Welcome back to the Odyssey, where the weather’s unseasonably warm, the kids are wrapping up their second week of winter vacation, and the loaner cat is his usual mixture of crusty and cranky (“crustanky”?).

The kids have been on vacation since back when I could still tolerate hearing “Gangnam Style” without screwing up my eyes, clamping my hands onto my ears, and running screaming from the room while making obnoxious “la la la la la” sounds. Oddly enough, the kids’ tolerance shows no such signs of waning, and mechanized Korean rapping is still popping up at ever-more-regular intervals in what I’ll malapropically declare to be our ever-more-smaller apartment. Who knew that Kristanne could rap in Korean?

One of the nice things about the kids being on vacation is that the weekends have been mercifully free from the usual overwhelming crush of French athletics. Between Kinsey’s basketball, Quinn’s baseball and fencing, and my deepening jorkyball addiction, Saturdays and Sunday can fill rapidly. But, in usual French “All Together Now” fashion, when the kids are on vacation, everyone’s on vacation, including sports teams, French language class instructors, and the precisely dressed old people in our neighborhood who seem to do nothing but walk their dogs 12 times a day with jauntily deployed baguettes under their arms. Apparently, they’re on the payroll, too.

So, with the blank canvas of an open weekend spreading itself before us, the Heaton Family Painters set out for the fair city of Lyon to craft their masterpiece (Kristanne), leave their graffiti spray (the kids), or dribble their nonsensical Rorschachian ink blots (yours truly). The main thing was to get out there in the world and paint. And, yes, tortured metaphors are indeed a hobby. Trust me, you’ll be looking back at this paragraph fondly in about 2,000 words when I eventually switch to Korean rapping.

 

in which i ill-advisedly draw faint comparisons between lyon and fresno

One of the nicest things about our temporarily adopted hometown of Grenoble is its proximity to France’s official second city, Lyon. Hmm. Though unintentional, I do believe that’s the first time I’ve achieved the coveted “Double Damning with Faint Praise In One Sentence” award, praising Grenoble for being close to a city that’s really nice while defining that really nice city in terms of it not quite being Paris.

In sociological terms, this is somewhat reminiscent of what I’ll term the “Fresno Complex,” mainly because it’s my blog and I like the way that sounds. The Fresno Complex is where you’re really No Place but you insist it’s the Best Place because you’re equally close to really Great Places (the Sierra and the Pacific) that are actually two hours away on hot flat roads crowded with other similarly Complected Fresnonians fleeing the very place they just finished loudly declaiming as the Best Place. Does anyone else hear Korean rap music?

Of course, none of this is even remotely fair, but I don’t make the rules – I just make snarky jokes about them. You act as if you haven’t been here before.

Lyon seriously impressed us during our first visit a few weeks ago. Between its pleasant physical situation, impressive public spaces and architecture, and unmatched gastronomical heritage, we couldn’t wait to get back for more exploring. Now, to be fair, by comparison, Fresno does have both Chilis and Applebees. And a bunch of angry in-laws who will be treating me to a whole passel of icy stares and uncomfortable silences the next time I visit. Sorry folks – it’s the Korean rap talking.

Geez, dude, Can we JUST go to lyon already?

When you’re plotting a touristic course with the French Family Heaton, questions of agency and realpolitik inevitably arise. Competing visions, divergent goals, and shifting power structures play themselves out across a treacherous political landscape, with uneasy alliances forming and mandates dissolving like teenage hearts at a Justin Bieber concert. Yes, I do agree that that’s an odd simile for this paragraph.

Truth be told, we’re almost always on the same page in the same book. Unfortunately for me, however, in the rare instances where we do disagree on an activity, destination, or time for drinking beer, Kristanne is a master coalition builder, ceaselessly lobbying our children until she’s incorporated them into a sort of inflexible ruling junta that anticipates and mercilessly quashes any nascent dissent. If it sounds like I’m a little upset that I didn’t get to drink beer at the art museum, well, you are in possession of some remarkable insight there, my friend.

Check the photos for a little evidence of this in action. That’s Kinsey over there, the latest in a long series of unending corridors of art at le musée des Beaux-Arts in Lyon stretching out before her. For your average seven year old, that’s more or less a Weekend Death Sentence, right? At the very least, you’d expect a little blowback, perhaps a tantrum or twelve. Well, let’s check the next picture to get a sense of Kinsey’s real reaction:

Yeah, I’ve pretty much got no chance here, as you can see. It’s not a one-time thing, either. Here’s Quinn, rapt with sculpture, as Perseus beheads Medusa.

To be sure, art museums are pretty easy pickings for Kristanne, what with her standing as an Active and Engaged Art Historian and all. It’s the lesser-known sights that really drive home her reputation as a Master Motivator. For example, I had very little success generating excitement to head out and see Lyon’s well-known collection of traboules. This may or may not have had much to do with my refusal to ever explain to the kids exactly what the heck a traboule is, sticking with the monosyllabic approach that served my hard-driving third-grade soccer coach so well:  “Kids! Traboules! Go!”. Here’s a composite shot summarizing the kids reaction to my little halftime speech:

Now, here are the same kids after the Mom treatment. Personally, I think she’s spiking their Kool-Aid.

meet my third-grade soccer coach

Sorry about the “third-grade soccer coach” crack, there a few paragraphs ago, Mom – you were actually quite tolerant. Much more so than my fourth-grade basketball coach. Umm, Dad’s not reading these anymore, is he?

hanging with the huddled masses, still on their teeming shore

The Lyon Art Museum was not actually our first stop on this little weekend jaunt. It’s only about 90 minutes by car from Grenoble to Lyon, so we rolled in on Saturday afternoon, and checked out the small yet modern aquarium in uncomfortably close quarters with what felt like every other family in the Rhone Valley.

This, incidentally, is the dark side of the aforementioned “All Together Now” spirit – wherever your personal space happens to be has a magical way of suddenly turning into the exact spot where every other French person in a three block radius suddenly and unfailingly wants to stand. We’ve experimented with this theorem by standing motionless in front of things in which no normal French person would have an interest – German sausage, American foreign policy, and  No Smoking signs, for example – and the reaction is always the same: a steady stream of French people herding themselves under our noses, craning themselves around our necks, and, on one memorable occasion, lifting their children onto our backs. Though Kristanne may not endorse this particular interpretation, I’m fairly certain that that relief shown in the picture is actually an English tourist trying to escape French hordes by hiding in a medieval broom closet.

It’s nothing personal and it’s nothing at which to take offense. They’ve just got this whole, “Hey, whatchya doing over there, bro?” vibe going on. It works for them, though they’d probably beat me about the ears with a baguette if they heard me characterize it in dudespeak as I just did. Chill, my funky freres, and feast your eyes on that righteous door in the picture. We’re pretty sure that French lamppost got stuck in that doorframe by following an innocent tourist who just happened to be looking at a map. Hey, bro. Whatchya doing there?

the secret to kristanne’s success

After the aquarium, we checked into our hotel in the lovely Presqu’île district and rode a massive Ferris wheel in Place Bellecour on a cool, clear night before concluding the evening by dining enjoyably on mussels, oysters, and frites (fondly remembered in the pictures at the start of this post). You can do worse than Lyon for food, tell you what.

The next day dawned with purpose and a satisfying breakfast in possibly the hottest hotel buffet room we’ve ever experienced. Were it not for our remaining social mores and the other people in the room, well suffice it to say we’d have all been eating oeufs in our undies.

Our first stop on Sunday’s itinerary was the aforementioned art museum that was the product of all Kristanne’s filibustering, gerrymandering, and backroom wheedling. She’s sort of like a modern Huey “Kingfisher” Long, except she’s way cuter and not actually corrupt.  It was easy enough to reach the museum via a fifteen minute stroll on a pleasant pedestrian street. With the fine weather, this was a no-brainer, so we set out in search of art, looking for adventure in whatever came our way. It was there that the secret of Kristanne’s success became obvious:

Total Starbucks bribery! Outside of airports, we hadn’t seen one of these bad boys since we hasted from American shores. Not to say that Kristanne’s, like, a total fawning fangirl of all things Starbuckian, but it’s perhaps instructive to note the dip in their bottom line in the greater Nevada City/Grass Valley area since our departure. Sorry about that, Mr. Schultz.

In this case, Kristanne deployed an artful carrot for the kids, dangling visions of vanilla creme frappuccinos in exchange for non-violent compliance with a 2.5 hour art museum visit. Well-played, Kristanne. Well-played. Definitely trumps my whole “ranting about traboules” approach.

so, how ya like them traboules?

I’m not sure when my semi-obsession with traboules began, but I’d guess it was shortly after I read about them in the Michelin Guide. “Wow,” I said. “Covered public hallways and spiral staircases built into hillsides used by silk manufacturers to transport and dry their products in the absence of actual streets. That’s awesome.”

Not only awesome, Sid, but they also helped keep Lyon from total Nazi domination, which, in case you were wondering, does not at all suck.

It’s true – Lyon’s many traboules are often credited for allowing the French resistance to remain a vital force in occupied Lyon, preventing the Nazis from getting too comfortable. No one wants a comfortable Nazi. A comfortable Nazi, well, that’s a Nazi who’s apt to re-invade Poland during his furlough, just for giggles.

Other French cities can also boast a network of traboules, but Lyon is the undisputed center of the traboule universe, right on up to the extent to which it can be said that there is such a thing as a “traboule universe.” It’s a hazy but not unappreciable extent. Perhaps at this point you start to get a feel as to why I was experiencing some difficulties motivating the kids. I’m switching back to my old tactics. “Traboules are awesome! Go see one! Now!”

The whole traboule thing would have probably gone a bit better if I’d had more of a plan than simply wandering around the area where most of them were supposed to be (“Beef Street”, pictured above), staring at random doors, and muttering things to the kids like, “Yep, this could be one, sure enough.”

Staring wasn’t really reaping us the benefits I’d hoped for, so I switched over to what might charitably be called a “hunt and peck” approach, pushing on random doors and venturing into the ones that were actually open. This led to some new French vocabulary for me, as taught by the residents of Vieux Lyon, and a few pictures like that one, below. “Yep,” that picture sez. “Got me a real traboule here. Can’t believe I’m the only one in here.”

When the hunting’s done and the pecking’s over, well, there’s always the Internet. A quick iPhone search later, we were en route to the real deal and actually did find the longest traboule in Lyon, along with quite a few others. Many of them are kept open to the public and tourists through arrangements between the city and the residents whose apartments are on the traboules. It’s pretty fun hunting and exploring for them. Just make sure you go to Starbucks first.

in which we almost lose our g rating

I was perhaps halfway down my sixth or seventh traboule when I realized I was quite alone and possibly had been for some time. My first instinct was to blame the Nazis because, let’s be honest, not only are they a convenient scapegoat, but I’m also highly suggestible and had been perhaps embedding myself a little too deeply in a little French Resistance fantasy where I was the dashing young freedom fighter keeping the city safe for attractive young demoiselles, like, say, le dusky Kristannique, a formidable freedom fighter in her own right, known to all and sundry by her code name La Grande Dangereuse. Oh, the natives in the hills, they’d name towns after her as you might see if you squint your eyes just right through this hazy romantic fog at the adjacent picture. One thing might have led to one another, a picnic on the banks of the Rhone on a crisp spring day, and we might have even gotten married, who knows?

So with this somewhat involved dreamscape occupying my frontal lobes, you can see why it had taken me some time to recognize my newfound solitude. Hmm. Where could they be?

Why, with C-3PO, of course. Resourceful kids that they are, they’d managed to rescue all of us from what was shaping up to be a lifetime in the traboules and gotten us into the Lyon Museum of Miniatures, instead. This was actually just what the doctor ordered – a lighthearted romp through some real movie sets (such as the perfume-makers workshop shown in the picture), plenty of props from films we recognized, and the most exactingly rendered miniatures I’d ever seen. There were scenes from movie theaters, factories, cafes, all done in excruciatingly small scale. Surprisingly entertaining, though I personally would have loved to have seen them take on a traboule scene, possibly even with me and La Grande Dangereuse battling back Nazis, Korean rappers, and whoever else might dare to cross us.

anyone else feeling slightly uncomfortable with sid’s french resistance fantasy?

We will be back to Lyon – it’s full of suprises and we’ve only seen a fraction of what’s there. We haven’t even crossed the Rhone to see the Part-Dieu, so there are literally still bridges left to cross. For today, though, it was time to hit the road again, this time for another destination that’s been high on my list since we arrived in France – a real Plus Beaux Village!

Since the distant days of 1981, back when your faithful author was rocking velour Kennington shirts and would have probably loved Korean rap, this organization has charged itself with the faithful maintenance of a list tracking the most beautiful villages in France.

Displaying the same flair for the obvious as that of the soulless Zone A/Zone B/Zone C technocrats from our last episode, these guys have naturally named themselves, well, Les Plus Beaux Villages de France. Yes, that does mean the Most Beautiful Villages in France. Yes, we’re really starting to wonder whether the French need a new marketing agency.

Still, it’s a real feather in the proverbial chapeau to receive Plus Beaux status, a veritable guarantee of tourist dollars and bragging rights when confronted with lesser villages. I’m actually not sure where or how often that part really comes up. Perhaps they play petanque with one another on weekends. Hard to say.

What I do know is that I’ve been literally champing at the bit to see one of these bad boys, to the point where I’ve been using the whole “Plus Beaux” term in wildly inappropriate ways in casual conversation, driving my family somewhat nuts in the process.

“Let’s ploobeaux that puppy,” I might say, remarking on the proximity of one of the 157 available villages that I have not yet seen. “It ain’t gonna ploobeaux itself.” Or, perhaps, “There’s a lot of ploobeauxage in Languedoc. I think we should go there for spring break.” I’ve described Bordeaux as “totally ploobeauxful,” noted Brittany’s “eminent ploobeauxability,” and even once called a cute village that didn’t quite make the list as “ploofaux.” It’s also possible that I’ve been physically restrained from making further Plus Beaux comments on more than one occasion. I’m not proud.

Today, though, was the day we were finally going to break on through to the Plus Beaux side. I’d studied Kristanne’s consensus-building tactics from Lyon, applied them liberally, and now here we were in Pérouges, a delightfully well-preserved hilltop medieval village, settled by Gallic craftsmen returning from Perugia, Italy, back in the 12th century.

Things were going great when we first arrived. The village was as-advertised — thoroughly charming and pleasantly empty on a warmish winter’s day. We strolled the streets, taking in the sights  and play-acting the lives of medieval craftsmen. That’s Quinn and Kinsey eating imaginary pies from envisioned medieval bakers. I’m leaving out the pictures of me curled up a dark doorway, clawing at imaginary plague sores. Not very ploobeaux at all, I’m afraid.

so, how’d you Ploo-blow it?

Things were going so great, in fact, that I felt like it was time to sort of re-frame my earlier travails in Lyon, suggesting that perhaps we might be able to find a traboule here if we looked hard enough.

So, yeah. That’s Kinsey lighting out around the corner in response to that little suggestion, with the rest of the family hot on her heels:

And here they are still maintaining a safe one-block distance:

what else can you do in a plus beaux village?

It took some wheedling, but I eventually was able to restore familial connections with the promise of lunch and a temporary ceasefire on the use of “ploobeaux” as a verb. We ate a tasty meal at a local brasserie, nabbed a handy geocache, and snapped rather more pictures than were entirely necessary.

With the word count surpassing 3000 in this little missive, I now feel comfortable letting a few pictures carry the narrative. Just throw in a couple more ploobeaux jokes, maybe one more Korean rapper reference, and you’re good – it’ll be almost like I’m still here. Me, I’m going to hang with La Grande Dangereuse.

Winter vacation is finally ending today, so we’re hunkering down for some back to school action. See you next time…on the Odyssey!