I awoke without the bearings of a hangover. There was something muzzling the back of my brain but for the moment it was being held back by the medication in my bloodstream and my unwillingness to succumb to the rum. There wasn’t much time for hanging around though as we had to ditch my sister’s flat and finally haul ass out of there for good.
A few curious other oddities about France. For some reason they really cherish granola because the price is much more expensive there than it is in Britain. I expect it has nothing to do with exchange rates and where it was made; I believe the French just don’t want people to eat it. It belongs to the government and they will continue to hoik up the price as and when required.
The local prostitutes, according to information gathered by my sister via her friend, do not hang around in bars. They do not have a red light district. They do not expose themselves in windows for foreign businessmen to oggle for pleasure. In Lyon, for some reason, they hang outside the local Lidl. Having walked past the supermarket in question several times I rarely saw anyone pertaining to be a prostitute. Once there was a woman eating a sandwich however I don’t think we can jump to conclusions there, unless French ladies of the evening do freaky things with bread. The only other occasion was there was an attractive woman perched on the corner yelling into her mobile. Even then I hardly think that’s conclusive proof. Whether it’s true or not I can’t really say. My sister is adamant that they were protesting not so long ago though. Protesting for better digs? Possibly.
If you leave cans of carbonated beverages in the freezer for long enough they will explode. I’m not quite sure about the science, and I’m hoping that Wrong Science might be able to offer assistance.
There are not a lot of music or games shops in Lyon. There are, however, a surprisingly large number of piano shops. This may explain why there was a piano in the park. Perhaps the French enjoy tinkling the ivories more than blasting aliens or zombies or listening to electro pop music. If we’re ever invaded they may struggle and we must remember this and offer our help in any way we can. I’m a dab hand at Ghost Squad and House of the Dead.
The only last anecdote I can offer is after we had packed all the last of my sister’s crud into her bags, after we had pushed them all through Lyon onto a plane, after we had landed in Stansted airport and waited for them to appear on the turning gizmo, after several hours transferring between trains and my sister had disappeared at York into the arms of Big Dave I’m alone whizzing through the night back to the North East. I’ve been travelling all day and as my hands had mostly been pushing heavy bags there had been no chance to indulge in a little coffee. I’m alone now so I ask the trolley lady for a coffee and whether I can pay on my card. She jokingly says the machine isn’t working. So I get my card out only to be told, no sorry, even though it sounded like I was winding you up the machine can’t take any card payments. No payments in coin euros either. Bugger. She does, however, offer me a cup of boiling water. I’ll take what I can get round about now so I accept. She then says because I had been so nice about it that she’ll give me the drink for free. My heart leaps. I want to dance. My smile turns to a wince turns to a struggle to maintain a happy expression as she passes me my drink and I return to my seat. For whatever reason she’s made me a tea.
I asked for coffee. I specifically asked for coffee, but you can’t pass up a free drink. Do I want to be the arse who got a free drink and then said, “Actually, sorry, I don’t mean to be ungrateful but I asked for coffee.” No, of course not. That’s not what the British do. I’m sat and so as not to be ungrateful I wait for it to cool and then force it down my throat. It’s awful; every taste like I’m drinking liquid gravel.
This is not what I wanted. I did not ask for tea yet this is what I got. It’s a struggle but I finish it like a man and throw the cup on the floor in triumph! So ended my trek, with a bad taste in my mouth.