And I speak French. Fluently. Never in my wildest dreams did
I think that I would be this displaced, this out of sorts, and this stranger in
a strange land. But, here I am, three days in and in over my head. Despite its
geographic situation between the Rhone and Saone,
it seems as though nothing really flows in Lyon.
My flight was actually one of the best parts of the journey:
quick, smooth, uneventful. I had an aisle seat with an empty one next to me
(who could ask for anything more? Although, the last two flights I’ve taken I
secretly have believed that my soul mate could be sitting next to me; two empty
seats proves that theorem).
As you may know, I have a mortal fear of flying, acquired
shortly after 9/11 and a disastrous flight to the Dominican. Once an intrepid
‘If it’s Tuesday, it must be Auckland
'
traveler, I am now one of those white-knucled, seat-gripping horrors. But I managed
to keep it together quite nicely, and even sleep a bit. I should have had
some foreshadowing of the organizational treats to come once I learned that the
movies-on-demand (How exciting! I can finally see The Constant Gardner!!) were
actually “Movies whenever we feel like starting them” – randomly playing films
starting “every 15 minutes” as the in-flight brochure advertised, but what they
neglected to tell you was which film and
which 15 minutes…disaster. Things would only improve once I arrived and saw
that my bag was nowhere in sight; that’s
when the fear truly set in.
I was due to catch the TGV out of Charles de Gaulle straight
for Lyon, but the bag snafu certainly put a wrench in
those works. When the Air France blokes told me my bag was “Not even
registering on the system, Madame” I thought I had better board my train after all.
After a protracted transaction with the Parisian ticket
agent in a version of french I did not understand (ok, every 20th word,
maybe), I managed to get a first-class seat for a mere 1 Euro more, and was on
my way to Lyon. Despite the screaming children and
nattering senior citizens that filled the car, I was soon deep in a sleep that
only jet lag can bring. I awoke to bucolic hills populated with sheep and tiny
chateaux – where the hell am I? Oh, yeah: France.
I disembarked at Lyon, Part Dieu station, and caught a taxi to my hotel, a
“residence” supposedly frequented by visiting scientists, researchers and other
luminaries (hey, guess I count as one). My cab
driver thought I was a journalist as he mentioned that international news
people often stay there (Oh my god, I might meet an international journalist!!).
I arrived to find Yvette, a bizarre, ornery French-ish woman
with a totally unintelligible accent and very little helpful information. I
learned that everything would be closed for the Easter holiday for the next two
days: good luck buying anything. So, there I was, stuck in Lyon over Easter weekend, no clothes, no toiletries, and no hope for a quick
shopping spree. My insurance entitled me to 500$ worth of purchases while my
luggage was in transit, but it was like my credit card was being held hostage,
like a kid in a candy store, only from the outside looking in. The frustration
was palpable.
I wandered the city for a while before I collapsed in a heap
at 9 pm. I slept until 8:30 the next morning, waking up every few
hours trying not to think about what time it really was back in New York. The next day, I set off
for Vieux Lyon, a touristed area, thinking maybe that some shops would be open.
They weren’t. It was beautiful, though,
the winding cobbled streets, the imposing Fougiere basilica perched on the hilltop,
the little Bouchon Lyonnaise where I had a delicious salad and the worst
service ever.
Back at the hotel I passed out for a few hours, but not
before phoning Air France for the 20ieth time and insisting that they a) find my bag b) not send it
before Tuesday morning (thinking this would give me enough time to find an open
French boutique and charge away!!). By this time I had been wearing the same
clothes for almost 4 days (I did wash the underwear and camisole!). Air France was generous enough to provide me with a chemical smelling t-shirt emblazoned
with their happy logo. I, however, was anything but. Smelly, tired, stuck in a
town where nothing happened and nothing was open.
When I awoke from a deep sleep at 8 pm, I received a call from Yvette at the reception: my bag had
arrived. On the one hand I was ecstatic: mentally, I had been cataloging all my
items, should they go missing forever. But, on the other, this meant my
shopping plans were dashed. I headed off to dinner, freshly washed and clothed,
and had a really mediocre meal at a little bistro – so much for the
gastronomical capital of France!
Or maybe I was just hitting all the lowlights, holiday fare, who knew?
After my disappointing dinner I set off in search of a club,
a bar, anywhere to get a drink and listen to some music, but place after place
was shut tight as a drum. It was beyond disappointing. Usually, I land in a new city, hit the cool places, meet people at the hotel or
hostel, make fast friends, drink all night, dance until dawn, and have the time
of my life. I love traveling and live for meeting new people, making new
friends, falling in love in a foreign place with a foreign man – it’s what I do
best. And traveling to forget the past heartbreak is the nomadic hopeless
romantic’s panacea – only Lyon ain’t the place to do it.
Back at the hotel I couldn’t sleep and finally hit on some
terrible French reality TV show where people shared their deepest confessions
in the hopes of winning back a lost friend or lover. It was tacky and brutal to
watch, but in the grand scheme of French TV (which is ATROCIOUS), it was great.
I settled in with my new favourite book, a gift from my sister entitled “Around
the World in 80 Dates.” I know, it sounds cloying and awful, and when I first got
it in the mail I was furious – Why is she sending me this shit? Does she think
I’m this desperate? Did I really need to read about mass transatlantic speed
dating when I hate men more than ever and couldn’t stomach even one more date
back in NY?
But, the book is insidiously marvelous and has grown on me. The
protagonist, Jennifer Cox, a 38 yr old british travel writer and PR person for
Lonely Planet and all-around love disaster quits her job and sets off to trawl
the world for her soul mate! It sounds so far- fetched and ridiculous, but her
resolve, plucky attitude and overwhelming optimism in the face of crossing some
truly horrible international date-lines, inspired me. I’m not quite sure
how, or whether I’ll set off to do the same thing, but I do think I’ll be more
honest and up front with guys: I am looking for my soul mate. I am not looking
to fuck around, not looking to date, not looking for a good time, not looking
for a friend, not looking for something casual, and if it ain’t there on the
first date, it never will be. End of story. It’s a bit of a take-no-prisoners
attitude, but I really have been there done that, tried it all, and none of it
has worked. I have forced myself to try so much shit that I’ve ended up in
numerous relationships with loserish assholes that were just bad for me. If a
guy does not have his karmic shit together, if he doesn’t like who he is and
where he is at with his life, if he doesn’t respect himself enough to be with
someone like me, I sure as hell am not going to help him find his way there.
I’m done being everyone’s doctor, nursemaid, shrink and mother.
Today was another series of frustrations, comedies of error
after error, almost too numerous to write about. I woke up thinking maybe there
was still hope of my travel claim, but after numerous calls to Air France and Visa, lots of pleading and begging, it was a dead end. I screamed and
fretted “I wore the same clothes for 4 fucking days!!!!!!!!! And were it not
for this bullshit catholic town I would have new clothes from Galleries
Lafayettes!!!!!!!!” And I realized how ridiculous and selfish it all sounded,
but I was pissed. I was denied. And it was just not fair.
Well, at least I can take a nice shower and do my hair. Ha.
A “shower” in this fucking country consists of a free standing hose that
spouted water in all directions, soaking the entire bathroom and very little of
my skin. Why the hell don’t they have something to attach this unruly water
snake to the bathroom wall?????
When I decided to do my hair, I neglected to check the
voltage on my flat iron. Sparks,
smoke, and blown fuses later, I realized that curly would be the way to go for
the rest of the trip. I just hope the iron isn’t ruined, otherwise I will be
making a claim once I get back on US soil.
I set out to visit Croix Rousse, a working class funkified
neighborhood up the hills of Lyon, and went in search of
a café/croissant at a little terasse. Seemed like a reasonable enough request,
we’re in fucking FRANCE, right? No, after wandering for hours, nada. I finally
ended up at the supermarket, bought a few things, and headed home.
I thought the day could be saved by heading to a few museums
in the afternoon, but first I would procure the elusive Carte Hebdomadaire, the
weekly metro card that could only be bought at an official transit office (that were all closed the past
few days!). I found one and learned that I would need a photo and some ID and
proof of residence. They were willing to waive the residence stuff after some
protestation on my part, and I wandered over to the Photomaton of Amelie fame
in the corner marche“Non, non, camarchepas” (it’s broken) I was told, but there was another one at the end of the
quai. Fine. I wandered for ages and finally found the photomaton, but the
minute I arrived, a man with cleaning supplies, (the elusive repairman of
Amelie fame!) arrived and told me it would be a while, but I could go to the
post office across the street. Having a bad feeling about all of this, I headed
out to the post office, but realized I didn’t have enough change. I went to the
tourist office and was met with useless blank stares and told to go to the
bank. Three banks and no luck later, I went to a newsstand and bought a French
Glamour, just for fun. Change in hand, I bravely approached the post office,
found the photomaton, settled in took a pretty decent looking photo, and just
as I was finishing, the screen flashed “Desole, on ne peut pas rendre le
service demande..” WHAT THE FUCK??????????? It ate my money, gave me no photo,
and provided a number to call for a reimbursement.
Oh my god. At this point, nearly two hours had elapsed, but I was determined. I
headed back to the original Photomaton, but it was still being repaired. I
quickly spilled my story to Photomaton guy, and taking pity on me, he gave me
the photos for free! I headed for the transit office and after much debate and
extra charges for next to nothing (turns out the “weekly” card expires on
Sunday, not in 7 days), I emerged with a little red card with my photo on the
back that I will no doubt keep for years to come, a reminder of what I have had
to endure just to take the bloody metro in this godforsaken town.
The rest of the afternoon I spent at the textile and
decorative arts museum, a charming little place resplendent with some of the
most sumptuous fabrics and designs I have ever seen. An embroidered silk number
from France/Peking at the turn of the 19th century made me want a
wedding dress of the same material…one can dream…
I then headed for the Lumiere museum, where I paid homage to
the brothers’ Lumieres and their contribution to the still and moving image. It
was an amazing collection of photos, films and artifacts, but I was exhausted
and it was getting late.
My coworker and her mum were due to arrive from Paris that afternoon, and I was actually getting desperate to talk to another human
being. When I saw them I gave them hugs and kisses of recognition as they, too,
had had their fair share of turmoil getting here from Paris.
We decided to go back to Bellcour square (where I had spent
the greater part of the afternoon) in search of connecting devices to make the
internet work on the archaic phone systems at the hotel (there is NO internet,
no WiFi, no wireless networks, NADA in this third world country!!!!). After
hours of intense confusion over cords and wires and prices at fnac, we called
it a day and headed back with our contraptions I felt sure would fail. And,
again, after hours of setting up AOL and some other free French internet
bullshit, I could get nothing to work.
We headed off for dinner, not knowing when and where we are
supposed to be tomorrow as we are unable to contact the boss at the hospital.
He could always call us here at the hotel, but we have no way of reaching
anyone.
Dinner was lovely and very French, quite delicious, but not
the food of my dreams. I am waiting to be truly swept off my feet, speechless,
enraptured, able to utter only monosyllabic moans upon tasting the delicacies
set before me…So far, it’s a bust all around.
I know, I know, here I am in France sounding like a spoiled American, and maybe I am; maybe my standards are too
high, my expectations unrealistic and thus I am constantly disappointed. But I
don’t think so this time. No, this time things have been unbelievably,
ridiculously, comically bad. And I can only hope they improve as this trip
continues…ten days is a long time to be this miserable and out of sorts.
I cannot wait to come home to New York and all its craziness, for at least I know that everything is always open, the
subway couldn’t be easier to buy tickets for, and people speak my language.
This will be short by virtue of the fact that I never sleep, eat, or have any time for myself, nor any space for my thoughts, feelings, being...nada. Work has consumed every last fibre of my miserable existence, mortgaged my soul down to the penny, turned me into the living dead, a total zombie. I get up at 6:30, go to work, work all day, leave work between 7 and 9, barely make it home (today was epic: got stuck in a torrential rainstorm, then really got STUCK as the subway flooded, escaped at 125th street to hail a bus, but it was headed mostly the wrong way, so got off, ran to the nearest bus shelter, managed to hop in a gypsy cab, and stagger home. FUCK ME. Public transport is the infrastructure that New York is built on, but when it fucks up, it REALLY goes to shit).
Bueno...in an attempt to infuse my shell of my former self with some semblance of a pulse, I decided to go to a Milonga on Saturday, in Central Park. Not sure what to expect, I didn't expect much, and although I have been mentally and emotionally feeling the pull towards all things Argentina, tango included, for as long as I can remember, I have always stopped myself. I nearly purchased a ticket to Buenos Aires last year, but somehow fell short, not quite ready, nervous, hesitant, reserved...and now I know why.
glide across the asphalt, legs interlaced, close embrace, fluid poetry...I was aksed to dance by several men (of course, they never asked me twice!!). I looked the part, hair pulled back, gorgeous black dress, black dance stilettos, long, lacy ironwork spanish earrings...man, did I look like I could dance. But, you can't really fake tango. It's like all the foreign languages I speak, or try to speak - I can utter a few words of really convincing russian, but keep going, and it's a disaster. 
So, intoxicated, I went to two more Milongas on Sunday, staying at the last one until 1 am!!! I danced many dances with this middle aged, rotund, jocular Israeli gentleman, and he taught me a lot of the moves, vocabulary, how to be a good follower (so important in tango!), etc...so that for the rest of the night, I fooled people into not knowing I had only been at this for one night - something totally unheard of in tango (it generally takes people years to feel comfortable doing it!). I have always said "Soy Canadiense, pero soy Latina de corazon" (for those of you total non-linguists: "I may be Canadian, but I'm a Latina at heart." And I truly believe I was meant to dance tango, that I was some insanely, passionate Argentinian tango dancer in another life. Really. Doesn't mean I necessarily know what to do when a Porten~o guy starts meditating on me on a date...(see comments from the last post for elaboration...;) It is now all I think about, dream about, even at work (especially during tough moments at work!). I practice like a lunatic in the subway, by myself, I research classes, where to buy the coolest, sexiest shoes, where the next Milonga is, and it keeps me going, something to look forward to in this crazy existence of mine...
The oddest thing about tango is that for the most part, as a woman, you are walking backwards, being led into the unknown by a man, whom you trust enough to guide you, not lead you into danger, not hurtle you into other couples, not send you into a huge crevice in the dancefloor, and for the dance to work, for it to flow like molten lava or melted copper, you have to let everything go and trust. Which is definitely something new for me. A friend of my sister's is an avid tango dancer, has been for years, and I always wondered how she was so accomplished and consumed with the dance, since she is completely, legally blind. Now I realize we are all blind in tango, and they often teach you to dance with your eyes closed, at first. Well, here I go, eyes closed, feet poised, into the abyss of the echoing bandoneon and strains of the gypsy violin...
