person, so how was I to know?

All the people on the balconies are characters from books! There’s the Little Prince and St. Exupéry. Every person and detail is painted, even the pedestrians and the shop fronts. Marvelous! I was enchanted – and no-one was there to interfere with my long time of gawking. Alone in this intricate, detail-perfect, street gallery full of surprises, I felt I had discovered a secret garden or perhaps my “laughing place.”

In another blogpost, I was confused about whether the river we crossed frequently was the Saône or the Rhone. It’s the Saône, on the right, with the Rhone on the left. You can see our hotel was halfway between both. Our bridge was Pont Alphonse Juin (a Marshall of France and war hero) leading to Vieux Lyon (old Lyon). The circle there is for the restaurant area where we had a couple of lovely late night dinners. To the left of that you see “Fourvière,” and the winding white path going up the hill to the Roman ruins (see earlier blog).

The outdoor Marché Saint Antoine, just south of our street on the Saône quai, is where we bought our fresh, exquisite, dearly missed now, brunch each day.

I believe the rooster is on Pont Bonaparte. We were intrigued by the many statues of roosters we saw, and later discovered that the rooster, or “Chanteclair,” is the national symbol of France. Wikipedia can tell you the whole story of how that came to be. Of less importance is that neither of the two people we asked knew the story. I’m sure it would be the same in the States if one were to ask about some of our taken-for-granted symbols.

Lyon is a city where one could spend many leisurely days wandering around, getting acquainted, settling in. Maybe next time . . .

Resistance

We had a late start that day in Lyon. An outdoor market on the banks of the Saone tempted us with apple-filled pastry things and two or three kinds of cheese to eat with them. By the time we finished, it was threatening rain, so we strolled back to the hotel for my windbreaker.

A museum of decorative arts was our goal. We found it on the map but got lost trying to get there and ended up instead at the Musee de la Resistance et de la Deportation. We expected to whizz in and out and still catch the decorative arts museum, but this turned out to be one of the places that grabs you and won’t let you go until you’ve experienced, not just looked at, what is on display.

The Museum is in the former Gestapo headquarters, but has been modified inside to give the feeling of what it was like to live in occupied Lyon in the 1940s. Thick concrete interior walls create a maze of corridors taking you ever deeper into the stories of the Resistance. Names such as Jean Moulin, in old newspapers, were now familiar to me as each city and town has streets named after Resistance heroes. It’s good to learn history in the nation where it happened.

Philippe Petain, a WW I war hero and vice premier of France, asked the Germans for an armistice in June, 1940, and was made their puppet Chief of State with a capital at Vichy. The legitimate government gave up all their powers to him, saying “Petain is France.” With a sweep of the pen, France fell into German hands.

Also that June, however, Charles deGaulle, an unknown French commander, arrived in London and, in a soul-stirring speech over BBC radio, called for every Frenchman and woman to resist, to join him in England if they could, or to fight at home. That launched local resistance groups all over France, first in small numbers, then in tens of thousands. It was dangerous work; many were murdered and/or tortured, and it lasted over four years, until the Allies landed in Normandy in June, 1944.

DeGaulle was President of France when Mary and I were there in 1961. We even saw him in his limo riding down the street. How did I recognize him in the closed car? His silhouette in the window – he was very tall and had a long French nose.

Lyon was a center of the Resistance in spite of the presence of (or perhaps because of) the infamous Klaus Barbie, the Gestapo headquarters, and Fort Montluc, a prison for Jews and Resistance fighters. Hidden radios gathered and distributed the news, along with small presses that printed broadsides like the one pictures.

The official Catholic church supported Petain and the occupation, including Petain’s own anti-Semitic laws, but individual Catholic churches spoke out against Germany and helped Jews and other targeted people. Protestant churches from the beginning declared that Christians should never forget that Jews are God’s chosen people, and that Jesus was a Jew.

Women played a lead role, though records are scanty since often they were helping their husbands or sons and weren’t mentioned by name. They made good couriers and information-gatherers because, as one woman said, “No-one paid attention to the women.” She could be in the room where an official meeting was going on and be “invisible.” Several women helped their husbands escape from prison.

In August, 1944, “maquis” [the civilian armies or Resistance fighters] marched toward Lyon from all over southern, eastern, and western France in a coordinated and successful effort to liberate it. Allied bombers gave air support but, as happens with bombs, demolished some of the city, which has now been restored.

A film showed the growth of concentration camps. As early as the mid 1930s, young French men were deported to Germany to do slave labor in factories making war-related items. Later these work camps were turned into the extermination camps for Hitler’s “Final Solution.”

After over two hours, we emerged from this Musee sobered and appreciative of the indomitable French spirit of Liberte. Our own nation owes much to France, as you can see from the following study of the French involvement in our Revolution:

“From the perspective of the American Revolution, however, the high point of French support is the landing of five battalions of French infantry and artillery in Rhode Island in 1780. In 1781, these French troops under the command of Count Rochambeau marched south to Virginia where they joined Continental forces under Washington and Lafayette. Cornwallis, encamped on the Yorktown peninsula, hoped to be rescued by the British navy. A French fleet under the command of Admiral DeGrasse intercepted and, after a fierce battle lasting several days, defeated the British fleet and forced it to withdraw. This left the French navy to land heavy siege cannon and other supplies and trapped Cornwallis on the Yorktown peninsula.

“At that point, the defeat of Cornwallis was essentially a matter of time. On September 14, 1781, the French and Continental armies completed their 700 mile march and soon thereafter laid siege to the British positions. After a number of weeks and several brief but intense engagements, Cornwallis, besieged on the peninsula by the large and well-equipped French-American army, and stricken by dysentery, determined to surrender his army. On October 19, 1781, the British forces marched out between the silent ranks of the Americans and French, arrayed in parallel lines a mile long, and cast down their arms.

“Abbé Robin, who witnessed the surrender, described the victorious American and French forces present at the ceremony. ‘Among the Americans, the wide variety in age -- 12 to 14-year old children stood side by side with grandfathers -- the absence of uniformity in their bearing and their ragged clothing made the French allies appear more splendid by contrast. The latter, in their immaculate white uniforms and blue braid, gave an impression of martial vigor despite their fatigue. We were all astonished by the excellent condition of the English troops, by their number -- we were expecting scarcely 3,000 and they numbered more than 8,000 -- and by their discipline.’” [http://people.csail.mit.edu/sfelshin/saintonge/frhist.html]

Well, more serious than usual, but I wanted to share it with you because of how it affected me, and also because too often one hears or reads disparaging remarks about the courage of the French. That view is not supported by history.

Romans in Lyon

The main reason for going to Lyon was to visit the world-famous museum of ancient Roman stuff that’s on the Fourviere hill right next to the ruins of the huge amphitheater. I’d read about it while researching my novel, some of which takes place right there! A whole major city, capitol of “The Three Gauls”, was up there on the hill overlooking the Rhone river, and the museum actually had little models of what it probably looked like! I could picture my characters walking through the streets! (Sorry about all the !!s, but what a thrill it was to actually be there looking at what I’d imagined it would be like!)

I’ll tell you about the rest of Lyon later. First, I’m really eager to get to the top of the Fourviere (that’s what they call it, not Fourviere hill) and show you the Romans! Mary was a good sport in this Roman immersion time, actually being interested and helpful – until we got separated and each came to – no! Not yet! Let’s go back to enthusiasm for Romans.

To reach the top of the Fourviere you have two choices, the funicular or the steps. Mary opted for the ride; I for the steps. It didn’t take long before I wished I hadn’t, but a little girl ahead of me was going slowly and counting each one, so I followed her. I think she said “450” at the top. But that wasn’t the end. Another equally long trek on paths through a forest of trees finally ended at the ornate church at the top. I’m out of shape for hills, living as I do on flat land.

Mary and I had set a meeting place near the exit of the Funicular, but when I gasped my way there, she was nowhere in sight.

I went to find her after waiting like a good girl for about 10 minutes, thinking all the while how she should have known that walking up would take a lot longer than her cushy (first time I’ve written that word) ride. I walked all around the church grounds, searching, and then finally on down the street to the amphitheater and museum. There she was, waiting for me.

We paid our 7 euros apiece (ouch!) and entered the best museum for Roman ruins I could ever have hoped to see outside of Rome. The building hugs the side of the hill with huge windows overlooking the amphitheater. You descend lower and lower down a ramp, reminding me of the Guggenheim in New York but bigger. Everywhere there are hundreds of objects to see, amazing things, unbelievably wonderful for research!

Somewhere along the way, Mary left to go to the restroom and I continued on down the ramp. I’m sure we both thought we’d end up together but no. That day, the Roman goddess of invisibility must have been on the loose because we never found each other again as long as we were on the Fourviere.

I finished up the museum, my eyes exhausted and my feet tired, then walked back up the ramp looking for Mary all the time. Nothing. Went outside and walked around the top of the amphitheater, searching. Nothing. Went back to the museum, down the ramp, back up the ramp, back to the amphitheater. Repeated this two more times then gave up. Walked back to the church and funicular station, then back to the ruins and decided to go down into the theater and whatnot to the bottom, never having seen a red vest anywhere.

It was getting late and I was wiped out. As I trudged down the hill via the road, winding around the curves toward the old town, I kept wondering what had become of Mary. Kidnapped? Robbed? I could not imagine anything else and wondered what would happen next for us. The feet kept moving, one after another, as the befuddled brain tried to make sense of things.

There are about four bridges over the Rhone (I wrote Saone in my notes; it was one of the other, since both flow through Lyon), and it’s best to find the one closest to the road leading to the hotel. In the old town, it wasn’t hard to recognize the right spot to turn for the bridge, and once it the view looked right to me so I knew I was OK. My poor feet dragged the last few blocks to the hotel and pushed open the glass door.

What was Mary doing standing there at the front desk talking with the concierge?

“What are you doing here!?” I asked a bit too loudly, interrupting their conversation. [If you’ve read the children’s book, The Best Nest, I felt as if I was in the last scene where Dad finds Mom.]

She turned around and asked me the same thing. It wasn’t the smartest question, given that we were both staying at the hotel, but the next question was more to the point: “Where have you been?!” from both of us.

It looked to me as if she had come back long ago and was leisurely entertaining herself by chatting up the handsome concierge while I lumbered hither and thither looking for her.

“I just got here,” she stated, but admitted to having stopped for ice cream at the cafe (super expensive) next door.

“Ice cream!” I declared, turning to the door.

Mary followed. We sat at a tiny table eating miniscule, expensive but pleasant cones while trying to sort out what had happened.

We still don’t know. She looked for me. I searched for her. She thought she saw my hat in the amphitheater, but then I disappeared. I might have spotted her red vest but maybe not. She didn’t know the address for the hotel or even the name, so was really in a pickle as she tried to make her way back. A kind gentleman walked with her to the river and helped her choose the right bridge, thank goodness. How scary that must have been for her!

This was the day we realized that Mary should have brought along her cell phone so we could have called each other. It’s not her fault, not all, because I had agreed that one phone was enough for what we needed. Oh well.

Elegant Lyon

Vancouver was delightful! Cool, rainy, cloudy, sunny weather, just right for fall, which may never come here in the desert. Wonderful Maya (5) and Sahana (5 mos) to play with. Getting to talk with Alisa any hour of the day, and seeing her life now. Talking with Vivek. Freshly picked blackberries. It was all good, nay GREAT!

But now I must get on with the trip to Lyon back in April. Mary and I are older now than we were in 1961, and perhaps not as resilient, at least not when we’re carrying 23 lbs of backpack each. Two weeks ago, I took my backpack to Vancouver to give it an outing, packing it with only the immediate necessities. Everything else was in a smallish suitcase stowed away in the baggage compartment and out of my care. I found it hard to believe that on the France trip I had actually put everything I needed in that one backpack. What freedom, wandering the Denver and Vancouver airports with a light pack, looking trendy and not like an overloaded old lady (see Mary at Heathrow).

A few minutes before our train was supposed to leave from Aix, it was not yet posted on the “departures” board, so I asked one of the train officials standing by the track, “Ou est le train a Lyon?” An easy question.

The answer was ridiculous! “Ceci n’est pas la gare pour le TGV!” (the fast train for which we had tickets). I pointed to our ticket, which said « Aix », and he nodded, but said that it wasn’t the right station, even though it was the station where we had arrived just the day before.

Pointing to the parking lot, and then to the bridge over the tracks, and then far off into the distance, the official showed us where to go. And hurry! We could still catch the BUS to the TRAIN if we ran. Another instance in which a train is a bus in France.

Those backpacks seemed heavier and heavier as we trotted up stairs, over the bridge, across four lanes of traffic, to the buses and then argued about which one to take. “Cinq,” I said. “Sept,” Mary insisted. Thank goodness I was right, because too often lately she’d been more right in interpreting gestures or even French for directions. Impulsive me would sometimes not listen long enough or pay close enough attention to the details.

In my notes, I mentioned that the man who sold us the tickets could have saved us a lot of stress by telling us the train left from a different station far outside of town. But the TGV was superb. It’s a Train Grand Vitesse and goes like the wind through the countryside, smooth as glass. It’s almost tragic that California never got that concept but instead opted for automobiles which now clog every road.

After arriving in Lyon, it was easy to find the metro. We sat on a double seat facing two burly men. I fit in nicely, my backpack angled into the corner to give me room, but when Mary sat on the aisle, she couldn’t angle her pack but had to sit straight forward. See the picture? Watching her face when she realized her situation was comic relief to an awkward problem. She pantomimed her “I’m sorry” and may have said it also, but the man was a gentleman and let her know he understood. Soon the other man, the one opposite me, stood to leave, so Mary’s man stood to let him pass. Realizing she could now move to the window seat opposite me, she tried to get up, but because of her precarious perch and the heavy pack, she couldn’t. Holding out her hand, she gestured for him to pull her up, which he did with a smile, amused.

Remember the situation in the elevator in Aix? Mary getting squished and pantomiming for help? She was getting good at it.

It turned out the man spoke quite good English, warning us about gangs who work in crowded places like subways to steal from innocents like us. Uh oh. Mary had studied up on this sort of thing before we left, and here was confirmation of all her fears! It sent her into a sinkhole of imagining what would/could happen, what the nefarious ruffians would look like, etc., and what if we were on the ground, having fallen or been pushed, on our backpacks, how could we get up, etc. etc.

Talking about it later, the imaginary scene of us in the subway lying like upended turtles on our backs screaming for help, legs and arms flailing as the gypsies or whoever run away in embarrassment, was so ludicrous that Mary saw the humor and lost a lot of her fear. In all our travels, we never ever ran into any problems from bad people.

The metro stop for the hotel came. We ascended the stairs to find ourselves in the wrong part of town! It was way too elegant for us, with wide streets and tall buildings with expensive stores on the bottom floors. Only a few blocks (and the Rhone river) away, I could see the Fourviere, the tall hill where the Roman ruins are. I was totally confused. It wasn’t possible that our hotel would be in such a ritzy area. It got more confusing when the building numbers went from number 43 to 52 with nothing in between. Our hotel was 47. I was almost positive that I’d been hooked by an Internet scam. The hotel probably never existed, except that numbers in Albi had also not been in sequence.

We had to find someone to tell us where we were, so we went into a small, elegant jewelry shop, backpacks and all. Nothing in the window was less than 1000 Euros. At first the blonde lady seemed dubious, as if she wanted us to turn around and leave quickly, but when she heard we wanted the “Grand Hotel de la Paix,” her manner changed.

I felt like telling her, “We’re not really ‘Grand Hotel’ people,” but that wouldn’t have been helpful. She walked with us to the street and pointed to the trees a block away, saying “Over the trees.”

Holy moly! The Grand Hotel de la Paix, three stars, fashionable part of town, easy access to everywhere, and affordable for most people, if slightly over our budget. Our room had a separate bath and dressing room, two beds, gloriously tall windows, wide screen tv (in French) table, soap, glasses, towels, and toilet paper! No more needing to steal TP like we did at Ile des Pecheurs! The staff was nice, pleasant, new-ish and eager to please.

Lyon was superb! You’ll see . . .