Nothing to Hate

I only realised that I wanted to hate France a few hours after I got back. The language sounds like a bunch of Neanderthal women developed it when their menfolk failed to kill the mammoth again. The streets smell of piss. Even without their famed arrogance, the people are as ugly as the rest of us – there are as many Gerard Depardieus as there are Eva Greens – they just try to hide it with more expensive clothes and coiffures. Their national symbol is a monstrous metal eyesore on an otherwise beautiful city and their mascot is a domestic animal. But mostly I wanted to hate France because of the French woman who encouraged me to give up my lifestyle and career to be with her, then decided that I wasn’t worth the effort of keeping.

Having a train driver strike stop me from reaching my hotel on the first night should have been the last straw, but on this occasion, the French weren’t going to let me hate them. Every person I spoke to was friendly and helpful. In Belgium when I tried to speak French, the locals would roll their eyes and say, ‘it’s OK. I speak English.’ In Lyon, the couple of times people rolled their eyes, it was to say, ‘Ah, stupid me. You speak French.’

The station staff booked me on a train the following morning and directed me to a hotel. The hotel staff directed me to an area of cheaper hotels. The reception of the hotel I chose got me a map, pointed out where I could get my watch repaired and suggested a walk around the old town. Shopkeepers told me where I could buy a phone card and the lady at the hotel I’d booked assured me my room would be waiting the following day.

I wandered the cobblestone streets of the old town and up the hill towards a manor house that was protected by a maze of rambling streets, none of which lead to my destination. Back in the new town, I sat in the square and watched emos fuss over stranger’s dogs, people sit to read a book in the park on the way home and chic couples window shop at boutique stores. It was surprisingly pleasant to be back in France. They don’t even piss in the streets of Lyon.