If You Want to Make God Laugh…

Best Ever!

What’s that quote? “If you want to make God laugh, show Him (or Her) your plans.” Well, He (or She) was cracking up at mine this weekend.

I had a solid plan. It was Saturday—market day in the 2nd arrondissement. I needed to print some shipping labels, and according to my research, the Post Office in Caluire could do it. Perfect! I’d print my documents, head to the market, grab lunch. What could go wrong?

Cue the Uber. One thing I’ve learned—and maybe I’ve mentioned this, but it still blows my mind every time—is that when you order an Uber in France, it always says “3 minutes away.” Without fail. And it always means 15. Of course, I was already running late, so my 3/15-minute wait was eating into my carefully crafted plan.

I finally arrive at the post office… and it’s not there. I plug it into Apple Maps—3 minutes away. I walk those 3 minutes. Still nothing. I switch to Google Maps—7 minutes back in the direction I just came from. Now I’m annoyed.

I eventually find it. And it is packed. I’ve seen busy post offices in L.A., but this was next level. I hover near what looks like the printing station, only to find out… they don’t print documents.

Now I’m mad. Honestly, madder than I should be. But my boxes are being picked up Monday, Sunday is Mother's Day in France, and everything will be closed. Stress level: high. I check in with ChatGPT (Claire!) and give her a little piece of my mind for giving me bad intel. She suggests the library nearby might print documents. It’s open till 6 p.m.

Fine. I’ll go after lunch. Nothing good happens on an empty stomach.

On my way, I pass an optician. I’ve been meaning to get non-prescription sunglasses so I can wear contacts again. And since opticians here are like Starbucks—one every 300 feet—I pop into one of five on this tiny street.

It’s busy inside. Three men working, all juggling clients. But one takes a moment to help me and unlock some options. Within 10 minutes, I’ve found a pair I love. With a mix of broken French and English, we’re making the sale happen.

And then—miracle—everyone else leaves. It’s just me and the three handsome salesmen chatting. I pull out my translator app and ask if they know whether the library prints documents. They don’t. But they do know they have a printer—and offer to print for me.

Seriously?! They just took the entire weight of the day off my shoulders. I was so grateful. They even asked if I’d leave a five-star Google review. Absolutely! Not just for the kindness with the printer, but because they made a real effort to speak English—which I’m always amazed by here.

Side note: The French are constantly apologizing for not speaking English. Americans? Never apologize for not speaking another language. I always say, “Please don’t apologize. I’m the one who should be sorry I don’t speak your language better.” Yes, there are jerks everywhere, but honestly, my experience in France so far has been full of people going out of their way to help and make me feel comfortable. It’s humbling.

With documents printed and stress melted away, the day was suddenly mine again. I decided to explore the area a bit and find a market nearby. I’d spotted a little place earlier with fish & chips as the daily special—La Halte Gourmande.

I walk in, and it’s like stepping into someone’s cozy living room. Just five tables, with a family already seated. The woman running it doesn’t speak English, but she introduces me to the man eating with his family—he does. He translates. We all order the special. Because that’s what you do.

Delicious and Charming!

She talks to them like they’re old friends. I can’t tell if she knows them or if she’s just that kind of person. I suspect the latter.

I watch her cook everything herself. She drizzles a secret oil over the fish. And when I tell you these were the best fish & chips I’ve ever had, I mean it. I’ve eaten plenty in my life—some truly excellent—but usually, the fish needs tartar sauce to bring it to life. Not here. Every bite was full of flavor. The fish, the chips, the salad—each element was perfect.

And unlike most meals where I leave something on the plate, this felt personal. Like she had shared something sacred with us. So I gave it the ol’ college try and cleaned my plate, even though I was stuffed.

At the end of the meal, I told her it was the best I’ve ever had. She lit up and shared my compliment with the family and the new group just arriving. I wanted to shout, “Order the fish & chips!” but they didn’t speak English. Another sign you’re in a true locals’ spot.

And then, as if the day hadn’t already been heartwarming enough, she gave me a gift—a bracelet for Mother’s Day. Just because.

There are three things I’ll remember most about Lyon:

1. The park by my apartment. Which I went to Sunday morning and it was literally a ghost town. It is been such a gift.

2. This woman, her restaurant, and those unforgettable fish & chips.

3. Les Puces du Canal—the sprawling, glorious flea market.

   
   
   
   

   

   
   
   
   

I hope I find more places like this on my travels. But even if I don’t, today reminded me that even the most derailed days can lead to something truly special.