Lyon is about a two hour train journey from Paris, though it feels like stepping into another century altogether. The old city has chimneys and turrets and spires and rises up a mountain. There are restaurants on almost every corner (including desi establishments like “la Kashmir” that served “poulet haandi”). These are not the trendy eateries of Paris, of course; as everyone here never tires of reminding you, Lyon has more Michelin-starred restaurants than any other city in France, and that’s quite an achievement.
We stayed mainly in the old town, a medieval cobblestoned area that doesn’t take you more than 15 minutes to cross from side to side. But the food, OMG the food! It is absolutely mouth-watering, and though the Lyon is famous for having invented ways to cook every conceivable part of a pig, there is happily a lot else to choose from. Roasted ducks, myriad pastas, simple salads made of soft, chewy mozzarella and sweet, tangy tomatoes that are in turn drizzled with olive oil and sprigs of basil… thin pizzas, roasted chickens, glazed desserts. One mouthful and suddenly you’re in paradise, albeit with a small sinking feeling. (Congratulations! You just gained 5 pounds!)
My friends and I spent two nights there in an apartment we found through Air BnB. You may have heard of this website. It puts travelers in touch with people willing to have houseguests in their flat for a small fee. You can find entire apartments on it too, and that’s what I’ve done every time. It works out far cheaper than a hotel, you get to stay in a real flat and live like a local and you get to meet lots of crazy people. Take Claude, the man who rented us the lofted room in the 15th century monastery-cum-stone-building in the old city of Lyon. Claude had hair plugs, wore bright pink socks with an eerie confidence and was perpetually late for some pressing engagement that invariably involved his mother. I didn’t go into this with him in too much detail, since he couldn’t really speak English, but we got on well enough. He lied about promising to drop some Lyonnaise wine off at the place as a welcome gift, but his mom was probably getting antsy…
[quote]It's amazing the things people will confess when they know they won't see you again[/quote]
Two days later I caught the train to Nice, in the south. The journey was about four hours through the rolling hills and vineyards of France, all framed under blue skies with massive clouds. Eventually and quite unexpectedly, you turn a corner and are faced with the bluest of blue seas, the Mediterranean. This part is called the Cote d’Azur, or the Azure Coast, named for the specific type of blue that is also an artists’ color. We met up with our host Josephine, a blond lawyer married to a Francophile Hells Angel, though she’s not sure if they’re financially compatible (it’s amazing the things people will confess to you when they know they won’t see you again), and she showed us into another lofted bed apartment in the old city of Nice, quite near the sea.
Nice was famous two generations ago for being the destination to see and be seen, but now it’s populated by the trying-not-to-be-senile set. There weren’t too many people there, as the young and broke tend to go to places like Croatia now, far cheaper and with sandy beaches. I stepped out of the flat for a ciggy and was faced with my first sight of Nice, a sign reading “Delhi-Belhi Indo-Pak restaurant this way”, followed by an arrow pointing to a dingy little café populated by South Indians in saris and white joggers. I flicked my cigarette and ran back upstairs, afraid of being caught in the “let’s talk because we’re both desi” situation that is now unavoidable even in the French Riviera.
[quote]No one exits the water gracefully in Nice; old and young alike are flailing about with their arms outstretched
for balance[/quote]
The beaches are pebbly, you should know that upfront. No one exits the water gracefully in Nice; old and young alike are flailing about with their hands outstretched for balance as they try to negotiate the thousands of heated rocks beneath them whilst also trying to keep their belly fat sucked in. The first day we went to the free part of the beach and found ourselves surrounded by hot stones, no shade and lots of fat Germans. It was rather depressing, so I decided to try the little private enclosures that looked so inviting behind their roped-off sections. There was no flailing here; only elegant people sipping drinks in ridiculously large straw hats as they cackled and gazed indifferently at the people beyond the ropes. I wanted to be them so badly. Turns out it wasn’t that expensive; it’s the best deal out there. For 20 euros you get two chairs and umbrellas, free water and a carpeted floor – and mere feet from the beach for the whole day! The moment I discovered this, any hope of sightseeing was replaced by my tanning ritual of “Burn, Turn and Repeat.” There are places to see here, of course – a village called Venice is nearby and you can practically walk to Monaco – but the pleasure of sitting in front of a blue ocean while someone plays the violin outweighed (there it is, another food metaphor) any need to broaden my horizons.
Dinner was simple fare, less complicated than what we’d had in Lyon, which had spoiled us. Nice is generally touristy, being the second most visited city in France after Paris, and the food follows in kind.
But on the third day I woke up looking like a raccoon, having fallen asleep in the sun. And this was bad news, for I was heading just then to the most beautiful city in the world: Venice!
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com and follow @fkantawala on twitter
We stayed mainly in the old town, a medieval cobblestoned area that doesn’t take you more than 15 minutes to cross from side to side. But the food, OMG the food! It is absolutely mouth-watering, and though the Lyon is famous for having invented ways to cook every conceivable part of a pig, there is happily a lot else to choose from. Roasted ducks, myriad pastas, simple salads made of soft, chewy mozzarella and sweet, tangy tomatoes that are in turn drizzled with olive oil and sprigs of basil… thin pizzas, roasted chickens, glazed desserts. One mouthful and suddenly you’re in paradise, albeit with a small sinking feeling. (Congratulations! You just gained 5 pounds!)
My friends and I spent two nights there in an apartment we found through Air BnB. You may have heard of this website. It puts travelers in touch with people willing to have houseguests in their flat for a small fee. You can find entire apartments on it too, and that’s what I’ve done every time. It works out far cheaper than a hotel, you get to stay in a real flat and live like a local and you get to meet lots of crazy people. Take Claude, the man who rented us the lofted room in the 15th century monastery-cum-stone-building in the old city of Lyon. Claude had hair plugs, wore bright pink socks with an eerie confidence and was perpetually late for some pressing engagement that invariably involved his mother. I didn’t go into this with him in too much detail, since he couldn’t really speak English, but we got on well enough. He lied about promising to drop some Lyonnaise wine off at the place as a welcome gift, but his mom was probably getting antsy…
[quote]It's amazing the things people will confess when they know they won't see you again[/quote]
Two days later I caught the train to Nice, in the south. The journey was about four hours through the rolling hills and vineyards of France, all framed under blue skies with massive clouds. Eventually and quite unexpectedly, you turn a corner and are faced with the bluest of blue seas, the Mediterranean. This part is called the Cote d’Azur, or the Azure Coast, named for the specific type of blue that is also an artists’ color. We met up with our host Josephine, a blond lawyer married to a Francophile Hells Angel, though she’s not sure if they’re financially compatible (it’s amazing the things people will confess to you when they know they won’t see you again), and she showed us into another lofted bed apartment in the old city of Nice, quite near the sea.
Nice was famous two generations ago for being the destination to see and be seen, but now it’s populated by the trying-not-to-be-senile set. There weren’t too many people there, as the young and broke tend to go to places like Croatia now, far cheaper and with sandy beaches. I stepped out of the flat for a ciggy and was faced with my first sight of Nice, a sign reading “Delhi-Belhi Indo-Pak restaurant this way”, followed by an arrow pointing to a dingy little café populated by South Indians in saris and white joggers. I flicked my cigarette and ran back upstairs, afraid of being caught in the “let’s talk because we’re both desi” situation that is now unavoidable even in the French Riviera.
[quote]No one exits the water gracefully in Nice; old and young alike are flailing about with their arms outstretched
for balance[/quote]
The beaches are pebbly, you should know that upfront. No one exits the water gracefully in Nice; old and young alike are flailing about with their hands outstretched for balance as they try to negotiate the thousands of heated rocks beneath them whilst also trying to keep their belly fat sucked in. The first day we went to the free part of the beach and found ourselves surrounded by hot stones, no shade and lots of fat Germans. It was rather depressing, so I decided to try the little private enclosures that looked so inviting behind their roped-off sections. There was no flailing here; only elegant people sipping drinks in ridiculously large straw hats as they cackled and gazed indifferently at the people beyond the ropes. I wanted to be them so badly. Turns out it wasn’t that expensive; it’s the best deal out there. For 20 euros you get two chairs and umbrellas, free water and a carpeted floor – and mere feet from the beach for the whole day! The moment I discovered this, any hope of sightseeing was replaced by my tanning ritual of “Burn, Turn and Repeat.” There are places to see here, of course – a village called Venice is nearby and you can practically walk to Monaco – but the pleasure of sitting in front of a blue ocean while someone plays the violin outweighed (there it is, another food metaphor) any need to broaden my horizons.
Dinner was simple fare, less complicated than what we’d had in Lyon, which had spoiled us. Nice is generally touristy, being the second most visited city in France after Paris, and the food follows in kind.
But on the third day I woke up looking like a raccoon, having fallen asleep in the sun. And this was bad news, for I was heading just then to the most beautiful city in the world: Venice!
[To be continued…]
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com and follow @fkantawala on twitter