Lyon

I have finally been somewhere in France other than Paris, look:

For some reason a DELF B2 exam costs around €100 more in Paris, even when you take into account the train fare to elsewhere, so I made it into a day trip to Lyon. It went fine apart from the listening part, imagine a stuffy, uncomfortably-warm classroom, clock ticking slowly towards 5pm, tape broken, tape machine broken, the waiting, the agitation, "ok, we'll start again," which fatally wounded my ability to concentrate. Lyon's team were playing Bayern Munich so the town was full of jubilant German parties singing, "Baaayern München, tra la la la la!" I have never before seen football spectators so unthreatening. Everyone, in general, was lovely. The lady at the postcard shop, the waitress where I had lunch, my examiners, people I asked directions, two guys I bought a salad off before I left – everybody was charming and respectful and smiley.

And then I got back to Paris. Since I last updated I've had a gun pointed at me at the fairground, been to the lovely Musée Marmottan and the pretentious 'resto tendance' La Gare,
wandered through centquatre (of which more soon), and popped into the delightful sweat shop, which I'm sure you've read about in the Guardian, darling, squeezed in between those articles about how great Nick Clegg is and how he reads Beckett and speaks five languages. (I don't know why people are calling him a '2nd Tony Blair,' he appears to have stolen that dubious crown from Cameron lately, but come on, my french accent is better than Tony Blair's. )

Oh, I can't remember if I talked about Le Bistrot du Peintre or Chartier, or a million other places Paris has revealed to me recently, like Baron Samedi's. That place is covered with vintage jazz swing soul posters, and a flicking projection of retro advertisements (mosty for cars and cigarettes) adorns the back wall. A wire sculpture of the man himself sits on a high shelf, throwing an eerie shadow of his top hat and, underneath, his grin, onto the wall behind him. A bar with a late feel, they do a v respectable €2.50 half, but though happy hour's only until 20h00, you'll pay €3.50 for pints and €4.50 for cocktails. They swing open the windows so inside and outside can mingle. Oh and they do €9-platters, the kind where they plonk a sausage, a hunk of cheese and a bowl of cherry jam on a wooden board, and accompany it with a whole Poilâne thin-sliced loaf in a basket. Enough; it's cool, essentially.

I am starting to get melancholy and even slightly panicky about leaving. If I can once more draw the analogy between Paris and a difficult relationship, it's been good to me, it's been bad to me, it frustrates me more than I can express, but now I'm finally leaving it, all I can think of are the good times. After my first go at packing, I'm heading out for an aimless wander through the centre, just to soak up some atmosphere, and maybe buy myself a leaving present. A nice slicing knife, perhaps, or a kooky household gadget from pylones, or some shoes, or sunglasses. It's been fun, Paris, now loosen your grip and let me go. No clinging to my knees. No. I have a train to catch. Get up. Honestly...