Blisters in the Sun

Mmm nobody cures my blues like Beethoven.

After a rocky first few days in Roanne, France, late Saturday night I decided that on Sunday morning I would take the train into Lyon for a chamber music concert featuring musicians of the Orchestre Nationale de Lyon playing a Beethoven trio. And as I had hoped, ça m’a redonné le sourire – it gave me back my smile.

Beethoven – 1; Blues – 0.

On account of fewer trains running on Sundays, I was up and chugging along toward Lyon by 7h30. I exited the train one sleepy hour later, found a nameless café near the station, and ordered un pain au chocolat and un grand café crème. I sat down to write a letter while waiting for the 11h00 concert. One double-shot and some buttery, chocolaty pleasure later, I made the five-minute trek from the train station to the concert hall (nice work, city planners of Lyon). The building looks rather like a stone spaceship from the outside, with a large, tree-speckled amphitheatre framing the entrance. I bought my 11-euro ticket for a seat au fond – in front – from a gorgeous Audrey Tautou look-alike. I’m afraid the cool, casual stroll I was going for might have been more of a happy skip as I ascended the stairs to the hall.

My espresso-saturated heart calmed instantly when I stepped inside. The room wrapped me in a blanket of cushy seats and attractive helper-people, all asking if they could guide me to my seat. Shortly after settling into my seat close to the stage, I was joined by a woman who reeked of lavender. Oh la la, why had this woman showered in perfume – to share it with me? Noooon, merci.

At 11h00 sharp, the musicians walked onto the stage and situated themselves in front of the trapezoidal light fixtures lining the back wall. The first piece was an early Beethoven trio for clarinet, cello, and piano: pure and lyrical, hummable (ask Madame Lavender), every note crystal clear. Next, a one-movement work for clarinet, violin, cello, and piano, named “Burning” after a William Butler Yeats poem. The composer, Edith Canat de Chizy (b.1950), came onto the stage after the performance to receive her applause (woot!). Last was a piano quintet by Robert Schumann. The violist – Jean-Pascal something-or-other – had a ball, as did I.

After wandering around the hall a bit, I still had two-plus hours before my train back to Roanne, so I sat down outside in the amphitheatre to eat my rice-and-veggies-in-Tupperware lunch (a girl could drown in sandwiches here), and to decipher what I had scribbled on my program in the darkness. One noteworthy scribble: the first violinist dropped his bow at one point, and I had written that it shattered the dream-like quality of the playing, making the music and the musicians seem more human. I wrote this directly above an ad for a German piano company, the ad reading: Passez du rêve à la réalité (move from dream to reality). Whaa?! Beethoven, is that you?

Before long, persistent gusts of wind picked me up, pulled out my map of Lyon, and sent me walking toward what appeared to be the Park of All Parks, based on the amount of green ink on the map – Parc de la Tête d’Or. It being Sunday, the streets were pleasantly empty, and I found myself walking trance-like on a sidewalk under a canopy of trees. At one point, about to jaywalk, I snapped out of my trance to the sound of a woman’s shrill voice instructing her toddler not walk when the Walk Man was red: Non ma pousse! Tu n’as pas le droit! “No sweetie (literally, ‘my thumb’), you don’t have the right (of way)!” And so I decided that I, too, would wait for the Walk Man to turn green.

I followed the beautiful Boulevard des Belges and realized I had walked into the Central West End of Lyon. Giant gated houses (boo, gates) and towering trees, yes, but where were the Mercedes-Benzes? Turns out the French only drive French cars (Citroen, Peugot, and Renault).

When I reached the park’s regal entrance, I learned that it had just closed on account of wind. Oh merde (shit), uttered a frustrated cyclist behind me. Merde indeed, fine sir. Red alert! Skirts flying! Your children are in danger of toxic exposure to breath-taking calves, thighs, and ankles! Gazing longingly through the park gates, I vowed that I would enter that green Garden of Eden if it was the last thing...

Speaking of cyclists, the boulevard was swimming with them. My feet cried out for those pedals (“Just one push, please, that’s all we want”), but the clunky rental bikes somehow seemed like the perfect opportunity to embarrass myself, so I opted for walking. Thought I’d enjoy the scenery a bit more that way.

Speaking of feet, at this point mine were just plain crying. My no-socks + clogs idea seemed less brilliant than it had that morning as I felt the blisters rearing their diabolical heads. I stuffed a napkin between the top of my right foot and the shoe, and while it did ease the pain, a paper napkin poking out of my shoe somewhat spoiled my classy get-up (high-waisted skirt, sweater draped over my shoulders, The Works).

Blisters – 1; Sonia – 0.

I continued slowly up the boulevard – along the Rhone River, as it so happens – until I reached the Lyon Interpol building, then turned around and began my return to the train station. Once there, I pulled out my concert program and began jotting down these very words.

But to be honest, I was mainly watching people and wondering if they noticed me watching them, as I was being pretty discreet, what with my pen, paper, and oversized sunglasses.

Anonymous American Chick – 1; Unknowing French Train Riders – 0.