Caught
between conspicuous Americanness and a kind of stateless ghostliness, I almost
never experienced Lyon as the Lyonnaise do. Tantalizing glimpses down the
narrow & lively streets of Presqu'île reflected back a vague sense that
entire worlds were going unexplored. Until one June night when a chance
invitation to a garden party in the city's suburbs would ultimately bring about
my sole encounter with its center. I was living, for a few weeks, in a
kind of dormitory for international students and travelers.
Self-conscious of my limited French language skills and ever at-ease with
solitude, I mostly kept to myself. So when a Spaniard across the hall
named Sam asked me if I wanted to go to a party, I was surprised to hear myself
reply, "...uh...yeah...Qui...sure...uh...thank you...Merci." I
ended up pinballing from the 5th arrondissement out to the suburbs back to a
birthday party in Les Terreaux to a Jamaican bar to a jazz club in a
vaulted ceiling basement to a sweaty discotheque on one of the very Presqu'île streets
I thought I'd never set foot down. It rained at sunrise, and I was the
only soul crossing the Rhône on Pont Lafayette.
C’est le corps de la ville
que j’ausculte passionnément.
