Lyon Unveiled: A Saga of Love, Language, and the Lure of Luxury

As I prepare to embark on yet another solitary journey to Lyon this early November, the world around me seems gripped by the icy hands of an impending crisis. Yet, amidst the rising tide of uncertainty, here I am, a 41-year-old soul from the rich cultural soils of India, poised at the cusp of Lyon’s old-world charm and contemporary luxury at the Sofitel.

Seventeen years have whisked by since I first set foot in France, leaving behind the sophisticated linguistic tapestry of the Alliance Française du Bengale. My passage through this European land has been anything but untroubled. I have navigated disillusionment and weathered disappointment. I have grappled with frustration that gnaws at the spirit of a foreigner seeking to find their niche in a new land. Yet, here I remain. The question, then, is ‘why?’

The answer is simple yet profound: love. Love was the compass that guided me across continents, and it is love that has anchored me to this terrain. The French language, to me, is not merely a collection of words or phrases; it is a territory unto itself, a serene landscape where my spirit roams free. In this sense, France is more than my adopted homeland; it is a reflection of my innermost self.

Why Lyon? 

Lyon is more than just a city; it is a memory etched in the contours of my being, intertwined with the academic rigor of my Diplôme supérieur’s thesis. This city, with its historical moniker, Lugdunum, is an enigmatic blend of the sacred and the worldly – a center for both the influential bourgeoisie and the ecclesiastical power of the Church of France.

I returned to Lyon, drawn not by the allure of nostalgia alone but by the whisper of escape. An invitation from a friend to a local bistro event flickered like a beacon, cutting through the muddle of my Parisian existence. And so, with a spontaneous spirit, I rerouted my life’s itinerary for a brief sojourn. I find myself now aboard the Paris-Lyon TGV, the French countryside blurring past my first-class window at 284 km/h.

Why first class? 
This indulgence in first-class is a narrative of transformation. My roots, entrenched in the lower middle class of India, once viewed such luxury with a critical eye. Yet, as fate would have it, I found myself redefining my destiny. The Koromondol express First AC journey to Andhra Pradesh was a turning point; it revealed that the mastery of the French tongue could unshackle me from the confines of a preordained life. 

Isn’t it a bit of a snobbery? A m’as-tu-vu, as the French say? 
Yes, I confess to a hint of snobbery – a trait that unsettles my dear sister back in India. I’ve become the proverbial prodigal, returning not to seek but to flaunt the spoils of European comfort. I seem to have started, as my father jestingly chides, viewing India through a lens tinted with the sterility of my European life. The once comforting aroma of street food of Kolkata now triggers in me a fear of contamination. The familial gatherings, which used to be the highlights of my visits, have become events I endure, not enjoy. I find myself critiquing the very core of what once defined me, unable to reconcile the love for my roots with the discomfort they now evoke, lavishing in the abundance skimmed from foreign shores.

And why not first-class in Paris? It’s more than a simple choice; it is a statement. In Europe, I cling to the refined echelons as a shield against the scathing judgement that often taints the air with its silent, discerning gaze. It’s a sanctuary I choose in a world where my brown skin is an unwarranted whisper of difference.

But let us end on the note of dreams – the luxurious embrace of my river-facing room at the Sofitel, where the crisp linage meets the gentle lull of the Rhône. Here, in this space of plush tranquility, I dare to dream of dreams, each weaving into the next, an endless tapestry of hopes and reveries. It is here that I find my truth, and perhaps, it is here that I will conceive the next dream that will coax my spirit to dance once more upon the cobbled stones of this ancient, noble city.

In Lyon, against the backdrop of time and tides, my narrative continues – a passionate ode to the journey, the culture, and the unyielding love that binds me to this land.

To be continued…..