Murder is Everywhere: Grand Finale in France!

December 31 is the grand finale of every year. This closeout of a calendar is meaningfully observed in most countries of the world. I always have a reason to anticipate New Year’s Eve, no matter whether I’m going out or staying in. And while a lot of national and world events in 2025 were very distressing, it was a great year for my personal travel and appreciation of new places and ideas.

The path was revealed through a series of flights, train rides and drives through Europe this fall. I’ve already written essays about my October-November travels in England, Scotland and Greece. That was supposed to be my trip in full. However, a fateful tapas get-together with two friends at the New Orleans Bouchercon mystery convention convinced me to add on France.

Diana Chambers, Persia Walker and me

Diana Chambers is a Californian who writes suspense fiction. Persia Walker is a writer of historic mystery, originally from New York but with considerable time living and working in Europe. Diana and Persia met by chance on a train returning from Paris to Aix-en-Provence, where Diana stays when researching and Persia has been residing for three years already. I have mostly spent time with these two at conventions where we have fallen into discussions about life overseas and writing. My trip to France would give me a chance to see some places on my own and the small city they both chose in the South of France.

Downtown Lyon Street

River view of government buildings and Basils

But before Aix, I stayed for a few days in my port of entry: France's third largest city, Lyon. I arrived late at night from Greece into the town's airport. My hotel had kindly scheduled a driver to pick me up take me the half-hour to the historic Hôtel Carlton near Place de la République. I awoke to sunny skies and a historic city filled with the same kind of Haussmannian buildings for which Paris is famous. With two beautiful rivers running through the city that had pedestrian walking bridges, it felt incredibly romantic. Romantic enough that one day, I walked nine miles.

Hilltop view from Fourvière over Lyon

I tried out my fractured French phrases at a real café where the café crème was hot and strong, and the accompanying croissant smaller than what I was used to in America, and also much more tender and flavorful. Lyon is considered France's culinary capital, and I explored this through restaurants near where I was staying, and also in central Lyon at Les Halles de Lyon Paul Bocuse, a covered grocery and restaurant market named in honor of the late godfather of nouvelle cuisine. There are many kinds of food in Lyon, all seeming delicious. My highlights included a pork medallion with lentils at the food hall, and a very fine mushroom risotto and a salad Lyonaisse at a perfect little cafe called Le Layon. Another intriguing detail is Lyon's tradition of almond-flavored cakes that are always colored fuchsia.

Chef Bocuse watches his city

Cakes inside the Bocuse Halle

Risotto, French style

Throughout my days in Lyon, people automatically spoke to me in French, and I guessed from the multicultural nature of the city that I might be mistaken for a second- or third-generation Frenchwoman. It was a welcoming feeling, and I wished I didn’t have to use my phone as often as I did for the right phrase. Could I seriously learn French at my age? The thought popped into my head, and it's still there.

Central Lyon

Everywhere in Lyon, and later in Aix and especially Marseille, I saw color. Mixed race families strolling the boulevards, interracial couples in cafes, and diverse groups of kids hanging together by their schools.I’m aware of the existence of the French nationalist group that is against racial diversity, yet I sensed no evil looks or threats. I also had read that France had a law prohibiting women from wearing religious clothing such as a hijab in sports and state-run buildings, but I saw women with headscarves. It turns out such dress is legal in public spaces.

For me, the foreign solo traveler in France, there was just one source of nervousness: language. Although I’ve absorbed hundreds of French words in novels,—and know that many English words have French or other romance language roots, I’ve not studied French. I leaned into this and soon enough was booking train and restaurant reservations on French-only websites. I used translation apps to help me turn those elegant words into clumsy verbal offerings.

Historic residence in Aix

Aix confectionary

View to a school

After a fractured French conversation with a cab driver and a quiet, fast train ride, I exited Lyon and arrived In Aix on the dot. I was filled with excitement at meeting people I could chatter to in English.

It's such a gift when a friend overseas invites you to visit. This kind of connection moves one beyond tourist highlights and into the wonders of everyday life. Friendly guidance leads me to unexpected buildings, restaurants and other sights. Walking slowly through the massive Cathédrale St-Saveur with Persia, I saw small paintings and figures that she adored, that I might have been moving too fast to see. With Diana, a day trip to Marseille resulted in her introducing me to the most magnificent historic hardware shop imaginable, complete with antique doll furniture.

Persia lived in a charming one-bedroom in a possibly medieval century building that had been renovated into flats, and Diana and her husband were renting an AirBnB that was half of a grand 19^th century house surrounded by gardens. Rents in Aix are higher than in a lot of parts of France, but with its cozy size, it can be easier here than in other places. It was routine for these two to stroll to shopping, public transport, and frequent get-togethers for Café or Apero (pre-dinner drink) with others. The city also has a sizable population of foreigners living year round. There are organized social groups that are English speaking and meant to support foreigners living in France. Some women I met in these groups have lived here for decades and have a current or former French partner; they understand and speak French with fluency, or very close to that. Others are retired from overseas careers like the State Department, or simply came from the US, Britain or elsewhere with modest to intermediate French that’s growing through daily living and language classes. Various friends commented on the peace they felt living here. They say it's a peace built on a foundation that people of all means deserve free health care, and that guns and violence have been successfully restricted—if not vanquished—in France.

A stately Aix garden

My own observation is that another special element is the trust and consideration people give to each other—even if they aren’t friends or family. Twice I experienced fellow travelers asking me, in French, if they could carry my luggage on a staircase. Language isn't a barrier to people reaching out to help others—but I have to remember that people are not psychic. There will be times I don’t understand something that I should ask. But there is that feeling of foreigner shyness that overcomes me.

Marseille Railway Station

And that leads me to a confession of my almost-fail in a country of high efficiency. I must explain how someone who got to the station an hour before departure I almost missed the train from Aix to Charles de Gaulle Airport.

The French TGV high speed trains are marvels of speed and comfort. All three cities I visited had them departing almost every hour to points all over France. The earlier you book a train, the cheaper it is, and if you are a young person or over sixty, you can book seats at discounts as high as 30 percent. And you can bring your dogs!

The trouble is that these marvelous trains come in fast, have many cars, and exit the station more speedily than an Amtrak. It’s hard to know where to stand on a platform to be close to your correct car, which is crucial if you have luggage. The trouble started because of my confusion over the electronic sign board inside the station which didn’t show the name CDG on the route, just the ultimate end destination—and I hadn’t done my homework on the whole route. A station employee instructed me to pass through the south gate in order to meet the particular train, so I assumed that was where the train would briefly park. In reality, the train rushed in and went much farther to the north. I knew the letter for my car was G, and the lettered cars near by area was R and S. I started running north, keeping close to the train and listening for any bits of conversation I could understand. Another foreigner was speaking with a passenger boarding the train, a Frenchman who spoke good English. I heard the Frenchman say , “no, no! This part of the train does not go to CDG. That’s up front.”

A train that splits into two. Zut alors!

It’s hard to run if you’re not a runner, let alone with a suitcase. As I ran I wondered: should I put an end to this and just board? Even if I board in the wrong car, have I got to the half of the train going to CDG? An ominous whistle blew, but a compartment door was open, and the conductor was there, his face perturned. Where do you go?” he asked in English. “CDG,” I panted.

“This car is for CDG!”

No better words ever heard. In seconds, I’d stepped up into what turned out to be my exactly designated car.

Was there an angel on my shoulder? It's true that I had been inside a lot of cathedrals . . . maybe someone flew down from the ceiling and had hitched along.

Bonne année!