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.