Adventures of an Anglaise
"Surprise, surprise, I’m writing this blog post on a train – speeding through the French countryside, direction Paris, somewhere in the vague vicinity of Dijon. It’s a perfect “golden hour”, the rolling wheat fields and villages of tiny terracotta-roofed cottages bathed in the gorgeous glow of the setting sun. I’m reminded of how much I love my adopted country, and not just the city in which I’ve made my home.
It’s easy to get wrapped up in life in the capital; Parisians are teased for, and sometimes accused of, forgetting that French life exists beyond the Haussmannian boulevards and towering monuments, and for better or for worse, the mode de vie in Paris is certainly something entirely its own. But it was France that captured my heart first – the country, the culture, the language, the people – long before I’d gotten to know gay Paree. And in fact (brace for the bombshell), the capital was not even the first French city I fell in love with. It was Lyon.
Lyon was the first city I ever discovered alone, my first experience hostelling – my first taste of solo adventure. I initially arrived on her doorstep in 2013, fit to burst with excitement and so eager to explore. I was 19 years old and I’d spent the previous five weeks in Savoie, in the middle of the Alps, the au pair to a wonderful French family with four young children (and an exuberant puppy). That year had thus far been, and would continue to be, the hardest of my life, but in Savoie, I stepped out of reality and into a rosy dream I’d entertained in some shape or form for as long as I could remember. Swimming in mountain lakes, delicious dinners on the patio watching the sinking sun set Mont Blanc ablaze, and a vast platter of assorted cheeses. After. Every. Meal. The parents were two of the kindest and most welcoming people I’ve ever known, and the children were sweet and loving (if not total angels 24/7, because y’know, kids)[...]"
