Lost in Lyon: A Taste of Travel Writing.

At the age of fifteen I travelled over to Lyon to take part in an educational exchange programme at the very same time in which my cousin was working in the area. The coincidence perfectly allowed for us to meet up and explore the area freely. I’ll never forget the day we hopped into her rental car and went on an adventure leaving behind the large art deco style tower buildings and metropolitan buzz to a smaller and more rural area nearby.

First we decided to indulge in a little shopping. The Villeurbanne Flea Market throws together all that is quintessentially French: beautiful antiques, shabby chic style and the colourfully entertaining people who work the stalls. On sale were little live quails skittering about in metal cages, mahogany furniture, hand woven baskets and so many otherworldly treasures. We then found ourselves wandering down in the older part of the town. As we sauntered by the perfectly cerulean canal we took in the archaic buildings and the scent of freshly baked bread from a nearby bakery. That’s what I came to love about France: everything is cooked fresh based on what is in season. At a nearby fruit stall we purchased a bag of cherries, swollen little red treasures, and ate them greedily out of their brown paper bag as we passed the waterfront. Extravagant boats and yachts jutted out upon the water ahead. Behind lay the charming but rugged patchwork of buildings, each one a slightly different hue as if we were the subjects of a bold and colourful painting.

We found a restaurant in a small, cobbled alleyway that offered outdoor seats and a view of the sun setting over the watery horizon. It was in this evening that we transformed from awkward tourists picking at foreign menus to full blown gourmands. I treated myself to a supper of quenelles de brochet, a dish served in a cheese and wine sauce and with a side of goose liver pâté. Does it get more French than that?

Heaving our gluttonously full bellies from the restaurant we wandered past tram stop buskers and late night florists selling single red roses to amorous youngsters walking side by side. We took in the essence of the town as flaneurs experiencing little fragments of French culture that seemed both foreign and familiar. We drove back to the noisy Villeurbanne commune, once more amidst towering buildings and never-ending hustle, and said our goodbyes. Ten years on, I've not forgotten a cherry-stained stroll by the canal and the starlit meal that nourished me to my very soul.