Working lunch...

I have never been keen on lunch time meetings, so I have fitted in perfectly well to the French system as it is usually not possible to have a meeting in France between the hours of 12 and 2pm, due to the fact that it is the sacred lunch hour(s), but on some occasions it just can’t be helped.

In the UK, this would either be dealt with by everyone just hanging on in there until the meeting finished, or for very special occasions by a platter of sandwiches and crisps, and possibly a few grapes.

Things are just a little bit different here….



Yes, this is a regular, even for internal meetings occurrence, and gives the words “lunch box” a whole new meaning.

Not only do you get a 4 course meal, complete with starter, main course, dessert and cheese, but each tray comes with individual mini bottles of olive oil & balsamic vinegar, and miniature metal knives and forks. All of which gets thrown away afterwards, except when some people, like me, scavenge round and collect up the knives and forks, wash them up and save them. For what I’m not quite sure, but to throw them away is scandalous…

This is not just our company, but hospitality stretches much further here. A great example is the difference between large multi-national company who we work with in both countries. In the UK, the most I have ever been offered was a cup of coffee and once, a free trial of their new yoghurt product. Woo hoo. In France, my colleagues were given a 3 course lunch with wine in the staff cafeteria.

Even at a meeting with another agency, suddenly a large cake box was produced which had large, individual chocolate cakes, which were possibly the most buttery, calorific and most gorgeous things I have ever tasted. If the plan was to render the whole of our team completely speechless and unable to write anything down due to trying to eat these large, oozing cakes then it certainly worked, not to mention I will do anything they ask as long as they promise a) more cakes or b) to show me where the bakery is…

Be careful where you wave that baguette...

The baguette is perhaps THE most famous French export. However, the supermarkets that produce “french sticks” in the UK just haven’t got it right. Do they not know that after 5pm at night the baguette you bought in the morning is not supposed to be edible still? It is supposed to be rock solid, providing every child (or student) with weapons that not only hit hard, but make a huge mess too – what fun, none of that poncey soft crusted stuff for us thanks.

Whilst I think it is great that the French have clearly kept preservatives out of their food (or whatever it is that means that all other bread worldwide keeps for longer), I have no reason to believe that it is due to health reasons, but more of a stubbornness to accept that any other country may have found something that may be useful in the culinary world.

It is therefore perfectly acceptable in most restaurants to give you a basket of fairly hard bread if you go there late in the evening – and what good exercise it is for the jaws too.

What is also so French about baguette is that it is frankly a ridiculous size and shape (well why would you take on the idea of another country just because it is more practical – stick to your traditions and all that). Baguettes never fit in shopping baskets, bags or anything else, which means 9 times out of 10 it’s tucked under someone’s arm, or sticking out of the basket on a bike (trés Français). Why not buy two that are half the length and fit in your bag? Because then you get twice the amount of rock solid baguette end that everyone tries so hard to avoid, except those who are trying to sharpen their teeth. (thanks to Pete for doing a classic French impersonation...)


I have even fallen foul to flying baguette debris on several occasions, when a bite of a baguette has launched a projectile of rock solid bread particle into my eye. Luckily, I sustained no lasting injuries and I have taken it as part of the initiation of becoming a local.

I may seem to be derogative to the baguette, but I have to admit that I love the stuff – baguette and a bit of butter is one of the simplest, nicest things you can eat. Such a shame that you don’t get given any butter with the bread in French restaurants….

Imagine my delight recently whilst reading Harry Potter in French, that Harry wards off all things evil by brandishing a baguette at them! Excellent news! Anyone who is scared of being attacked by a large snake, a werewolf, death eaters or Lord Voldemort need only grab the left overs from breakfast and all will be banished. However, I thought that this might not be taking their translation job seriously if they were changing the story to include French bread.

Not the case apparently – baguette = wand, stick and French loaf of bread evidently…

Je suis une trentenaire...

It sounds a bit more glamorous in French, but horror of horrors I have hit 30. It's actually not so bad at all - I now feel I can wear what I like, eat what I like and ignore the consequences... almost.

To celebrate my birthday I had a big black tie dinner (with my friend Gemma who was also hitting 30) back in London surrounded by my friends and family which was absolutely great, and very civilised which is surely a sign of my age. Without really planning to it seems I managed to hit the absolute height of ginger on my birthday, oh good...

Rugby & frogs

The usually very French Lyon has been invaded by Rugby fans. Although through the summer you could occasionally hear the odd English or American accent, it’s pretty much just French here. Suddenly the town has grown in size – and not just through volume of people, but individual size too. It is very rare to see any really fat French – bring on the worlds assortment of Rugby fans! What better place to be than in France when England gets off to such an incredible start. Incredible for the lack of any points whatsoever that is. Lucky for us that the French lost the football to Scotland last week so they can’t be too cocky.

Update as I didn’t publish this in time… oh how things have turned around with England through to the final! Woo hoo, bring on Saturday. How on earth do you approach a team who has thrashed you in the opening stages? We shall see.

For those of you who read my Korean blog, you may remember a particular blog entry where I wondered what happened if you kissed a large gold Frog – hoping particularly that it would turn into an extra rich prince. Not the case it would seem. I can safely say that if you kiss a large gold frog, it turns into a….. frog. Yes, I can now reveal that shortly after arriving in France I did kiss a frog – not a large inanimate gold one this time, but in the form of a French man, and he is now my boyfriend. Considering it is year of the Golden Pig out in Korea, it’s lucky I didn’t kiss a pig I reckon – although you could argue I have done in the past!

Here is the man in question... Guillaume! (oh what an easy one to pronounce and spell for a Brit!)

Les Vacances encore

Not having much holiday left, I am at least trying to make the most of my weekends. This weekend I visited a beautiful little village called St Germain – all flowers, cottages and farm houses basking in plus 30 degree heat, set on a hillside with a breath-taking view across the plains of the French countryside, dotted with trees, cows and the odd lake. And quite a lot of horse poo. I don’t know whether someone was hoping to grow roses in the middle of the road, but there was a good sprinkling along a 2 mile stretch of road. It all added to the charm and aroma of the countryside though.

The purpose of the visit was to visit Mr. Kauffman, a very nice French Grandpa of a friend of mine who, as it turns out, happens to live in a beautiful cottage with a beautiful garden which just makes you want to start drinking Pastis and stay there forever. I was given a tour of the house and garden – lovely vegetables growing in the sun, a cool dark barn-like extension to the house which although pretty much unused was at least a third bigger than my apartment in Lyon, and came with it’s own sunny garden, and numerous sunny, bedrooms with white shutters and pretty views of the garden.

Then there was “Le Cave” – a room used as a wine cellar which, I have learnt, any self respecting wine lover (and therefore French person) should have and nurture. Hard to do in a small flat, but one can try. This room, although not particularly large, housed around 300 bottles of wine, a few spirits, and more recent/ more frequently changing additions of a few crates of beer, among which I was a bit surprised to see a crate of “Desperado’s” – sweet lime flavoured beer with a dash of tequila more commonly drunk by English students in ski resorts or bars in Clapham.

I was very privileged to be given a short, sharp course in Brandy tasting by a connoisseur. Mr Kauffman has collected his brandy’s for many years, and the first one I tasted was made in 1969 – which would have been a sobering thought, drinking something 8 years older than me, except that sobering is the last thing that a 50% brandy does to you. Certainly warmed the cockles, and I imagine did the equivalent of exfoliation to the back of my throat, oesophagus and stomach lining. We tasted 3 in all – the last being a mere 6 years old, made of Mirabel’s which are a common fruit in the area (yellow prunes – haven’t come across them in England I don’t think…) and being of more recognisable strength and a fruity flavour. The first 2 had a definite difference between them, one being heavier and more honeyed, the second a bit more fruity but both incredibly strong. I noticed one bottled on the dusty shelf which said 70%. My only question would be, does alcohol get stronger with age? If those were nearly 40 years old and started off at that percent, lord only knows how strong they are now!

So after an impromptu brandy tasting course, we retired to the patio for some Mirabelle tart washed down with a very nice desert wine, in the late afternoon sun. Perfectly acceptable to be tipsy at 4pm on a Saturday afternoon, after all, I am (pretending to be) en vacance.

Les vacances...

This last week has seen a turn for the better in the weather here and has generally been scorching hot. It has been a slightly irritating hitch in my French holiday, having to go to work every day, but I am trying to maintain the pretence that I am just on a long holiday. To keep up the pretence, I have been strolling back from work in a casual manner (as casual as you can be with a heavy laptop bag) and indulging myself in a huge chocolate ice cream most days whilst sitting in Place Bellecour (as pictured) soaking up the holiday feel, and pretending I am a tourist.

Normally there are not many English speakers in Lyon, but this balance has tipped in the last few weeks as a few more Americans and English have arrived, but more noticeably the balance has shifted because the French have left. I don’t know what came first – do the tourists arrive and the French leave, or the tourists arrive because the French have left?! August in France of course means that everyone winds down a notch and most head for the coast or for their holiday villa somewhere other than the cities. Coming from England, this is all a bit of a change having been used to requests for 2 weeks holiday being met with raised eyebrows as if to say “2 weeks, what could you possibly want to do with 2 weeks off work, you slacker” and 3 weeks of holiday needing sign off from the MD and a bloody good reason! Here, the minimum time off seems to be 2 weeks, with plenty of people departing for 3, which is only reasonable given that most haven’t had more than 2 weeks off since May! (if only I was on a French contract and had that much holiday!).

So, this mostly leaves the English to sweat it out in the, until recently, non air conditioned office. However, the air conditioning has arrived. Now usually you wouldn’t notice air conditioning arrive. It is simply cool or not, there is simply a quiet background hum to an office or not. However, it was with great ceremony and a lot of difficulty that 3 large a/c units arrived the other day, about 4 foot tall and wide and trailing a hell of a lot of cabling and tubing which now snakes around the office in a very “un-health-and-safety-you’d-never-get-away-with-that-in-the-UK” kind of way. Big water cables, bundled up with electricity cables strewn across the floor, a few feet from a flight of stairs. Now if this was the UK, you could be forgiven for hatching up an elaborate incident to claim off the insurance and I am talking big bucks here – after all, how much could you get for tripping over, launching yourself down a flight of stairs whilst being electrocuted? However, I am sure the French would just think you were a clumsy idiot for doing so (and probably quite rightly so) so I am not going to test out the French compensation system just yet. I have a strong suspicion that there isn’t one.

So, back to the air con. The long awaited arrival of these machines hasn’t worked quite as well as we had hoped, due to the fact that half of the office still want their windows open, and the other half want a/c which therefore renders the a/c useless, or very over worked. The second flaw in the plan is the fact that the water tubes for the a/c unit nearest to me actually go out of the window, which obviously now has to be permanently open. No wonder perhaps, that after day 3, two out of the 3 are no longer working. Time to go on holiday perhaps?

I want to break free...

Evidently, having E.Coli then getting your bridesmaid dress fitted, then celebrating for 2 weeks by eating everything in sight is not good for then getting back into the dress for the wedding. Oops. It certainly was figure hugging, although perhaps more of a chunky crayon skirt than a pencil skirt. I really had problems when it came to sitting down, especially when I had to get into my car and drive. The seams began to stretch a bit, and by the end of the night the seams down the front were fully fraying. However, by that time of the night no one noticed, and it held on enough to protect my modesty. The reason I am smiling so much in this picture is because I am standing, and am therefore not at risk of the bottom of my dress making a bid for freedom, and of course because I am stood with my good friend Brownie.

Mange-tout

Hooray, I can eat again! Ok, so my appetite only went for about 6 days, but it seemed like a long time before I could eat solids. I would eat everything in sight, but as I got a final fitting for a bridesmaids dress yesterday I had better not go too mad in the next 3 weeks.

In celebration, it was of course only right to visit the market as per usual on a Sunday. These pictures will perhaps show why it is such a big part of the week for me. I hasten to add the market pictures are not my own work, but were taken by Melanie when she came out to visit a few weeks ago. First stop on the Friday night was for Kir Royals on board my favourite bar. Yes, on board…

We did the usual rounds of sights and of course culinary tours around Lyon, as well as taking the biking one stage further. Unfortunately during Melanie’s visit it rained, but it did mean that we managed to have bikes with baskets and umbrella’s! Probably not that safe, definitely not that sporty, possibly scores points on the being completely impractical but glamorous front though, particularly as my brolly is from Selfridges, so that’s ok then.

With Melanie’s help, I managed to get to grips with the night time setting on my camera and capture the picture I have been trying to take for 4 months, which is the Medical Museum on the river a few hundred metres from my apartment.

Back to the market…. and my favourite counter is of course, the cheese counter. Every week, the first stall we hunt for is “the cheese man” – if we haven’t found him after 15 mins or so, things get a bit panicky. There are of course loads of other cheese counters, and we could get incredibly good cheese from any of them, but somehow he beats them all… you can probably see why….

Now aubergines don’t feature heavily in the UK recipe collection as far as I am aware, but when you see them in such abundance here and with the stalls suggesting you buy 3 or 4 of them at a time I am nearly tempted to buy a load and improvise. However, it would also be sacrilegious to take such beautiful specimens and reduce them to the wilting mess of my vegetable drawer that would no doubt occur if I bought them with no plan of what to do. So far I have resisted. Any recipe ideas, gratefully received

You give me fever...

Beautiful song, but clearly with lyrics from someone who has never had an actual fever. Five days into a fever, I feel somewhat of a veteran at it, and therefore well placed to criticise.

BE WARNED: This may sound a bit whiney, mostly because it is. I apologise to anyone who has got anything serious or worse wrong with them and I realise I am being a big girl about it and will be fine shortly. Just thought some of it may be amusing!

I have for the last few days been cycling (in the cyclical fashion rather than the jolly red bike with basket fashion) between shivering under 4 thick blankets, and sweating away with the thinnest of PJ’s on.

The cause? A suspected kidney/bladder infection, as it’s been accompanied by quite a bit of lower back ache. I tried the “sleep through it/drink water through it” approach that usually works for most ailments, and even resorted to the serious step of taking some Nurofen.

After 36 hours of continuous fever, broken sleep and slowly more aches appearing everywhere (presumably from being in bed) I decided it was perhaps a good opportunity to develop my French conversational skills in a doctor’s surgery environment and risk getting suppositories as treatment. Ok, I cheated with the first part in getting someone French to book me in, but I am ill after all.

It should be noted here that all attempts to be glamorous at this point were totally disregarded – I showered and changed into non pyjama clothes but that was about it. Except for the fact I happened to have a French manicure at the time… unplanned, I promise.

I managed to drag myself out of my apartment and find the nearby doctor’s surgery. It was a choice between 3 flights of stairs or getting in a lift so small that if you walked into it, you’d have to back out of it the way you went in as there was no room to manoeuvre in there. Visions of broken down lifts, fainting, sweating too much and filling it up like a bucket all sprang to mind. So I walked up the stairs. Shame it was the wrong staircase. Needless to say, on the second attempt I opted for the equally small lift and prayed.

Once in the waiting room, I had to wait a customary half an hour past my appointment time to be seen, which made me feel very at home, although I was beginning to wonder why a number of people who had turned up after me seemed to go in first. Whilst sitting there patiently trying not to fall asleep on the spot, pass out or do anything else unbecoming of a young lady it occurred to me that Doctors waiting rooms would be much better if they reduced the large amount of out of date crap reading material and replaced it with a couple of up to date magazines, for those people who are there with ailments that leave them for the most part feeling ok, or those waiting with others.

For those who have used up every last bit of energy getting themselves there (and perhaps up the final 3 flights) there should be an area of padded floor for them to collapse onto, rather than trying to stay poised on a rickety old church hall style wooden chair. Rant over.

So then came the next test, trying to communicate with a French only speaking doctor. However, he was jovial and kind, and didn’t do anything unexpected, merrily jabbing around my stomach and back to find out “yes that does bloody hurt” which unfortunately I could only translate into French as “ow”. Amazing I thought, it’s the same word! Apparently though it is not the same word and I should have been saying “aie!” – I hope I did not get misdiagnosed as a result.

Next stop was a very swish looking laboratory – where having asked me (as the doctor had done) for the two very essential pieces of paperwork I should have with me proceeded to deal with me in a very efficient manner as if the question had never been asked. I dutifully filled my bottle and was told I could get the results in two days time.

In the meantime, the Dr had prescribed me some antibiotics which cover most things, but he said would be adapted if necessary once the results came in. Great, drugs, anything, give them to me! Pharmacies are everywhere in France, so I didn’t have to shuffle far to find one.

By this time, I was in the grip of a fever again with the shivers, so the pharmacist gave me a few odd looks as I stood there shaking and trying to stop my teeth from chattering. Probably wondering if I was an alcoholic, genuinely ill or a bit of a loon.

I was safely back in my bed within an hour and a half, where have remained pretty much ever since. Unfortunately this hasn’t been the fun, too ill to go to work but can manage a duvet on the sofa watching TV. I haven’t even read a book or magazine since Monday. It has been the kind of aching fever that actually had me sat bolt upright in bed, cross legged last night trying to sleep which of course didn’t work but did relieve my headache for a bit.

So anyway, I got my results today, and instead of confirming what I pretty much 100% knew to be a kidney/bladder infection….. I have

E.COLI!

Goody. (I am surely back in the running for the best illness prize with my friends in India - Delhi Beli or E.Coli. Got to be close contestants?!) Fortunately the anti-biotics I was taking are fine for this too, so with a bit of luck things should be getting better soon.

I’m afraid this is a bit sparse on photo’s this time. Probably a good thing I think you’ll agree.

So to any of you who are also worried about getting e.coli, here's a few useful pointers on what to avoid (the crosses show what I've had recently - so let that be a warning):

Undercooked meat (that would include steak perhaps?) x
Apple juice x
Cheese x
Undercooked vegetables x (I thought they were better for you that way?!)
Potatoes x
Lettuce x
Ham x
Bad water x Is French tap water bad?
And let's not forget the famous case found in chocolate in England not too long ago...
chocolate x

Right then. Looks like a diet of evian and overboiled fish for me, minus the vegetables and of course not reheating the rice. Celebrity diet it is then. Who'd have imagined all those poor waifs were simply trying to avoid getting ill...

Glamour or crash?

This picture should give some background as to why there is a need to risk falling off one’s Velo in the name of glamour. Somehow, if you don’t make an effort you feel like you are letting everyone down, even the buildings.

It was going to happen sooner or later… the need for a Velo ‘v (infamous rent-a-bike’s) as the (mostly) reliable, fastest and cheapest form of transport, colliding with a day when I was wearing a skirt. Now I have certainly seen plenty of women riding their bikes in skirts, mostly long billowing skirts that cover the necessary (although it would concern me that it might get trapped in the wheels and cause some very undignified crash), but mine was of a shorter variety, therefore risking flashing my pants to oncoming traffic – not very ladylike or glamorous, and at possible risk of arrest.

However, I have found a solution to the dilemma – how to look ladylike and sophisticated (ok, perhaps my interpretation of the two as I am unsure whether I ever fit into those two categories…).

Firstly, one must adjust the saddle so it is as high as is possible to still ride the bike, thereby creating a downwards angle from pants to knee – if the saddle is too low and your pants to knee angle becomes horizontal, you risk the pant flash on every pedal.

Secondly, I have adopted a new technique for cycling where your knee performs an up and across manoeuvre rather than the straight forward up and down as used by normal cyclists. If you can imagine sitting on a chair with your knees clamped together, it is as close as I could get to the cycling equivalent, and it seems to work – oh how glamorous and French to ride one’s Velo whilst wearing a pencil skirt – it defies the laws of common sense and contravenes both my Englishness and sportiness but then if your bike always comes with a basket you’ve already lost the sportiness battle, and with my Dior sunglasses and impractical high heels I feel well and truly local. Plus, if I fall off my bike the chances of being helped up by a passing French man must be greatly increased.

However, whilst trying to avoid another French lady on a bike, I managed to ride into a large and very solid tree yesterday. Luckily I was going extremely slowly and sustained no damage to either me or my Velo, only some slight damage to my ego as the woman I was trying to avoid nearly fell off her bike through laughing at me (the vache). I was very glad there weren’t actually any passing French men to either help me or laugh at me, although as I was appropriately dressed in shorts not a pencil skirt they may not have bothered anyway.

On the subject of glamour, last weekend I jet-setted off to Marbella for a hen weekend. Not the most glamorous you might think when travelling Monarch in cattle class, with another hen weekend of 20 year old Essex girls sat behind me drinking their way through duty free, but once I was there it was a classy weekend, needless to say the details of which remain on tour.

However, as I draw ever closer to the dreaded big 30, there are a few things left to achieve before I reach that age, and some things I know I won’t be able to do after that age. The first of those being wearing plaits. I have often heard it said that women over 30 (probably over 20 too) shouldn’t attempt to wear bunches or knee high socks (a rule clearly ignored in Korea, although they seem to get away with it) so I thought I would give it a last bash whilst at a “White party” (as in everyone has to wear white!) in Marbella. I thought that if I couldn’t carry it off normally, people might put it down to me being a surf chick. I’ll leave it to the audience on this one, I was 50/50 and I probably won’t be doing it again soon, but from this angle it’s not too bad I don’t think. It’s also a good excuse to show a picture of the bride to be (Susie in the centre) and the chief bridesmaid and host in Marbella (Nat on the left).

Encore de picniques...

Not that my life in France revolves around food or anything, but with the arrival of more guests in the form of Jo and Emily recently, I had to do the usual tour... market, Velo's and park. What did bring a new element to the whole thing for me however, was having the park closed early by the police due to strong winds. They proceeded to usher a couple of thousand people back out to the envitable scenic route back into town next to the river - roller bladers, pushchairs, pedestrians, toddlers, high winds, rickety Velo's and a open route straight into the river makes for exciting cycling - but great use of the bell - having not used a bell on a bike since I had my stabilisers removed, it is a whole new, yet satisfying experience... nothing like cycling silently behind pedestrians and then ringing your bell loudly. I have now realised why everyone makes

a dash for the newest bikes - nothing to do with inflated tyres or brakes that work, but for the loudest bell. Still, I should exercise caution as I am sure what goes around comes around and some pedestrian will get their own back and I will end up cycling underwater...

An update in the quest for comfy shoes... I have almost given in to the lure of Converse (I will then be truly French) as they appear to be comfortable and readily available, and have opted for an inbetween... I give you spangly, Dorothy-from-the-Wizard-of-Oz-if-they-were-red, Converse, which are nearly comfortable, and of course - Jo! (obviously not trying to detract attention away from my ridiculous facial expression...)

And now for a guess the number of windows competition..... (oh, and if anyone's interested that is a Southwards view down the Saone).

Faire du ski?

I have had an unusual season for skiing, what with my travels. It started off later than a usual year, as I missed out on my annual trip around New Year or January, but I bravely sought out some snow in South Korea at the beginning of February; not too bad, but you can only appreciate the mountains and the view to an extent when the horizon has a dirty slodge of pollution along it in every direction, and there is a faint waft of fermented cabbage in the air.

So, the next trip was a great big group trip at the end of March to St Anton, which was everything you would expect from a trip like that… drunken, debauched, heavy on the fancy dress (see photo of the YMCA!), but a bit light on the skiing from my perspective! However, despite being towards the end of March and looking like a summer resort when we turned up, the snow gods were smiling on us and threw fresh powder snow at us all week.

Living in Lyon has been tough on all the Brits here, as there is a constant noise in your ears… the mountains calling! So my next taste of snow was a quick jaunt over to Chamonix (a mere 2 hour drive – I used to drive more than that just to ski on plastic!). Not bad at all.

Onwards to my next trip and more of the same as St Anton – a stag weekend in Val D’Isere. Considering it was so late on in the season, being the middle of April, the snow was incredibly good, although yet again I didn’t actually make it out onto the slopes as much as I should have – although I did discover that I can pass as a young male snowboarder called James.

You may think that this would be enough skiing for one season, but being in Lyon, those mountains just keep on at you… So, Dad and I thought it would be rude not to nip over to Val D’Isere for the last day of the season (a week longer than last year), so believe it or not, this is me in Val D’Isere, on a sprinkling of fresh powder snow on May 8th!! It was one of the coldest days of skiing I’ve done all year – and some of the best snow. Nobody seems to have told Val D’Isere about global warming…

Velo's in action!

Well with my first visitor comes my first problems with the wondrous Velo's... Dad has arrived in Lyon, so I thought it would be a great idea to show him Lyon by bike. So, laden with a large picnic, we set off to find some bikes, and then the Parc Tete d'Or. Unfortunately, the first bike station had it's touch screen smashed, the second one only had one operational bike, the third one again only had one operational bike which we decided to take, then back to the second station where the one operational bike had then been hired, and then a short treck to find the 4th one where we successfully managed to get another bike. I could tell Dad was impressed...

However, with bikes successfully hired we found a cycle path and pedalled over the Rhone onto the new cycle path by the river. Great fun navigating round people, small children and dogs, roller bladers and the elderly, all whilst trying not to get out of control and end up in the Rhone - of course being France there is a "laissez-faire" attitude to safety, so no one wears a helmet and certainly no one is going to concern themselves with putting barriers between cycle paths and large, fast flowing rivers...

After a very pleasant, pedestrian dodging pedal, we not only found the park, but also found somewhere to park - miraculously there were actually spaces for our bikes.

The park is really beautiful - a bit like Hyde Park with lots of paths, lakes and trees and it also has a Zoo apparently. We weren't sure what the French laws are about drinking in public places, but we managed to find a fairly secluded spot to crack open the Cote de Rhone... and sleep.

Jetset? Je pense pas!

At the moment I am doing loads of travelling about – glamorous? Not in my case. Lugging around a case, walking miles, catching trains, buses and trams in 30 degree heat leaves you feeling somewhat exhausted. Plus, it seems that I am particularly doomed when it comes to French transport.

On the whole, I can’t fault the public transport system as it is super clean, modern and generally on time to the exact minute. The only trouble is, I’m not (on time that is!) so whereas with British transport you can generally turn up at the time the train leaves and have plenty of time to find the platform, get your breath back etc. it’s not the case in France, in fact I would swear that if I am running particularly late, they actually leave early. But I will break down my issues into sections…

1. Footwear…
I have the eternal girlie problem of footwear. I have a 15 to 25 minute walk to the train station each day (and I will explain why it varies in the alternate departure section…) in addition to a 10 minute walk with an assault course in the middle (see building site section) when I get to the other end. So, in England faced with the same problem I would of course don my trainers with my suit/work outfit (albeit small neat dark ones – none of this running shoes thing) but not so in France, having read a book about the differences between English and French women – mostly style – and how you would never catch a French woman in trainers unless she was actually running. So I braved it out by wearing a selection of different heeled shoes and boots, and taking about 10 mins extra to get anywhere but looking stylish (you have to wear a selection because if you wear the same pair of uncomfortable shoes 2 days running the pain is excruciating – better to spread the pain around the foot!).

The style quandary came to a head when, whilst running extremely late, I had to perform a sprint from one end of a very large station to the other, and along the platform (which was of course the furthest possible distance away – much like the mysterious platform 13 at Paddington, which is actually nearer to Ealing than Paddington) in a pair of high heels. Running through my head was… if I had trainers on I would be at least half a platform ahead of where I am now, but on the other hand at least I look glamorous… oh god please don’t let me fall flat on my face – broken nose not so glamorous! Of course the glamour is somewhat depleted when you launch yourself into the train and stand there panting and sweating for 10 minutes.

Eventually my sense (or British lack of style – you choose) prevailed and I found some flat, if slightly scruffy, boots that were comfortable – heaven! Much quicker for the last minute dash too…

Then, the sun came out and overnight it went into the 20’s/30’s – not so much fun to have furry hot water bottles on your feet. The search goes on for a pair of comfortable, flat, not hot, shoes… it has become a joke in the office about how many pairs of shoes I have under my desk, but find me one pair that are comfortable and suitable for work and I will bin the lot. Anyway, rant over… moving on…

2. Alternate departure…
Despite the trains being on time, clean and fairly regular, the catch is that although they leave for St. Etienne every half hour, they leave from different stations in Lyon which means if you miss one, you either have to wait for an hour, or have to dash across to the other station – doable but risky.

One is a 17 minute walk away and the other a 25 minute walk, but the 25 minute one has the option of a tram half way along… what to do?

The same is true in reverse so depending on what time you want to leave work varies the length of the walk the other side… decisions, decisions… throw in the quandary of which shop windows are best to browse on the way home and it’s a day long dilemma…

3. Platform change
Generally, the information in the station is extremely good, with large information boards displaying the trains and platform numbers. What they don’t have is the small print underneath to warn passengers that any information given is subject to change.

One morning, I arrived at the station to see the train indicated as leaving from the usual platform. I went to said platform. And waited, and waited and waited, whilst closely eyeing the information screen for any updates. First of all the platform disappeared entirely from the screen (they do this – about a minute before the train is due to depart, the platform letter vanishes – I reckon this is so last minute sprinters have less chance of holding up the train by arriving at the last minute and trying to board as the doors shut – a great idea, but very annoying if you are one of those sprinters!), and then the train listing vanished too. I went up to the nearest Station worker and asked if the train had been cancelled – oh, no, it’s departed… departed? I was there, it wasn’t, how the hell could it have gone? Announcement of changed platform. Oh great… trying to understand station announcements in a different language. I have admitted defeat with this one… if there’s a change of platform, I ain’t gonna be on that train.

Which brings me onto my next point….

4. Autocars
… so, there I was, making a mad dash for the station for a late train back from dinner in St. Etienne having jumped into a taxi, which not only stopped at 50 red lights during the one mile journey, but then drove slowly – SLOWLY!! I’m in France for crying out loud – no one drives slowly!! Anyway, I leapt out at the station, scanned the board, but thought that I must be in that annoying last minute where the platform has disappeared from the board, so basically I arrived in the nick of time, but didn’t know which platform to run to and had missed the train. Suspiciously I didn’t see any train departing, but didn’t think too much about it and settled in for the half hour wait for the next one.

So, 25 mins later, waiting for the platform to appear on the board, I grew more anxious as it approached the time of departure and still a no show… ears pricked for Voie x announcements or as per my new tactic, a sharp eye on anyone who looked like they might be going to Lyon so I can follow them if there is a sudden announcement that I miss.

The information I had gleaned from the board in the station was that this type of train was an Autocar – fair enough I thought; there’s the TGV which is very flash and quick, the usual ones which are double decker pretty slick trains (which I presumed to be Autocars) and the old banger type trains which occasionally are put on and are much more like BR trains.

So, the departure time approaches, still no platform, still no announcement and blip – it’s gone from the board. What the?!? How could I possibly have missed it – I had all angles covered?! Except the angle of course, that an Autocar is actually a bus, and has just left from outside in the car park. Imagine my delight. Cue, another half hour wait for a bus that would take longer than the train.


5. Building site…

Once you have successfully arrived on time at the station, boarded the right train, woken up at the right station and got off the train, there is then the obstacle course to negotiate.

Our most direct line from the station to the office (and that of many other office workers) used to involve a fairly short walk up a tarmac path, give or take 4 tram lines to be aware of. Then, the builders arrived.

With plenty of advanced preparation for the building next door, they dug up the entire path, and left in it’s place, dust, gravel and potholes. This makes the whole of problem highlighted in point 1 much worse (need all terrain shoes for this piece of the journey…). It makes it extremely hard to wheel a wheelie case along as many of us do, and means I alternately turn up to work with feet and ankles covered in dust, or on the few occasions when it has rained, covered in mud.

However, that is merely an annoyance, rather than a hazard. Whilst the builders happily go about their business in hard hats (and no doubt comfortable, all terrain, steel toe-capped boots – now there’s an idea!), the mere members of the public have to avoid the hazards of the building site, including dumper trucks, diggers, overhead crane work etc. I actually had to duck under the mechanical arm of a JCB yesterday… all to the evident amusement of the on looking builders. Health and safety? Mon derriere…

Which brings me onto my next point…

6. Criminal investigation

Being a huge fan of decent public transport, I regularly hop on the clean, efficient and cheap tram into the centre of St. Etienne to get lunch, which is maybe a mile away, and is therefore legitimate to use the tram rather than walk during your lunch hour.

However, in the other direction, the tram does a loop and just one stop away, delivers you to the front of the station, thereby avoiding the treacherous building site route. Some people may call it lazy, I would call it efficient, health preserving, and better for my feet. If you have to wait for a tram, then you are better to walk, but if there is one in sight or at the stop then it is definitely quicker.

So, running slightly behind schedule for the train, I saw a tram approaching and began running to catch the tram. Alas, one cannot buy a ticket on the tram, but have to get one from the machine before boarding. I always buy a ticket when I am going into St. Etienne but as I didn’t have time I reasoned that it’s only one stop, I guess it doesn’t matter. How wrong could I be, for waiting to greet the tram at the station, were 10 police officers and a similar number of transport officials, who of course checked everyone for tickets as they got off the train. 40 euro’s for a 15 second journey is a bit steep, but I reasoned with myself, I guess it could have been worse. It nearly was, as they were very upset that I wasn’t carrying my passport with me, and were evidently not impressed with my English driving licence as ID. They let me go eventually though, and I did actually catch the train I was aiming for.

Viva la velo

Now one thing that Lyon does better than anywhere I’ve been (along with the food, the chocolate, the wine, the rivers, the architecture and the street cleaning – cue scene from Life of Brian – yeah, but apart from that, what have the Romans ever done for us?!) is the bike system.

Dotted around Lyon at 200 suitable convenient locations, there are 3000 bikes which you can hire. You swipe your credit card as a deposit (150 Euro’s) and then you can hire a bike at a ridiculously low charge, and in fact the first half hour is free so I’ve never had to pay anything. So I can get a bike from close to my apartment, ride it all the way to the station and deposit it back into the systems bike rack there.

So far, this has worked like a dream, with me being able to find bike lanes easily enough, riding on pavements if not (seems to be perfectly acceptable here) and feeling jolly French whilst cruising along with my stylish bike with shopping basket.

However, lurking at the back of my mind is the transport demon who will sooner or later spoil this form of transport for me too. I am sure this will involve either not being able to remove a bike from the lock having pressed that numbered bike into the key pad, or not being able to return a bike into the lock – either way, somehow ending up with the 150 Euro fine. That of course or falling of a bike. For now though, it is a blissful and blister free form of transport, and the sooner every other city in the world can get this system, the better.

Here endeth the rant...

I'm here - je suis ici!

Some of my avid readers, ok, my mum, have noticed that I haven’t been updating the French blog quite as frequently as the Korean one, or pretty much not at all. This is for a number of reasons… 1. I now have a normal life again 2. There haven’t really been any embarrassing incidents, or at least not on the scale of in Korea, and 3. I thought people might just think I was showing off!

However, I also understand that an insight into a life in Lyon might be interesting to some people, so perhaps an update of the last 7 weeks would be useful. For now I will start with the food…

I have eaten, approximately 18 pain au chocolat’s, 10 quiches, 8 ham and cheese baguettes, 8 baguettes with ham and/ or cheese and/or pate, 4 pounds of chocolate, 10 macaroons, 3 tarte tatins, 3 helpings of Tiramisu, 3 portions of dauphinois potato’s, 20 salads, 15 glasses of red wine, 10 glasses of white, 5 glasses of Champagne, 3 cups of coffee where I actually managed to stand the spoon up in, some fois gras, 4 banana’s, a box of muesli and a cow.

My goal to start with was to make it through the day without bread, cheese or ham. Now I am aiming for the more easily accomplished goal of not all 3 more than twice in one day. I just can’t wait to try on the 2 bridesmaids dresses I have to try on in the next month…

Interesting phrase of the week…Je suis obèse

The pictures accompanying this week's blog are the immediate area surrounding where I live, and some photo's along the walk to work. Anyone coming to visit?

Du pain, du vin, du boursin…

… well obviously not, because if you got caught eating Boursin in France you’d probably be deported instantly. However, it is only the end of my first week and so far I have managed to eat like a pig and like a King at the same time. I have certainly discovered that the French have some great cultural plus points, such as having a fantastic canteen at work where everyone goes for a 3 course meal every day, with wine if so desired. I feel I may be approaching a new phase in my life…. the obesity years…

I also have to grow up and not get too over excited about getting kissed by the men in the office every day. At first I thought it must be the brunette element working it’s wonders and attracting men like magnets, but alas no, they’re just being polite…

Blonde ou brune?!

For anyone that doesn’t know…. I didn’t hang around long in the UK, I am now in France, which gives me an excellent excuse to continue this blog, with an amended title.

Perhaps there won’t be amusing incidents in France, perhaps I won’t fall down flights of stairs or have payment problems… we shall see.

On the other hand, considering within minutes of arriving at Lyon airport I managed to get my heel stuck in some grating and left a shoe behind temporarily, I have a feeling the fun and games may continue…

First of all, a bit of a newsflash… after 29 and a half years of being blonde, I decided to see what brunette would be like, so on Saturday this happened… (nothing to do with a desire to stop doing embarrassing, ditzy things of course, or to look more intelligent!)

I thought that I may have some issues with passport control knowing my luck, but it seems that going brunette has not actually changed my appearance that much, despite my hopes for it turning me into an instant goddess. I seem to be pretty recognisable, and pretty much the same as before but with different coloured hair. Who'd have thought it?!