Clearly this is the popular night activity before young people head off to their various bars and clubs. People sit on the steps, stare at the water, and have a drink. We all groan about how there is nothing comparable to this in the States. The weather is perfect, our group is sharing stories from the week, the wine is cheap (about 3 Euros for a fair bottle). We're laughing amongst ourselves when we hear the crowd erupting around us. Confused, we look around, and the notice this 60+ man sprinting down the pathway following the river. As he passes, the people cheer loudly, and we eagerly join in without having a clue why. It's nearly 11PM. Some time later he returns, and we commence cheering once more. Apparently he's something of a celebrity in Lyon: this old man who runs everywhere all the time. Even my host mom knew him.
After finishing our various bottles, we head off toward the boat. It's ironically an Australia party boat on the Rhone, and the inside is packed. There's a lower level for bathrooms, a middle level with two bars and room to dance, and a top level with a bar where all the smokers flock. Our 8 Euro entry fee covers a free drink, so we economically order the most expensive thing on the menu: a pink dingo (7.50 Euros)... It has everything in it but the kitchen sink and taste delicious. The bartenders are all French, the decor is all crocodiles and Australian flags, the music is American (really need to find a French discotheque), and everyone's dancing in a throng. Bizarre combination. We make our way to the back of the boat where there are places to sit and finish our drinks. Within 15 minutes, we're kicked out so some dude with his bike can do fancy tricks. Problem is he's horrible... We cheer louder once he's finished and begin dancing once more.
I have no idea who this guy is or why he's wearing a pink wig, but he decided to photobomb our picture. Eh... seems an appropriate testament to the odd people roaming the night.
It's around 2:30 when we decide we should leave. After all we have to meet at 9:30 in the morning. Will is kind enough to offer to help me find a cab since the metro stops running after midnight, and there's no way you should walk anywhere alone at night when you are female. He's the seasoned taxi official since he's already caught one the previous night, so I follow his lead. We pause at an intersection, and I notice a taxi across the street. Without hesitation, I lift my hand. The driver nods his head and puts on his hazards. Will looks at me stunned, and I just shrug.
The driver is a friendly middle-aged man who is very excited when I tell him I'm from Texas. "Chevalsss!" (Horsessss!) he says, and I roll my eyes and play along with his stereotypes hoping he'll get me home a little bit faster (and cheaper). I'll admit I was a bit of an idiot. It didn't occur to ask my host mom our address, but I knew the two streets that intersected near where I live. He pulls over and offers to drive me farther, warning that it's dangerous to walk alone. I assure him I'll be fine and walk the block to my apartment. I arrive safe and sound, but I can't get the door to unlock. Trying to be quiet and not wake the girls, I try turning the three locks all various directions, and after much noise, I succeed. In denial about my screaming arrival, I tiptoe through the dark hallway to my room (not before grabbing a quick snack from the kitchen shhhhh), take off my makeup, and fall fast asleep.
In the morning I'm fortunate to say I was thirsty but not hungover. I stop at MacDonalds for a latte (gotta love French MacDo) to help wake me up before I head toward the charter bus. Everyone is buzzing with the mishaps of the night before, and I laugh at their half-glazed eyes. We pile into the bus and pretend we'll take naps. Instead we revert to middle school and end up talking and yelling to each other across the bus like kids heading to school.
We arrive at Perouges first which is a French city dating back to the Middle Ages and has been maintained through the centuries. Actually some 60 or so people live there today. Electrical lines were buried underground. It's been the set of numerous movies including The Three Musketeers. There are public bathrooms without toilet paper, so Amanda pulls a roll out of her backpack and lets us each take some before we go inside. The stench is atrocious! If that doesn't throw you back to the Middle Ages, I don't know what will. I pulled an Elaine, held my breath, and rushed inside. I wanted to douse myself in hand sanitizer afterward.
Our tour guide arrives, and we set off into the city. It's so charming, so aesthetically pleasing, so pleasant, you feel as though you've been transported back in time... Then a car drives up, honks its horn, and nearly runs you over. Can't escape French drivers!
I found this adorable old lady selling pastries out of her window. The smell of melting butter, bread baking, and flaky sugary tarts is so overwhelming we all gather around her window to see what sort of witch magic she has created. There's only a meager sign above her window, but apparently she needs no better advertising than the promising smell of her baking. Ah... that smell is France.
After we finish our tour, we're given some time to explore and shop while we wait for our lunch reservations. My stomach is growling. I can still smell the old woman's pastries. Tara and I roam the streets with our cameras in hand. At least the beautiful scenery offered a distraction from our empty bellies. At noon, we promptly find the Auberge du Coq where lunch is waiting...
We have a proper three course meal. First, charcuterie, salad, and legumes.
Then, duck legs smothered in a thick wine sauce with wild rice on the side. The meat has been slow cooked until it melts like butter across your tongue...
Next, dessert which is a specialty of Perouges: a sugar tarte (tastes like pizza with sugar on it) with sour cream and raspberry sauce on the side.
And finally, cafe with dark chocolate (notice how big the spoon is compared to the tiny cup!)
Belly first (or so it feels), we waddle down the cobblestone street to the bus where we load up and head off through the French countryside toward Beaujolais. The French countryside is beautiful: sprawling meadows, acres of farms, rolling hills and mountains in the distance, squat little towns we pass through...
In about an hour, we arrive a Beaujolais a bit ahead of schedule. Our tour guide stumbles out of the chateau with his shirttail hanging out and promptly tucks it in. Madame Kelton apologizes for arriving early, and he assures us there is no problem. We begin our tour of the chateau and the church which has been in the family for over 300 years. It was almost donated to the bishop for his summer residence centuries earlier, but fearing the bishop wouldn't truly use it, the offer was revoked. It is stunning. Unfortunately they don't allow pictures inside, but I covertly snuck a few.
Once our tour of the chateau finishes, we're all sufficiently bored from his family stories. Apparently he's convinced that Louis XVII and Marie Antoinette's son escaped capture during the Revolution, became a duke (or something like that), and died in the house. We're not convinced, but politely keep our mouths shut. He takes us town to the cave where some of the wine is aged and where we can begin our degustation. Understandably, everyone perks up a little.
Sante, mes amis!
A French wine tasting is too much fun. He begins with a lesson on how to properly appreciate the wine. First, you admire its color. Then, you swirl the wine and smell its various notes. Next, you take a sip and circulate the wine across your tongue to taste the complex flavors. Finally, without insulting the man, you can drink. His little sons circulate with small bites of bread, cheese, and charcuterie for us to sample with the wine. We're all relaxed and enjoying our cups. We try 5 wines all together, and Stephanie -who's hungover- keeps handing me the rest of her wine that she can't finish. By the end, I'm convinced I need to buy a bottle (which was later shared with my friends while sitting along the Rhone. Full circle, non?).
Full, slightly tipsy, and exhausted, we all pile into the bus once more and return home. Tara sleeps next to me. I listen to my iPod. I can vaguely hear people burst into song: "Call Me Maybe" by Carly Rae Jepsen. It was a good day :)
0 comments:
Post a Comment