Fiona Dobson's Trans Blog.

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.

What a joyful experience it is to travel to Europe and escape from the abject insanity of life in our busy advertising agency. Why, sometimes I have had to appear in the office as early as 11 am!

“It’s this crazy North American work ethic,” Sebastian commented while behind me his hands gently manipulating my hips, adjusting my yoga position.

I had left the office a little early, at 2 pm since an air conditioner on the second floor had failed.

“It’s inhuman expecting staff to work in these conditions,” I had pointed out to Brenda, our human resources manager. Admittedly my office is on the seventh floor, but it’s the principle of the thing.

“What you need is a holiday, Fiona,” said Sebastian as he adjusted my pose. He’s right, of course. I do so much more than the required amount of work. That’s the sort of person I am. Always ‘over delivering’.

“You’re running a serious risk of burn out. And then what would people do?” he continued. “With so many people depending on you, you’re almost honor bound to get away. It’s the kindest thing to do.”

I sat upright and took a sip of Perrier.

“It’s true,” I said. “Few people understand the pressures on a transgender advertising executive.”

You might think I am joking but the very same thing was said to me the other day when I took a couple of hours out of my work day to see my masseuse, and I always find it wise to listen to the advice of experts.

This is how I came to be sitting on an Air France flight to Paris with my friend Sylvester who had decided it was time to visit his aging mother who lives in the beautiful ancient city of Lyon. After touch down we quickly cleared customs, a process made all the more human by the total lack of human contact as we progressed through the airport. Gone are the days of invasive baggage searches by curious homeland security perverts wondering why I had so many exciting items of lingerie. Prior to going on hormone replacement therapy, while still in the realm of emergent crossdressing, this had been the humiliating ritual I went through when traveling anywhere in the States. Fortunately most of Europe has made the technological leap forward that leaves their US counterparts clutching at their flies while mumbling about tariffs. In Europe the technology exists not to need to do searches, or they just don’t care enough to give travelers a hard time. As a result, disembarkation to clearing customs took no more than five minutes.

We quickly found the TGV – a train that would swiftly carry us to Lyon two hundred and forty miles from Paris. I should explain something here, for the benefit of my American readers who have not experienced European train travel. Trains have come a long way since they first started carrying fare paying travellers. While Amtrak appears to be stuck in the dark ages, believing male engineers who told them that female passengers travelling at speed would experience their ovaries exploding and the uteruses flying out of their bodies, elsewhere things have moved forward. Admittedly this would add a little color to an Amtrak journey.

While Sylvester fiercely defends the great American train journey, I prefer the TGV. I find it comfortable and fast. No, I mean really fucking fast. The TGV rushes from Paris to Lyon at speeds of up to 200 mph. Yes –  you read that right. Check it out.

I remember traveling to LA on one occasion to visit a client. After a humiliating airport search we sat in traffic for two hours to travel a full 15 miles to their office. In France in that time we covered more than 240 miles to arrive in Lyon.

The journey was easy and uneventful, other than occasionally having to rebuke Sylvester.

“No, Sylvester! I’m begging you, never again say visiting Paris is just like ‘that time you travelled to Anchorage’. You’ll start an international diplomatic incident.”

I sometimes think it’s like traveling with a child. I’ve seriously thought about having Sylvester tested for, well, something.

So, now you know how I come to be sitting in a pavement café in the Place de Terreaux in the centre of Lyon sipping Cointreau with Sylvester. This is a place where pavement cafés compete with beautiful old buildings to take your breath away. Street art, statuary and the beauty of the Basilica surrounds us as young French students casually roll cigarettes and glance at tourists, their innocent chic indifference inviting us to drop dead. These people have a style all of their own, made still more dramatic by the occasional rumble of thunder in the distance as summer lightening cuts across the night sky.

Here the in-crowd manages to radiate cool when they go out in the heat of the summer night. It’s a quality we may manage to imitate but can never master. The difference is no less than the difference between a parrot and a poet.

Welcome to Lyon.

The next episode in this collection will be out in a few days.

FD