This morning I rose, not with the sun, but to the pouring of Kellogg's Cornflakes from the French-graffitied cereal box.
I was tired. The night before, I didn't get much sleep due to the constant buzzing of a certain mosquito in my ear. I woke up with eleven bug bites. My weekend host, Geraldine, was "bright-eyed and bushy-tailed," as we say in American, and I was, well, grumpy.
Three hours of sulking on the computer later, Geraldine convinced me to go to the outdoor marché with her to buy some fresh local produce. Then we made lunch, if you can call it that. In France, "Sunday dinner" is really Sunday lunch, strictly at noon. We had chicken with potatoes and des haricots verts (green beans) cooked to perfection with thyme, rosemary, and various other spices. It was a meal for a queen. I had la reste (leftovers) for dinner.
After une petite sieste, in which I passed out in a heavy food coma, Geraldine invited me to the park of Lyon, La Parc de la Tete d'Or. We toured the greenhouses of tropical trees, carnivorous plants and familiar cacti. It was nice; I took a few photos of lily pads and such.
But I had no idea what was coming.
That's right. This park has elephants. And tigers, bears, crocodiles, flamigos and giraffes. Who thought, right next door to all the baguettes and cheese and everything?
In truth, though, the sight was sad. These exotic creatures had only small spaces in which to roam, and they were definitely not at home. And I don't need to rhyme to tell you that.
Then I bought us ice-cream.
Today was a good day. I carried on a 10-hour French conversation, learned how to make coconut flan, and received semi-confirmation of an apartment to rent (though it'll pretty much cost me my life savings).
And now it's time to push over my bulging suitcases, roll out my futon bed, and hope that I get a good night's sleep. Bonne nuit.
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