Le Rhône et La Saône- France

 

My train crosses into France and I am unarmed. I am plunging knees first into foreign territory. I’ve created a pastime out of living in different countries. Yet, being wrenched out of my comfort zone is utterly traumatizing. I usually spend the first day of any vacation in my pension or hostel with my stomach wrought and shriveled with hunger, brooding over phrases that will convey “I’ll take the fish, please” “May I have the check, please?” “Thank you and goodbye, please”.

As a young woman, I imagine solo travel to be liberating and empowering, but this is has never been the case. Not until Lyon.

In the Lyon station directional signs and advertisements blur past me. French greetings and exclamations swarm my head like flies buzzing around sunbaked roadkill. Dead meat is exactly what I am. I must press on and that entails finding a place to sleep at 23:00 the day after Christmas.

In the morning, I must check out and find somewhere cheaper for the remaining days. I stayed in a hotel next to the station. I found it after circling the block twice, asking room prices, passing in and out of homeless encampments under overpasses stepping lightly if not out of courtesy for the dozing, certainly out of fear of waking them.

Before I locate my next bed, I seek out breakfast. I walk in the direction of the rivers leaving behind dingy Lyon Part Deux. I cross the Rhône and marvel at its power barreling under my feet past grey, parliamentary buildings that stretch for blocks. In the commercial district there are flowers stands, independent bookstores prefaced by people sipping foamy coffee drinks with literature held to their noses, hot caramelized peanut stands spewing steam in the vendors’ faces.

I reach the Saône River lined by a bustling open-air market. The first stands are striped with rows of flowers and bundles of firewood. I am taunted and teased by strips of paper on toothpicks boasting fresh brie goat blue and camembert cheeses. The bakeries on wheels are Sirens that seduce and claw at my line of vision. Behind the cases lie croissants brioches canapés éclairs, all topped with icing fruit or chocolate. I break my gaze to concentrate on what to say.

My heart pounds against my rib cage in protest to my impending self-humiliation, while my stomach purrs out of deprivation and anticipation. Breathe, exhale. Breathe deeper, exhale longer. Be brave, give my order, obtain my prize. The woman looks at me and spits out a sound like “Kes kvoo prawn ay?” Not understanding, I babble back “Oon kwasont, see voo play.” What an accent. Couldn’t I at least fake some sort of a French one? She interrupts my self-degradation by nestling a warm buttery croissant in the palm of my hand. I give her cold pieces of metal and say “Mercy, oh vooar.”

Flakes and layers of lace melt between my teeth, slowing my heartrate and appeasing my hunger. I wander the neighborhoods sandwiched between the rivers. In a plaza with gardens there’s a sculpture of a man and woman swimming. The man is muscly and barreling past her, propelling through space. The woman’s features are gracile, she is sliding her hand down his chest, smiling euphorically, letting herself be sucked behind in his wake. Below them is inscribed “Le Rhône et la Saône”. The caption sparks my curiosity. Where do the rivers meet? When they do, does one indeed over overpower the other?

The more I analyze the sculpture, the more I feel compelled to see their meeting point. I search my GPS for the distance. It’s a two-hour walk away. With my belongings and still no bed for the night, I decide this is more important and start marching.

I navigate down the bank of the Saône. One would think no map is needed to follow a riverbank. Roads dead-end. Construction fences block my path, forcing me to lose sight of the water. I wind through backstreets and step onto curbs occupied by workers of nefarious employ. When I get turned around, I must ask for directions. I am nervous, embarrassed, and pressing further.

 

When I reach the point, I find that both rivers meet and marry peacefully, without turbulence. There are train tracks that continue under the surface of the water. At my feet there is a pile of corks. I imagine how they came to congregate in this spot. Champagne bottles popped on the bridges. Wine corks lazily abandoned on the banks are washed away by rain or kicked into the rapids by children. I pick one and put it in my pocket. I have my answers. I have my prize. I turn back, against the currents, triumphant. I am free of trepidation. Free to be intrepid.

About the Author:

I am 24 years old and have lived in Europe since September 2013, when I moved to Calatayud, Spain to participate in the “North American Language and Culture Assistants in Spain” program. I am now doing a Master’s degree in Inter-American Studies at Friedrich-Alexander University of Erlangen-Nuremberg.

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