Dijon – A New-Age Hostel

I once had a dream where I was called in at the last minute to conduct the Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra in a concert at the Hollywood Bowl.

“But I have nothing to wear!” Someone handed me a tux jacket.

“But I don’t know the music!” Someone handed me the baton and said “Just wave it. The musicians know the music.”

And they shoved me out onto the stage.

Substitute teaching is like that. I’m blaming the long time between blog entries on the stress of facing mostly nice high school students and trying to keep them enthusiastic about subjects I know little about and they care even less about.

Why were we going to Dijon? In planning the trip, I had thought we would go to Colmar and then hop over the border into Germany to visit my sister, Lydia, in Emmendingen, a small town north of Freiburg. Lydia’s schedule didn’t fit with that, so I opted for a couple of days in Dijon, knowing nothing about the place except that Frommer’s guide gave it three stars, meaning it was definitely worth a visit. After Friday and Saturday in Dijon, we would train to Colmar on Sunday where Lydia would meet us and drive us to Emmendingen.

We had quite a lot of time before catching the train in Lyon, which was great because the Royal Wedding was on TV in the hotel lobby! We got to see William and Kate in the church and the parade afterwards. Lovely! Romantic! Beautiful! Our concierges even gave us some snacks while we were watching. Royal treatment. We saw the rest in Dijon, the balcony kiss and all that.

On the train, we sat in a 4-seat area with a table in the center. Opposite us was an elderly gentleman, hunched over, short beard, small stature, scruffy looking. We exchanged a few pleasantries, but that was all. When he got up to leave, however, I saw for the first time that he was crippled. He was having a hard time hoisting his backpack because both hands and his legs were misshapen by cerebral palsy or something like it. Mary immediately jumped up to help him and I, not as quickly empathic, followed. He appreciated it and used his English to thank us. Sweet man. I was sad that I hadn’t tried to talk more to him when I had the chance, but sometimes when I’m so tired, it’s too hard to make the effort to think of the right words.

The tourist office was conveniently located in the Gare in Dijon. After watching us pore over a city map without finding our hotel, the girl at the counter called us over, looked at the address and immediately knew where we needed to go.

“The hostel.”

I couldn’t remember if it was an actual hostel or a hotel, but as long as the address was right it could be whatever she said it was. It must be a popular destination because she did not hesitate as she pointed to a spot very very far from the center of town.

She then directed us down the road past the purple construction fences to the plaza where a bus driver told us, “En bas, plus bas,” which I thought I understood along with his gestures, as “down there, way down there,” but when we got “plus bas”, it wasn’t right. Mary pushed onward to the right spot, having a better understanding of gestures than I.

It was a very long ride. Through the city we went, past stores, past residential districts, past more houses and shops, forests, freeways, until we seemed far out in the countryside. The bus driver motioned for us to get off. We did, figuring from the map that we had a couple of miles to walk to the hotel – or hostel or whatever, and it was getting dark.

A large modern building on the corner looked open. I hoped they could give us directions.

We dragged ourselves up a flight of steps to the double-wide glass doorway, arriving there as a team of soccer players exited, boisterous, laughing, full of energy. Looking down at the floor mat, I saw enscribed thereon, “Ethic Etapes.” That was the name of the hotel, or rather, hostel. This spacious, busy place was a lot different than the hostels we remembered.

An apologia: When searching for hostels on the internet, I went to Hostels.com. That’s where I found most of our small, inexpensive hotels. Hostels, the youth kind, still exist because I saw one in Saint Malo and another in Lyon. Some of them have age limits, and some have dorm spaces which I didn’t want. I can hear some of you teasing me! But at the end of a long day, it’s nice to have a private room.

This place was extraordinary! It is a government operation catering to traveling sports teams or individuals of all ages. It even has a cafeteria with good, not too expensive food, a blessing when you’re so far from town. Our room was large with two beds and a teensy bathroom (see photo). There was even an elevator! In the morning at breakfast, we had the company of a couple of youth soccer teams and two groups of bicyclists.

After breakfast Saturday morning, I wandered over to the bus stop to check the schedule and make sure we could get to our train on Sunday, May 1. Panic time! No buses ran on May 1. Not a single one! None! It was another major holiday! How could we get to town, being so far out?

Mary asked the man in the cafeteria who said, “Taxi.” When I asked at the reception desk, they knew exactly what to do, so I realized that having a taxi come was a common occurrence. Even though it was so easy, I felt like kicking myself for not thinking about holidays when planning the trip. Stupid me. It was only week since we’d been in Nimes the day after Easter trying to get to Aix en Provence, and finding out it was a holiday!

This was one of my low points, thinking I’d messed up twice and more times, on little things. Nothing was permanently horrible, really, and Mary was forgiving of the glitches, but I don’t like to feel stupid, and I did. There was a good cure for my melancholy nearby, however. You’ll find out in the next blog entry.

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.