Lyon is sometimes called the Capital of Lights, and if it’s not exactly a copy of its bigger, more famous brother who shares a similar nickname, it certainly deserves attention in its own right. The second largest metro area in France (the city proper is ranked third after Paris and Marseille, but the overall metro area, including suburbs and administrative whatnot amounts to north of 2 million residents, squeaking past its southern neighbor), Lyon sits at a junction of the Rhône and Saone rivers, in the transitional spot between a cooler northern climate and the warmer Mediterranean climate to the south, at the base of the region where Beaujolais is produced and the beginning of the appellations of the wines of the northern Rhône valley. It may seem bizarre to define a city by its boundaries instead of its contents, but in a way it make sense here—Lyon began its existence precisely because it is at the nexus of all these differing influences and separate geographical forces, be they rivers or winds or wines.
Nestled into and spilling east from the slopes of two hills—Fourvière and Croix Rousse—the Lyonnais have built some impressive traditions and monuments to define themselves and their space, making clear they are not only the sum of their geography. Le Basilique de Fourvière (or the Basilica of Notre Dame de Fourvière), the iconic and imposing stone place of worship above the city, functions as a benevolent spiritual mother, overlooking the city stretching away into the distance. Les Halles de Lyon Paul Bocuse, as much as any other place that bears his name, pays 
homage to the chef who, more than anyone else, put the name Lyon into mouths of gourmands around the world. There are many other traditions and places that shape what Lyon is, but you and I—the non
Lyonnais—will never truly know all of them; Lyon is a place that exists for itself, nonplussed if amicable towards visitors, sure of itself and of what it is doing, fully aware of just how beautiful it is and how charming it is.
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But to return to the nickname; the Capital of Lights. It is an apt nickname, because the light here is unlike the light almost anywhere else. It is everywhere, pervasive, on everything, in your eyes always. The whole city catches it, play in it, basks in it along the banks of the rivers. On the roads, the sun seems always to be in your eyes, the streets seemingly aimed for maximum exposure (sunglasses are absolutely essential).
In our room, in the tiny flat we rented in the third arrondissement, it is there, shouting itself into our room at 7 and lingering until at least 10 at night. There are steel shutters that must be raised to make the room dark enough for sleep, and even then, the glow of the city, even at night! curls its fingers around the frames of the windows. The buildings are stone and stucco, textures that drink in the sun and spill back warmth into the rues and cours.
There is a glimmer to the water of the rivers at night, a glimmering sheen on cloudy days, and a dazzle on clear days. The whole of the place catches whatever light exists and sends it defiantly back into the world.
It is everywhere, unrelenting, for better and for worse. Even as I sit in the shade, now, even in shadow, the light of Lyon is all around me, glancing in my wine, shifting through the leaves of trees, across the plaza, spilling down buildings and threatening to engulf me.
The Galavanteers 