As my time in Lyon draws to a close, it feels as though time has cruelly sped up. I’ve begun to make a dent in the unexciting list of departure-related chores, but I still have a list the length of my arm of places in and around Lyon that I want to see (and of boulangeries I’m yet to try), though the time is disappearing – and fast. Fortunately, I’ve already whipped out the felt markers and drawn up a calendar to hold myself accountable to making the most of the remaining weeks in Lyon.
April has passed in a whirlwind. The last thirty days have been absolutely jam-packed: with job applications; with stacks of papers to mark; with seemingly endless sights to see. I have exactly two months left here in Lyon – give or take a day since I’m yet to book my flight back to the UK – to finish exploring the nooks and crannies of each and every arrondissement, visiting all the municipal museums with my Carte Jeune Musées and eating my way through Lyon’s boulangeries.
Spring has finally put in an appearance and, after January’s sub-zero temperatures and February’s perpetually grey skies, life feels a little brighter as a result. (The fact the end of term is just over two weeks away may also have something to do with that, but I digress.) Grassy verges in the Parc de la Tête d’Or are covered in swathes of golden daffodils, bees are buzzing amongst the blossoms, and primroses, forget me nots and daisies are abound.
Not so long ago, I joked to one of the secretaries – the one who I know on a first name basis – that the tail end of Lyon’s winter is akin to a British summer. On February 1st, it was a balmy 16°C; I could happily have worn shorts, but for the fact I was teaching and that probably wouldn’t have looked all that professional. (The fact I’m often mistaken for a student by administrative staff is beside the point.) Temperatures are climbing steadily upward, and at this rate I’ll be spending afternoons in the park reading my books sooner than I had anticipated.
You can take a Brit out of Britain, but you can’t take Britishness out of a Brit. In other words, as Michael McIntyre astutely noted, complaining is our national sport – be that whinging about the weather (wholly justifiable here, it’s -7°C in the mornings), lamenting the lack of cheddar cheese in the supermarket (sorry, but emmental is just rubber masquerading as cheese) or fussing over the French aversion to queues (a near-constant source of frustration). The highly-anticipated Vacances de Noël were a welcome respite from all of the above: England was positively balmy compared to freezing France; cheddar cheese was in steady supply; and queues formed naturally. (This is all intended in a very tongue-in-cheek manner; for all my complaints, I do still love France.)
The start of December heralded the end of term – or rather the end of teaching, for there were still piles of marking to come and several surveillances (sleep-inducing invigilating – which ironically derives from the Latin word vigilare meaning ‘to stay awake’). Instead of toasting the end of term with a glass of Côtes du Rhône, I celebrated by binge-watching The Crown (which in my defence I had almost finished anyway), Paranoid and Luther on Netflix.
November kicked off with 25°C sunshine in sunny southern France, and is ending with sub-Arctic temperatures here in Lyon. The leaves in the park have gone from lush greens to fiery oranges and reds to non-existent; the streets are now bedecked with fairy lights, an enormous Christmas tree complete with giant bears is the new centrepiece of the Part Dieu shopping centre, and the Christmas markets have opened. Christmas is well and truly on its way – and the festive-themed lessons have begun before it’s even hit December.