I'd walked right by Montée des Chazeaux countless times without noticing its many steep & crooked steps. Always rushing through Vieux Lyon, listening for sounds to record or looking for reflections in motorbike mirrors to photograph. It was a delayed reaction when half a block down I thought to backtrack and confirm the staircase glimpsed from the corner of my eye. A five-flight shortcut to Montée Saint-Barthélémy and Parc de Hauters, the steps were strangely empty despite lush views of the city offered from each landing. So I felt all the more like a traveller between worlds when I would traverse the stairs alone on brisk evening walks from the church to the city's summit & back. Over time I would discover that Lyon possessed many such passages. Having grown up in the plains and previously lived mainly in flat, grid-like cities like Chicago & Boston, stairs were until that summer all too often dour markers of duty – entryways to schools, libraries, and houses of worship. Lyon's secret staircases – pathways of wonder – were wholly free of such foot-slowing seriousness.
Julie passa une jambe par la fenêtre quand soudain la pluie.