Lyon is located in the northern region of Cote de Rhone. The third largest city in France, it is considered the foodie capital. It also houses a number of Roman ruins, one of which is the amphitheater on Fourviere. It is a hike but worth the wear on the sneakers. When looking over the ruins you can imagine what it must have been like for people to gather for political or entertainment purposes. Now it has been refurbished to hold modern concerts. The equipment and stage look a little out of place to this foreigner, but I imagine is a different circumstance to actually attend.
As this was the foodie/wine capital we indulged in several meals and bottle shops. One bottle shop was very enlightening. When I asked for Cotes de Rhone wines, she scoffed and rolled her eyes, and in clear English replied, “They are full of themselves, we have better.” And boy, did they ever. This particular bottle shop took us on a tour of the Rhone/Burgundy countryside with little known producers we’d never be able to find outside the area, delicious, to say the least.
I would call Lyon a very assessable town, you can walk, you can bike, you can scooter (tons of scooters – and I don’t mean the kind that require gasoline). A little-big town it has a wealth of restaurant, shopping, and history. It is worthy of exploration and a cooking class if you can swing it.
I would have indulged more if not for an unseen attack.
God sprinkles a certain amount of attraction on to all of us. For some people it means they attract opportunities or money. Others it might mean they are irresistible to the opposite sex. Mine are bugs. I am one tasty morsel when it comes to the insect kingdom. I am like a suckling pig roasting over a fire with an apple in its mouth. I imagine my scent wafting over hills and vales, through houses, even down busy streets and the insect community starts to simmer in anticipation. They find me, they always do, no matter the vacation: be it in a forest, at a beach, in a city, they zero in with the accuracy of a drone strike. I sit writing this with no less than nine massive bug bites, angry red, each the size of a quarter, and so itchy it takes serious mental fortitude to not fillet myself.
An interesting encounter in a pharmacy resulted in oral as well as topical medication when the pharmacist looked at my welts and gave the universal, “sacre bleur!”. Yeah, I’m a hurtin’ unit, but though I may not be pretty I am on to bikini country (ladies, you are cringing now and you understand my malaise) on the French Rivera.
Maybe it will rain?