Le Thanksgiving, pas un Jour Férie

I hope you all enjoyed a relaxing Thanksgiving yesterday, and made the most of America’s holiday dedicated specifically to eating and watching TV. In France, it was just another Thursday; no turkeys, pilgrims, or “harvest” celebrations were to be found anywhere in Lyon. In fact, I even had classes yesterday, and both of my professors actually showed up, a true rarity. But while everyone is getting ready for Christmas here in Lyon (a little early if you ask me), Thanksgiving passed by the French without so much as a friendly gobble.

The root of the problem is that the French do not understand the holiday, plain and simple. They do not bother with translating its title into French, and simply say “Happy Thanksgiving” (featuring that distinct French challenge of pronouncing an “H” at the beginning of a word) with a smirk whenever it is brought up. In a variety of forums, from my high school students I tutor to my host family to dinner guests, I tried to explain the reasoning behind it, and all I received in return were blank stares. There is no point of reference for them, this day when Americans simply celebrate what is around them. To the French, they are pretty sure we all silently eat TV dinners every night by ourselves, and they believe that their concept of a family dinner fully makes up for one random day. Thus, at the heart of it they find it simply pointless.

History lessons about the origins of Thanksgiving are another topic of conversation that quickly digresses into confusion and cultural misunderstandings. “Native Americans” is a tough one, considering that the French are very proud of the fact that they are the real French who have been in France for thousands of years, and never had to boot anyone from the land in order to make room. Also, apparently Squanto is not as much of a celebrity here, as his name continually falls on deaf ears whenever I drop it as part of the history. But again, turkeys, pilgrims, harvest, all are either new concepts or new vocab for the conversation, and usually I get bogged down in the Mayflower part of the story, and have to quickly summarize the rest (“point is they had a big meal, that’s basically it”). My 17th century American history lessons are not quite up to par with my 21st century rants, but we’re getting there.

But the main problem is the French think they understand the holiday, and this only leads to further mockery of the United States. To be fair, my description of a typical Thanksgiving with my family involves sleeping in late, watching football (or the Dog Show, if my sister has the remote), and then eating my biggest meal of the entire year. Clearly, the Frenchies all hear that and kind of smile and say “well, it is America after all.” If there is two things that the French love to bash on about America, it is that we are fat and love American football, a sport they will never begin to attempt to understand (they already have the “real” football, what else could they possibly need?). At that point of the conversation, each of my audiences gets that look on their face that just screams, “ah, we are so above that.” Language, still a struggle, but I can read facial expressions thank you very much.

Despite the overwhelming obstacles facing us, the Americans in the group did manage to make the most of the holiday. An apparent Penn-in-Lyon tradition, all the students and the host families (plus a couple real families here for the holiday) went to a fancy Lyonnais restaurant, all dressed up of course, for a highly-anticipated dinner. They tried to make the food as American as possible, and after the ratatouille appetizer we did receive some turkey, potatoes and cranberry sauce (my number one Thanksgiving dish) for our main course, with pumpkin pie arriving for the egg-ivores at the end. Not quite the same stuffed turkey, biscuits, and canned cranberry sauce that I have come to love and miss, but for the French, not bad.

In terms of atmosphere, we took it to a new level, even if it had nothing to do with Thanksgiving. The dilemma facing our program director was that there really is no traditional celebration to go along with all the eating. So, we started with the next best thing: Christmas songs. Featuring hits such as the 12 days of Christmas (in the round, of course), Jingle Bells, and even a couple random (apparently “classic”) French ones, some of us were bold/dumb enough to attempt to lead everyone in rousing song. Lyrics were provided for all, but seemed to help no one. Not sure if the host families were more intimidated by our gumption or embarrassed for our clear lack of talent, but at least we had a good time making fools of ourselves.

So there you have it, my first holiday abroad, one of the harder parts about being out of the States. There’s obviously no replacement for that family meal, with the stories that invariably come out every year and the family members that you can never seem to spend enough time with. But there are only a few weeks until this abroad experience is over, and the focus now is on making the most of our short time left. Even if that means forgetting about the things back home that you miss the most, now is the time to realize what you have here.

In a sense, it’s all about giving thanks.

Provence, Papes, et Ponts, Tout dans un Weekend

You want to know what my favorite types of trips are? The free ones. Or at least the ones that Penn pays for. Yes, I realize that these may have been factored into the cost of this semester abroad, but it still feels good to travel, sleep and eat all on Penn’s dime for a weekend. This weekend was the second of two such excursions, a two day affair in the Provence region in the south of France. Similar to the trip in Reims, we were immersed into French culture for this short period of time in regions just off the beaten track in order to show us the hidden gems of France. By now you know that I am not a big fan of tourist traps, thus a weekend like this was right up my alley.

An excessively early start on Saturday saw us leave Lyon for a three hour drive down l’autoroute to a small town called Uzès (no clue where it is on a map, but somewhere South). Fortunately, upon our arrival we did happen upon a farmers market where some of the vendors mistakenly offered up free samples, something us half-awake, hungry college students took full advantage of. After clearing the vendors out, and supplementing that with a picnic overlooking the valley below, it was back on the bus, and back to sleep for most of us. I think we all felt bad for our tour guide, because as a local history teacher, he clearly knew a whole host of things about the area we were in, and eagerly was talking over the bus loudspeaker in between each stop along the way. Problem was that he just knew too much, and after a series of loosely correlated tangents, one by one we all busted out the jacket/pillow, and eased our way back to sleep. No worries though, he kept talking.

The Pont du Gard turned out to be the highlight of the weekend, for a few reasons. First, it is a 2000 year old aqueduct (bridge for the water, not only over the water), no small feat within itself. With three separate tiers of arches, the whole of the bridge is still intact and dates all the way back to Roman times, one of the best preserved in the world. Second up is a more personal reason, but after emerging from the woods and coming to the Pont, I had a déjà-vu moment: I knew I had been there before. For the first time this semester, I remembered a specific part of my one week journey through France in eighth grade, the only other time I have been in Europe. I had completely forgotten about this stop along the way, so although I was visibly stunned and confused, I definitely enjoyed being transported back to 2003 and the good old Potomac School days. Third and final highlight of the bridge was not related to the structure itself, but instead the surrounding environment. While it was not a baseball field, I found basically the closest thing to it, namely a flat waterbed with a rocky shoreline: yes, I was skipping stones. While I eventually failed at teaching others this fine art, I did put my own brother’s instructions to good use, and could not help but enjoy one of my favorite pastimes. Later that night and throughout the next day my arm felt like I had just thrown about 7 innings, but after six months off, it felt just right at home.

As for the rest of the weekend, it was mainly focused around food, as is any good trip through the French countryside. When I had seen Avignon on the program sheet, I thought for sure we would hit up the two main attractions that the town has to offer: the Palais des Papes, and the Pont d’Avignon. For those of you who have been around since the beginning, you may remember that Avignon was a stop on my pre-trip travels, and the one day we spent in the town was a perfect length of time. That time around, we arrived in the morning, toured the Palais (the center of the Catholic church at one point in the 14^th and 15^th Century), and after lunch went onto the Pont (12^th Century bridge featured in the French children’s song, Sur le Pont d’Avignon) before heading out that evening. In, out, perfect. This time, with the Penn group, we did not do either fixture. We drove by Avignon at night on Saturday, and obviously spotted both all lit up, and then briefly hustled around the town on Sunday morning, but no going in or on either of them, simply photo ops from a distance. Surprising, but then again we are trying to become French for the semester, and thus did not want to seem touristy or anything terrible like that.

Instead, we explored the French countryside. We stopped briefly at a small medieval town protected by a menacing hill-side castle, and admired a similarly old (yet much smaller) Roman bridge. We sampled some of Provence’s famous olives, and even briefly strolled through a roadside olive oil museum (yes, an olive oil museum, about as cool as you would expect). Unfortunately, the rain and gray skies cut short our morning exploration, so we did what any good Frenchie would do: we ate! One four hour meal later, we were all deliriously full of amazing food, and let our food coma takeover on the way back to Lyon.

In between fits of sleep, I could not help but notice the lights of Chateaus spotting the hillsides. I’m sure whoever built those medieval towns did not imagine they would ever becomes roadside afterthoughts, but I am definitely appreciative of their effort. 12^th Century castles are not something that Americans do well, so I guess I will have to appreciate them while I can, even while rolling along into the night.

Allez (clap-clap) l'OL!

As you all know, I am a big fan of sports, and even if I have failed to mention it so far, I definitely brought my love of sports across the Atlantic with me. Needless to say, it has definitely taken some adjusting, and finally it has boiled over into this rant. I apologize in advance, but on both a personal front and from a professional standpoint, sports in France are not exactly what I expected. While some of these developments have been amazing, let’s just say that this is one of the aspects I miss most about the States. Allow me to explain.

I’ll start with the personal aspect, which is more negative, so we can build to the positive professional side. Unless you play soccer or rugby here, you are going to be out of luck in terms of finding organized sports. For example, I thought that France would have a thriving basketball culture; home to many NBA players, it is only logical that the sport would catch on here. The NBA did a European tour that included Paris, and each NBA game involving a minor French player no American has ever heard of gets a mention on the sports channel here (including the embarrassingly weak statistics for said French player). But, there are no pickup basketball games here in Lyon. Apparently there are plenty of courts according to an online search, but I kept going to these courts only to find them to be children’s playgrounds, or painted lines with a soccer goal on each end. And let’s not even talk about baseball; as I mentioned earlier, a tutor of mine has mentioned that there are baseball clubs in Lyon, and that he partakes in America’s favorite pastime, but to date I have not been able to prove the existence of these clubs nor have I thrown a baseball with him. Perhaps it’s too embarrassing to be seen with a baseball glove in France?

Also, I miss Pottruck. They say that Penn is really just a $50,000 a year gym membership, and right now I need to renew it. There are gyms here, do not get me wrong, but these are all a couple notches below the Radian gym (and definitely not open 24 hours). For comparison, I think the gym here (which is a supplementary cost, of course) could easily fit in one corner of one floor of Pottruck. Running on the streets is something I tried to take refuge in, yet that is definitely looked down upon by the Frenchies. The Rhone has a nice riverside path that looks perfect for running (think of the Schuylkill, only clean), yet on sunny days you will only find people sneering at runners as they smoke cigarettes. Or share a bottle of wine. We are still in France after all.

But enough about me, let’s talk about real sports in Lyon. In the States, we have a nice variety of sports, between football, baseball, basketball, and to a lesser extent hockey (no, I do not consider NASCAR a sport). Here, soccer is the only game in town, period. There is an ESPN equivalent here (L’Equipe), but of the 24 hours of the day, it seems like 20 are devoted just to this “beautiful game.” To be fair, I have tried to get into the spirit, which is pretty easy in Lyon as we do have one of the best teams in France. Coming from DC and Philadelphia, it was a pleasant surprise to learn that our team, Olympique Lyonnais, at one point had won 7 league championships in a row (a streak that was, of course, broken last Spring). Thus, in the spirit of support, a group of us went to an OL game earlier this month. We walked into a true cultural experience.

The game was against Liverpool, one of the best teams in England, and was part of the group stage of the European Champions League; in short, a big deal. The stadium was packed (about 40,000 people) with fans singing songs, waving flags, and jumping up and down; and that was before kickoff. We missed out on any sort of training for the songs, and still lack flags (although some of us do have some stylish OL scarves), so we contented ourselves with simply screaming and jumping every time Lyon did something appearing remotely good. Naturally, we fit right in. Despite a late Liverpool goal, Lyon somehow snuck one in at the last minute, and the stadium went nuts; we instantly became best friends with our fellow fans, hugging and cheering right through the final whistle. Of course, that was only a tie, but still everyone seemed enthusiastic about the result. 90 minutes of “action”, no winner. That’s soccer for you.

That game reinforced my feeling that Americans cannot understand the Europeans love for soccer, and only soccer. The few people that do rock French sports gear (as opposed to those Chicago White Sox hats running around Lyon, still bothers me) around town limit themselves to various forms of soccer paraphernalia. Shops put up signs showing their support of the team, flags proudly fly from houses, and cars even have special OL license plates. This is truly Lyon’s team.

Soccer in Europe transcends traditional boundaries. While you may have missed it back in the States, France just qualified for next year’s World Cup on Wednesday night by defeating Ireland. However, the goal that put them through was the result of a blatant handball. Not wanting to appear weak, and with the full support of the people, the Irish Prime Minister (Brian Cowen) is planning on directly talking to President Sarkozy at a high level European meeting this week about this travesty. Let’s see, economic crisis, new EU system, oh let’s talk about the possibility of replaying a soccer match. It’s not as if the French are not taking the bait, as the Prime Minister here claims that the Irish should stay out of refereeing decisions, and every opposition politician has been polled on the subject. And the front page headline of today’s paper reads “The Handball as a State-level affair.”

So while the French do their soccer well, some of us are missing out on the balanced diet of sports we appreciate back in the states. Sadly, I’m horribly uncoordinated with my feet, so soccer is really not an option. What’s left, rugby? I think I’ll just wait until I’m back in the States.

Encore, l’Exploration de la Ville (et le Tourisme)

So much for what I said about Lyon not being a tourist destination. For once, I was in Lyon throughout the whole weekend, a feat not accomplished since late September, and to take it one step further, I actually hosted a visitor who came to Lyon out of his own free will! Yes, strange but true, but Spencer Glantz, of Madrid fame, repaid me the visit in my home-away-from-home, and as such I once again took advantage of all the finest tourist traps Lyon has to offer. Going into the weekend, I was a bit concerned we would run out of things to do, but we ended up having to run just to keep up with our itinerary.

After he arrived late in the afternoon on Friday, we took in a few of the sights on the way back to the house, where Spencer had the fortune of meeting the host family. Now, Spencer speaks no French (despite what he may believe), and I had warned my host mother about this much earlier in the week (she even speaks a little Spanish, which Spencer is far better at). However, at dinner she kept insisting on speaking to him in French, with a “welcome to France, now speak French” attitude. Thus, even though she had prepared us a wonderful French mean (as usual), and was trying to be very nice and welcoming, I think Spencer’s head was spinning as she continued to ask him questions in French. I tried to come to his aid, but by the end I was only rephrasing words in French for him, not translating, as the language barrier was playing mind games with all of us at the table. It was a train wreck, but in the end an enjoyable experience, and both parties left with positive impressions of each other. The nightcap was a movie on the big screen, Wedding Crashers (again in French, but it translates pretty well), and we hit the bed early to rest up for our big day on Saturday.

We woke up Saturday not to the sun that we had hoped to find shining through the windows, but instead to the gray clouds that seem to perpetually hang over Lyon. But, no worries, we ambitiously started off on our way. Everything from the iconic Basilica of Fourviere, to the crumbling Roman Amphitheater to the seven hundred year old clock inside the Cathedral of St. Jean, we did it. As is every European city, Lyon has many historical artifacts, and if you take a second to think, it is almost unfathomable that something could have been standing there for more than 2000 years. So many changes have come to the surrounding areas and people, but some of those stones in the Roman theater are still hanging out there. Or take the astronomical clock in St. Jean, which still functions today, yet makes references to how the sun revolves around the Earth. Makes you wonder what will still be standing seven hundred years from now, and what historical oddities will be worth mocking at that point in time.

We did it all on Saturday, and by the end of it we were exhausted. We headed over to Lyon’s central park (a recent discovery for me) for a relaxing break from all the picture taking, yet were unfortunately rebuffed by a surprise early closing for the day (no explanation, but it’s the French, so what do you expect). We were able to get a little Penn group together for dinner, and as usual we all tried to combine our French to decipher what exactly was on the standard Lyon menu, yet still were pleasantly surprised when we actually received what we had ordered. No major concerns (or eggs), and considering he comes from a program in which he is one of two Quakers, I think Spencer enjoyed getting back into a group of Penn friends. We tried to show him Lyon’s “wild” or “fast and furious” nightlife (according to my European travel book), but we quickly remembered why that definition is so far off after being turned away from two places because they were simply too full (with few options, everyone seems to congregate in just a couple places after midnight). But, with an early flight back the next morning, we were more than content to head back up the stairs for the night.

I sent Spencer on his way Sunday morning, and I think he left with a positive impression of Lyon. After playing tour guide for a weekend, I am starting to realize that maybe I have been a bit harsh on Lyon over the past couple weeks. Spencer said he was expecting a “small village,” but instead I was able to show him a thriving (and charming) European city. Still no Paris, but I realized this weekend that there is definitely plenty going on in Lyon on a regular basis. And if that is not enough, apparently most of the city is a UNESCO world heritage site, quite a prestigious award for a second city.

The weeks keep rolling by here, and I’m starting to realize that eventually this semester will draw to a close. As this weekend only confirmed, I’m definitely going to miss this city.

Joyeux Onze Novembre!

Not sure if you are personally celebrating, but in case you are, happy November 11^th! Because us Americans are used to this day being marked on the calendar, yet not earning us time off from school or work, we may simply write it off as nothing, and I think I will forgive you if you missed it this year as well. But, as are most things, this is different in France, or at least chez-moi. My university was completely shut down today (if only I had class on Wednesday to miss…), stores were closed throughout Lyon, and the whole country celebrated the Armistice which ended the First World War. To top it off, the sun came back out again. As I said, it was quite a day.

The Rossi’s decided to take the party aspect of the day one step further. Let me first give you some background. As I mentioned earlier, my host father had a pretty serious bike accident some five years ago which has left him paralyzed from the waist down. Needless to say, all the tasks that he had become accustomed to doing in the garden were no longer possible from a wheelchair. Their house here, which up to this point I have only marginally described, is situated on a good sized piece of land for being in the city, and their property is right smack in the woods of the hill; clearly, there is plenty to keep a gardener busy. My host mother described to me how, at the time of the accident, she thought that she would be forced to hire a gardener to take care of all the greenery. Quelle horreur.

Fortunately, it was friends to the rescue. Not sure who initiated it, but a tradition began the following year that, on every November 11^th, their friends would come from all over France to help out in the garden. Despite everyone having the day off from their normal jobs, about twenty people every year are willing to get down to business a little after 10am in the Rossi garden. For me, it was really an understood cost of my lodging here, and I really had little choice but to help out. But, it turned out to definitely be a day well spent.

The formula is simple: everyone comes over to the house in the morning ready to work, and in the afternoon, they are rewarded with a grand French meal. For two hours straight, people are up and down around the property “preparing the garden for winter”, that is to say folding up outdoor furniture, bringing plants indoors, and cutting hedges throughout the yard. Not sure if Smokey the Bear would have approved, but all the leaves and debris collected from the yard were marched to the top of the hill, and promptly burned in a pile. Somehow, a forest fire was not started, but, I’ll admit, I had my doubts. It was quite a sight to see the 21 of us, most above the age of 55, running around cleaning up this yard, everyone trying to find their specialty (mine, you ask? That would be bringing the potted plants inside, as everything else required way more brainpower or French). After 2 hours, we were all covered in dirt, a bit exhausted, and very content with the progress made. Let the eating begin.

The meal was more than worth the work; after starting off with some champagne, of course, we went onto have a very heavy meal of “choucroute,” which is basically a few types of meat and sauerkraut (but is not German! I nearly lost a few fingers when I asked that of my host mother while she was brandishing a knife. Apparently it is distinctly French). Everyone was seated at a massive table I had not seen before, and having a great time, especially as the wine bottles continued to empty. Most people wanted to talk to me about what I thought of France and Lyon, and how much they loved New York. It was one of those meals where we all had a great time, but at the end I was glad that no one had to drive home as we are in France, and walking or the train would suffice.

While a bit confused at first, I eventually realized why this was such a great deal for all parties involved. For the Rossis, they really do not have to do a whole lot; my host mother was simply directing traffic all day, while my host father was snapping pictures of the proceedings, which he found exceedingly funny. Plus, they do not have to hire a gardener, or anything nearly as shameful. The rest of us put in a little bit of physical labor, and were rewarded with an amazing meal. Some people come every year, and this is an easy way to stay in touch with friends, as chatting while pulling weeds is a great way to catch up. This has become a definite tradition around the Rossi household, and I can definitely see why so many people keep coming back every year.

No, it may not have been a wild excursion to a foreign land, but it was definitely an enjoyable day for this American abroad. While I may not have followed every conversation flying around me, and needed to ask a couple times what exactly that thing was that I was supposed to go get, it was still an immersion in French culture that you can only get from a home-stay program like this one. Tiring? Possibly, as I went for a nice siesta after working hard, both in the garden and at the lunch table.

But in terms of fully taking advantage of a French family experience, I think I can now safely check that one off my list.

Barcelone, la Capitale de Catalogne

When I returned from Toussaint break, my host family welcomed me with open arms (and a wonderful meal), as for whatever reason they were quite happy to have me back in Lyon after an 11 day break. After stumbling through a description of my break, my host mother off-handedly stated “well now that you have returned from such a long break, you will be in Lyon for a while, right?” I sheepishly smiled and looked at her as I found the words to say, “actually I’m leaving this weekend.” Awkward.

Thanks to some scheduling conflicts and the diminishing number of weeks left in the semester, I headed right back out of Lyon this past weekend to Barcelona to visit a fellow abroad student, Brian Hwang. For my closest followers, you know that he already visited Lyon back in September, and I felt it only right to repay him the visit in Barcelona. Now, as you know from my last post, this was a very different situation then his visit back in September; rather than heading to a small Spanish city, I was heading to the fourth most visited city in Europe (top three? Paris, London, Rome). But, I was right at home among the tourist crowds.

Snugly fit between the Mediterranean and the mountains, Barcelona is just south of the French border. As such, throughout the weekend I heard plenty of French (and even was able to provide some help to a couple of lost Frenchies, always an awesome time) in addition to the standard English tourism. But language is one of the most striking parts of Barcelona, as it is fiercely part of the history and culture of the city. Despite what the map may say, Barcelona is not a part of Spain; instead, Barcelona is the capital of the Cataluña region, which is grudgingly subverted to the reign of the Spanish monarch in Madrid. The distinction is always clear, as every sign is first written in Catalan and then Spanish (followed by English usually), the majority of the flags flying are of the region and only federal government buildings sport the Spanish colors, and everyone true Barcelona resident hates Madrid. Brian recounted to me the celebration of Catalonian independence a couple weeks after he arrived, which featured the burning of the Spanish flag throughout the streets, a tradition at least implicitly supported by the government. Pretty sure that would get you a long trip to jail in the US, but in Barcelona, it’s a reason to celebrate!

It is not as if this violent clinging to their history actually serves Barcelona well; everyone speaks Spanish while only about half actually speak Catalan, even though they apparently are bringing it back in school. In the face of my clear confusion, Brian summed it up pretty well, at least I thought, in saying that the language may be useless, but it is more than just a means of communication; it is a history. This is where I found Barcelona differed most from Madrid, and why I am on the Barcelona side of the debate. Madrid is a very powerful city, and you truly get the sense that you are at the heart of Spanish culture when you are there, and whether that culture may spread to the Americas or the Canary Islands, it all centers around Madrid. But it all boils down to an artificial city; albeit a good while ago, Madrid was constructed out of thin air at the request of a King putting his finger on the center of Spain. Currently there is a lively energy in the city of deals being brokered and moves being made, but you question where this all came from.

Barcelona may not be as important politically (although apparently there was a Climate Summit there last week, and as such GreenPeace had taken to scaling the massive Christopher Columbus statue looking over the sea, and covered him in Save the Climate banners, very impressive), but it is far more culturally dynamic. To be fair, apparently this is a recent development, as the Summer Olympics of 1992 apparently brought some much needed improvements to the city. It holds onto the important parts of its past with an old city full of narrow, winding passageways and historical artifacts tucked into the alleyways, yet combines it with a vibrant new part of the city that is keeping up with the 21^st century. It may be more of a destination than a powerful city, but I’m ok with that.

Anyway, enough with the generalities, the highlight of Barcelona was the work of Antoni Gaudi, the famous Barcelona architect. I knew very little about him going in, but coming out I think his work looks like it belongs in a Dr. Seuss movie, and I like it. These treasures are located throughout the city, so I found myself walking down a boring old city block only to notice a throng of crowds looking up at one particular townhouse on the corner which was a Gaudi masterpiece. His style is extremely distinctive, almost comical, and an interesting contrast to the rest of the block that his works occupied. His highlight is the yet-to-be-completed Sagrada Familia church, or in other words, the world’s most visited construction site. Now, Gaudi died in 1926 after 18 years of work on this Church, yet after a civil war here and a lack of funds there, there is still plenty of progress to be made. That just goes to show you how ridiculous the plans are for this church, although they hope to be finished by 2030. Talk about ambition.

But, unfortunately the weekend did come to a close, and I left Brian on Sunday for yet another EasyJet flight (if only they had a frequent flier program…). I’m back in Lyon now for at least a few days, and hopefully by then the sun will return to France. After a weekend full of warm weather (almost shorts-worthy, yet it was the coldest weekend of the year in Barcelona), it is once again cloudy with off and on drizzle here in Lyon. So in other words, it’s just how I left it, and I see no reason to complain.

It’s always good to be back (sort of) home.