We piled into the van the next morning and tore out of Bourg d'Oisans in a green slushy blur. The mountain roads were beautiful, the music was pumping, and I knew that even though they were heading home, I would be sad to leave the guys after such a short time together. InterRailing on your own is all well and good, but you just can't beat a road trip with your friends.
As the mountains shrank to foothills and the horizon flattened out, I settled down on the bed in the back of the van and must have drifted off, because as I groggily came back to consciousness we had already arrived in Lyon. I woke up this morning with a plan of getting to Lyon and jumping straight on a train to Milan, but Bruce wisely pointed out that I might run into a few problems arriving unprepared and without a reservation in a devoutly Catholic country on Easter Sunday.
The guys dropped me at the tourist information centre in the middle of the city, then drove away as I stood waving and blowing kisses in the middle of Place Bellecour. Alone in a strange city, I climbed a steep hill (the woman in the tourist info place hadn't mentioned that) to the Auberge de Jeunesse that looks out across the old town and the newer city behind.
Lyon crept up on me that day. After booking my ticket to Milan I walked for miles around the city, taking in most of its squares, public places and landmarks. My first thought was that it was very nice but a bit too boring; like a Dairylea Slice, but gradually over the course of the day I realised it was more of a bubbling fondue, with unexpected objects surfacing when you least expected them, and a constantly shifting aroma.
I would be walking down a boring, pedestrianised street that could be any town in Britain, then come across an amazing fountain (the best is in Place des Terreaux, by the guy who made the Eiffel Tower). Another time I was climbing a steep sequence of stairs, heading towards Place de la Croix-Rousse and wondering if it was worth the effort, when I looked back behind me and saw the whole city stretching beneath me - the impressive Notre-Dame de Fourvière cathedral glittering on an adjacent hillside like a decoration on top of an elaborate cake. I took a funicular up the hill that evening at sunset, and was nearly swamped by people as the congregation swept out of an Easter service in a thick, devout tide of bodies.
That night I went for a couple of beers with Ryan and Manuel, a Canadian and Spanish guy I met in my dorm, and we watched the Lyon vs Paris St Germain match in a bar in town. It was Ryan's fist ever 'soccer' match, and he couldn't have picked a better one - a six goal thriller, with a penalty and everything, that Lyon won 4-2, prompting the bar to erupt in happy support.
Made it back up the ridiculous hill at a reasonable hour for once, battling our way through the snow that has been falling with increasing ferocity all day. Tomorrow Milan, and my first taste of Italy.
As the mountains shrank to foothills and the horizon flattened out, I settled down on the bed in the back of the van and must have drifted off, because as I groggily came back to consciousness we had already arrived in Lyon. I woke up this morning with a plan of getting to Lyon and jumping straight on a train to Milan, but Bruce wisely pointed out that I might run into a few problems arriving unprepared and without a reservation in a devoutly Catholic country on Easter Sunday.
The guys dropped me at the tourist information centre in the middle of the city, then drove away as I stood waving and blowing kisses in the middle of Place Bellecour. Alone in a strange city, I climbed a steep hill (the woman in the tourist info place hadn't mentioned that) to the Auberge de Jeunesse that looks out across the old town and the newer city behind.
Lyon crept up on me that day. After booking my ticket to Milan I walked for miles around the city, taking in most of its squares, public places and landmarks. My first thought was that it was very nice but a bit too boring; like a Dairylea Slice, but gradually over the course of the day I realised it was more of a bubbling fondue, with unexpected objects surfacing when you least expected them, and a constantly shifting aroma.
I would be walking down a boring, pedestrianised street that could be any town in Britain, then come across an amazing fountain (the best is in Place des Terreaux, by the guy who made the Eiffel Tower). Another time I was climbing a steep sequence of stairs, heading towards Place de la Croix-Rousse and wondering if it was worth the effort, when I looked back behind me and saw the whole city stretching beneath me - the impressive Notre-Dame de Fourvière cathedral glittering on an adjacent hillside like a decoration on top of an elaborate cake. I took a funicular up the hill that evening at sunset, and was nearly swamped by people as the congregation swept out of an Easter service in a thick, devout tide of bodies.
That night I went for a couple of beers with Ryan and Manuel, a Canadian and Spanish guy I met in my dorm, and we watched the Lyon vs Paris St Germain match in a bar in town. It was Ryan's fist ever 'soccer' match, and he couldn't have picked a better one - a six goal thriller, with a penalty and everything, that Lyon won 4-2, prompting the bar to erupt in happy support.
Made it back up the ridiculous hill at a reasonable hour for once, battling our way through the snow that has been falling with increasing ferocity all day. Tomorrow Milan, and my first taste of Italy.
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