Ici on peut promener...

Color pigments at an art supply store...

Evian water is for everyone.

fifth floor fenêtre
dans ma petite chambre; it's
a charming rooftop view

today, etudiantes, we master le passé composé

There is cream, or cheese, or butter on almost everything.

Some events demand attention.

So here's the scene: Lyon and Munich played a Champions League Semi-final match last week (21 Avril) in Munich, and Lyon lost 0-1. Tonight, playing on their home turf, Lyon could either win and preserve face, or lose on Lyonnaise soil and watch Munich go on to the league championship final.

Being in Lyon, I partook!

Juste a pres chez Macabeo, a few blocks away from my host family, there's a big open park, la Place Bellecour. During the days, the gravel-covered center of the place is large, heartily dry for lack shade, and usually deserted.

Tonight, though, the park swarmed with people, all gathered to watch the Lyon-Munich match broadcast on a Big Screen at the park's corner. The live match itself was happening not far away, in Lyon's sold-out Stade Gerland. Big deal, for this town. Big deal for Europe!

Thus, after a satisfying touristy meal at a 'typical' local restaurant (un 'Bouchon'), a group of classmates and I joined the crowd at Bellecour to catch what we could.

Once finally reunited with more classmates a the park 'at de spot from where dey won't mouf' (not having a cell phone abroad makes folks resourceful), our group talked and joked and practiced silly tired French and–from time to time–looked up at the screen for the score.

We marveled at the huge local crowd, which was raucous but somehow also controlled. At one point, a rumbling broke out somewhere in the audience, and rippled out to the masses. It seemed a big deal for a moment (we all craned toward an unknown source to catch the gritty), but then the dust and interest fell away as quickly. One classmate voiced all of our thoughts: 'I sort of hoped it was a fight. That there'd be some drama I could tell people about later.'

Nope. But I noticed other pleasant things.

On one fringe, a moveable cafe with an extremely efficient staff was well-prepared to feed an army with something resembling Hamburger Helper in pita, and to douse the whole crowd in fruity Heineken. In front of me shifted a sea of trendy jackets and jeans, striped shirts and scarfs and colorful sneakers.

We'd been excited, revved, well-fed and ready to cheer. We did cheer. And like the French around us, we also ignored the game and enjoyed the scene. We hung out. We planted our feet on the well-tramped gravel and surveyed, and listened to accents and felt the air get cooler. We laughed.

And then, as things pass–all at once, without any regard for the score of the game, our group dispersed.

Final score: Munich 4, Lyon 0.

Most people here eat sandwiches.

27 hours. Four airports, three countries. Four take-offs, four landings. Three seat-mates. One vegetarian airline meal, three savored packets of peanuts, two generic hot teas. One lost black iPod Nano, and one new Facebook friend.

I'm finally in Lyon for a two-week immersion French course that I signed up for online four months ago, 4000 miles away, sitting on my carpet in Evanston.

My aim is to get a grasp of basic French, a goal I've decided to prioritize. After Lyon, I'm off to Porto and Lisbon, Portugal. But for now, je parle francais, et je l'aime.

My first day en classe, aujourd'hui, I sat, bright-eyed and eager, fully engaged in everything I heard. Vocabulaire, grammaire, verbes, adjectifs, mots. Mon professeur is at least 7 feet tall, and is the right jazz of patience and persistence. My classmates are from Korea, Poland, Australia, Spain, Brazil and Belgium. We're in class at least four hours per day, every day. During breaks, we attempt to learn about each other by parsing together French phrases. When I'm not in class, I'm practicing rudimentary skills with a host family. I love it.

My right brain is exercising, I can feel it. Two days here, my language lobe is graffiti'd all over, doused in vocab and accents and all kinds of color. Two weeks may not be long to cement basic French into my eclectic communication mosaic, but I will take full advantage of my circumstances. I will let my brain get colorful tattoos.

Tonight I'm in my own room, une petite chambre chez Macabeo, my host family for the next several days. I've been sipping herbal honey-tea and nibbling on some of the best dark chocolate I've had in months. The bar cost 40 Euro centimes (60 cents).

Since it's late and I could probably stop eating chocolate, I'll post more tomorrow. Think: variety.
- People. Meet my host family. Preview: the daughter has a 'tude.
- Food. French food. Later, Portuguese food.
- Photos. The best part of travel blogs.
- Gritty. A couple of travelers mentioned interest in the details of my travel [money!] for trips of their own. [Mind your Euros, I'm a frugal voyager.] But let me know, and I'll send you a near-precise estimate...

To leave you now, some pleasant idées Lyonnaises:
- It is, apparently, 'very American' to wave at perfect strangers.
- The Lyon public bike system, Velo V, is quite user-friendly and cheap, at 3 Euros per week. Pick up a bike at any station, drop it off at another station anywhere in the city within une demi-heure. I'd love to see this in Chicago!
- Stripes! French stripes! They're all over the place. I dig 'em.

why other?

sure, wait 'til you can–
and you can every moment;
why other wise?

skip to the end.

wow, I'm quick to judge
but if I know it, is it bad?
and if it's self-aimed, is it sad?

and if it comes with knowing doubting,
knowing prejudice-refrain,
if it means that being open
is a choice and must remain
a thing of action, and well meant–

if I've been of good intent,
then self-aimed shots
are good well spent...no doubt?

can't say; judging's out.

hot head

get out of the pin that I slip from my hair
and the suds that make heavy the bath

the word 'you' is so loaded
it's a ring on my tongue

that makes 'last time' come out 'lasth–'

my toothpaste tastes like your smoke-breath
tried to smell.

those best songs are like taffy
that's old

I know parts of these rooms in
a too-real way

and my hot head stays warm in the cold

hey! there's only one reason I'd
remember the day
that I forewent a party for this

and just so you get it I'll make it
real plain:
your cool words are not something I'll miss.