Fall in Lyon

This past weekend, we took a brief reprieve from the soul-ravaging task of dealing with the little demons in our apartment.  The past few weeks have been a whirl of classes, French grammar, visiting prospective families for whom I might babysit, and the general business of acclimating to a new life in a new city.  We required a bit of a break to recharge from la troisième guerre mondiale in our abode.  I so enjoyed my outing to Parc de la Tête d'Or with Emily last week, that I wanted to return this weekend for the Fête des Courges (pumpkin/gourd festival), and for a lovely stroll in the vast expanse of manicured gardens and sweeping, weeping tree-lined vistas.  It hardly feels like fall in Lyon due to the uncharacteristically warm weather (or so we've been told), so it felt a bit like home to see the pumpkin-lined paths circling the botanical garden.  The changing leaves are softly cascading around the still-green grass; a panorama of an indecisive mother nature, trying on the vestments of autumn while still unable to cast off the lightness of summer.

A magical place

The park on a sunny Saturday afternoon is a popular place.  Nothing like the damp unoccupied playground Emily and I enjoyed last Thursday.  In fact, I have a feeling that most of the population of Lyon decided to join us on our rendez-vous in the park.  And the Lyonnais certainly have the savoir-faire when it comes to enjoying themselves on a beautiful fall weekend.  Every French cliché was on exhibition in the park, much to our delight.  Couples openly embracing in rose-scented corners, trios of old ladies gossiping on benches, parents and children biking through the throng, students smoking and picnicking with cheap wine and fresh cheese.

Pumpkins!

Important pumpkin discussions

After making our way through the pumpkins, we found ourselves in the free zoo, surrounded by hundreds of our closest 5-year-old friends.  I have mixed feelings towards zoos, but nothing is quite so charming as happening upon a herd of giraffes in the middle of an upscale quartier of a French city.

From the zoo, we strolled around the lake and through the romantic rose garden.  Emily and Ben were good sports as I picked enchanting little corners for petite photo shoots.  The vivid melange of summer-autumnal colors was begging to be documented... who was I to refuse?  We even discovered a pine tree with hanging branches that reminded me of the scene in Frozen (my favorite movie; don't judge me, I'm secretly 12) in which Sven gets tangled in the dangling icicles.  This park is truly some kind of Disney design amalgamation.

Inspecting the dangling pine branches 

Pretty girl!

Explaining the scene from Frozen

We soaked up some afternoon soleil in the grass before heading out to purchase some much needed chocolate croissants.  Cheap, delicious pâtisserie is a balm to the weary spirit.

Bain de soleil...

Saturday night, Ben and I were invited to one of his colleague's housewarming party.  I was both excited and quite nervous for this affair, given that it would be a chance for me to practice my slowly improving French.  Planting myself in the middle of a highly-educated conversation conducted in French is one of my favorite ways to improve my oral comprehension.  Ben works with people who either already have PhDs or are in the process of obtaining them, and as such, it's a delight to listen to worldly opinions and dialogue rather than the somewhat rougher street French I heard from les racailles de Pertuis...

I quite enjoyed myself at this party, despite only knowing exactly three other people besides Ben amidst the group of 30 or so.  However.  There are two things that I simply cannot abide when it comes to the French and their fête-ing.  The kissing and the smoking.  To clarify: les bisous (those cheek kisses) are a cultural norm, and perfectly expected when one arrives to a soirée.  When a new person enters, he or she must make the rounds of the entire party - men shake hands with men and bisous with the women; women bisous everyone.  Conversations are interrupted by perfect strangers in order for this space-bubble invasion, and introductions are made and promptly forgotten as the newbie moves on to the next victims.  If it were me, I would be entirely apologetic about interrupting people merely to breathily state my name between cheek rubbing.  To my (American?) sensitivity, it seems downright rude; but in fact, it's downright rude not to make the bisous rounds.  Ugh.  Pass the cheese, hold the smooching.

Secondly.  Anyone who knows me knows that I can't STAND smoking.  I think it's a disgusting, disgusting habit, and I will not dismount from my high horse and refrain from melodramatically coughing up a lung when someone blows smoke in my direction... in America.  Here, I can't so much as wince when someone lights up behind me; because that someone is in fact everyone at the party.  Truly, second-hand smoke makes it incredibly difficult for me to breathe; I get light-headed and my throat starts to close until I can find a pocket of fresh air.  But when you're a guest in someone else's country, you play by their rules.

Still, through the clouds of smoke and the multiple invasions of privacy, I had a really fun time.  The fun always has to come to an end, though, and as such, Ben and I plodded back to reality for our delightful Sunday activity: caulking the walls in the bedroom and living room.  We were advised to seal up the cracks between the hardwood floor and the walls to discourage bug hiding places, so we spent a small fortune on brown caulk at our (least) favorite store, Bricorama.  This little job joins the list of absurd things I've had to do in France (Saran-wrapping the mattress, anyone?), but hopefully it's one more battle won in the war on the buggies.  Cross your fingers and your toes that we're nearing the end of the struggle.  Next week is vacation, and I'm looking forward to using that time to putting our lives back into a neat, decorated habitable shell.

Caulker in action

The plastic-wrapped bed.  A masterpiece.