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About Lyon

Last week, I’m prowlin’, thinkin’—what’d Lenny do? He’d write it down, retrace steps. So I scribble: “Check alley, 9 p.m.” Show up, and there she is—fake fur coat, smokin’ a cig. “You lookin’ for company?” she asks. Voice like gravel. I grunt. Hate negotiatin’. “How much?” I say. She smirks—$50. Fifty bucks! For what? A quick tumble and a rash? “I don’t trust people who smile,” I mutter, quotin’ *Memento*. She laughs. I’m surprised—didn’t expect sass. Kinda liked it.

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The parks here? Unbelievable. Parc Floral is like a dream. I chill there when the spa biz gets hectic. Tot lotta shade and cool smells. Wow. And the local markets! They bring fresh jams and cheeses every Saturday at Place de la Liberté. It makes me smile, I'm like, "Wow, the best market ever, no kidding!"

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