Lyon is a city of stairs. Yes, it’s an unusual thing to say about a city, but then this is an unusual city. The bank of the river Rhone is steep, and in the summer heat struggling up those streets on foot is something one does one’s best to avoid. Currently we’re experiencing 40 degrees of heat.
And it’s not just me. Roman soldiers struggled up these hills two hundred years before the birth of Christ. Generations of Lyonnaise women have done so, and soldiers of the Wehrmacht did so in the second war. The sweat of many have dripped onto these stones. We were in notable, if not ‘good’, company.
Yet, off these steep streets run still steeper steps of stone that lead to many of the older houses. It was up these steps that Sylvester and I found ourselves struggling in the 38 degrees (100 degrees F) of summer heat. Sylvester has been saying for some time that he wanted to get in shape. Of course, he didn’t specify into the shape of what. Either way, between the heat and the steep incline I felt sure this would help.
We paused in our climb and I gasped for breath the sweat glistened on my cleavage. I said to Sylvester, between heaving breaths, “What the hell possessed us to come up these steps?”
“My mother lives up here. You know that,” he replied.
“She climbs these stairs?” I said astonished.
“She’s a tough old bird,” he said as we gathered our strength. “Fit as a fiddle, but deaf as a post.”
Eventually we found the right doorway off the steps. There were tearful greetings, glasses of sparkling water pressed into our hands, and I gratefully sat down. As it happens, we were visiting at a time when two of Sylvester’s nieces were also visiting their grandmother. These two lovely thirteen year old girls were twins, both a picture of innocence and giggling girlishness that one who is trans will likely never know. Big eyes, curling locks falling over their elegant shoulders and faces of angels. Bridgette and Claudette were the image of young French loveliness.
“Bonjour,” both had said in chorus, twins are so delightful. One can see so swiftly that they share an almost psychic connection. They blushed slightly, embarrassed to giggle at my terrible attempt at replying in French.
It so happened that Sylvester had to go out with his mother, to assist with carrying some shopping. This left me with the two girls, and barely any language in common. It was only for an hour or so, and Sylvester pointed me in the direction of the kitchen and I made a cup of tea for the tree of us, as Sylvester disappeared out the door.
How is it that teenage girls can giggle so much? I asked myself this as I poured the tea, placed the pot and three cups on a tray and carried the refreshments to the front room where the girls were sitting demurely on the couch. I poured the tea and we attempted to talk until shortly after our little soiree had started there was a ring at the door.
I looked a little surprised, unsure of quite what to do. The girls laughed and Bridgette pressed her finger to her lips, motioning me to be silent. Claudette went to the window, and gingerly looked through the shutters. She hurried back to the table, sipped her tea and tried to stifle a giggle unsuccessfully. Some French conversation in hushed tones took place between the two girls and Claudette went to the shutters, only to collapse in barely stifled laughter.
I was at a loss.
In broken English Bridgette explained.
“It’s the Amazon man. He has to climb the steps,” she laughed.
“Oh dear,” I said. “Hadn’t we better let him in?”
“Oh no. This is more fun! It’s the third time today. We always do this. Grand mother doesn’t hear the door bell,” she said by way of explanation.
Alarmed I said, “What? That’s terrible.”
The doorbell rang more insistently.
I sipped my tea, unsure of what to do.
“What’s he delivering?”
The girls dissolved in laughter, and Claudette managed to stammer out something unintelligible. I took out my phone and opened Google translate and handed it to her.
She typed in some text, handed it back to me and went back to the window.
I starred at the scene and then blurted out, “Quelle the fuck! A mattress! A bloody mattress!”
“He’s crying this time, Bridgette!” said Claudette excitedly.
I went to the window and stared out at the receeding figure leaving with a rolled up mattress in is arms.
I looked at the two girls in horror.
“This isn’t how we do things in Canada”, I said in broken French.
“Vive la difference!” said Bridgette between gasps of laughter.