I know, I know: in a blog about Amsterdam, I manage to get you out of the city quite a bit. Believe it or not, compared to some of our rolling stone expat friends, we travel relatively little. A few weeks ago, Peter and I spent a weekend in Lyon. What's in Lyon? you ask. I certainly did when Peter first asked me if I wanted to go. As those of you who know Peter well know, he has been a "foodie" since before it became a term. Actually, the term "foodie" - which makes me think about a person who drops names about wines and Michelin-star restaurants - doesn't really describe his relationship to food. He just likes to cook and is really good at it. A favorite Saturday or Sunday for him is spent watching cooking shows on T.V., then scouring his many cookbooks for recipes inspired by all that viewing. Next there's the trip to the grocery store for ingredients, the preparation, and then finally the eating. He doesn't go in for those fussy meals with stacked-up food, foams, and garnishes. It's all just really plentiful, and delicious. So for Peter, going to Lyon, France's third largest city, the "food capital of the world", was like an avid scuba diver visiting the Great Barrier Reef, or a book lover going to Powell's Books in Portland, Oregon. It was a chance to go to the epicenter of food and find out if it had truly earned all the heaped upon praise.

And who was I, the most frequent guest at Peter's restaurant, to pass up the chance to eat myself silly in the Mecca of good food? Those who know me well know that I am a very appreciative audience when it comes to food. This has always been a part of who I am. Here's a little known piece of Vine-Drucker foodlore: soon after I met Peter in law school, he invited me to come over for Chinese food. I assumed that meant we would order in, or if he was really fancy/wanted to impress me, he might stir-fry some random vegetables together. Imagine my surprise when he presented me with homemade soup (in my memory bank, he served it in a tureen, but I don't know if that's really true or a dream), chicken with walnuts, and a whole fish. You might have some serious doubts about a person who remembers in such detail a meal she ate 30 years ago. The ability to recall those details with such clarity might have something to do with how many times I have told that Chinese food story. On the other hand, you might be impressed by this person's sharp memory. I can assure you that she can remember long-ago food experiences like they were yesterday, but has trouble recalling the plot of a book she finished last week. There are books written about this subject. I think I have even written in this blog about this ability of mine to conjure up my food-connected memories. I can't really remember. More on this later in in the blog post when we get to a discussion of Proust. Excited?

Back to the present day and the Lyon trip: A first-thing-in-the-morning flight meant we hit the ground running in Lyon by 10 a.m. We made our way to the outdoor markets along the Saône River, where regular folk like us shop alongside famous chefs. I imagined that the leeks splayed on the wooden table with abandon might grace my dinner plate that night. We immediately bought some slabs of quiche and ate them American-style - as in right away as we walked along the market stalls. There's a special place in my heart for the bread we ate in Lyon. Sorry to say, Amsterdam, but your bread just can't hold a candle to Lyon's version: just the right ratio of crunchy exterior to soft but not cottony interior. It was just right on the money in each and every restaurant we visited. The food in France is just, well, sexier, than what we are used to in Amsterdam. I found myself thinking back to one of my old time faves, Justin Timberlake's Sexyback. In this cover by Corrine Bailey Rae, the sexiness is a little more subtle. Feel free to also take a listen to the original as you think about French food.

Just in case you aren't into food, or think it's odd that our entire weekend revolved around it, here's one of the many bookstores we saw during our wanderings. I wished I could have had a classroom door that looked like this.

Where did this love of all things French - except maybe their lack of interest in daily showering - begin? For me, I have to go all the way back to 5th grade to trace my fascination. As I mentioned in my post about trying to learn Dutch, I loved learning French. That may have something to do with the fact that Madame Echevarria slipped us candies throughout the lessons. I think it was also because I just liked the sound of it. The French could be arguing about a parking spot and manage to make it sound interesting, intelligent, and most of all, beautful. In addition to my early success with learning French, the film The Red Balloon had a huge influence on me, no doubt. Every single person around my tender age must remember watching that film on "public TV", don't you? Each time I watched it, I wanted the little boy to escape those bullies and save his precious red balloon. Each time I hoped, just this once, he would. Watching him walk through the streets of Paris must have planted the seeds for my love of wandering the streets of French cities.

The third road leading to my France-love began when I spent the summer I turned sixteen in Brittany, in a little town called Perros Guirec. I went on a summer study program with a bunch of other American teenagers. We had French lessons in the morning, then spent the afternoons learning to cook, sail, and play tennis, all in French. No wonder I'm not very good at any of those things. Mostly, I remember the food: the baguettes we tore open and ate with squares of chocolate, the Breton crêpes, the butter cookies we called "Mad Holes" (help me out, French friends. Trou Fou?). This all took place way before the days of iPhone photos and Facebook posts. Thank god for my box of old photos, which I have somehow managed not to lose. I must have had a premonition that one day, I would need to show this photo to others, to prove how beautiful Brittany is and that I was actually there. And thank god for the Internet. It helped me find a recipe that looks like a close friend of Mad Holes.

The colors of the water don't quite match my memories. I remember so many shades of blue. I also remember that it was freezing. I kept a journal in those days, not a blog. Too bad it's in storage, or I could bore you with more details from the point… — The colors of the water don't quite match my memories. I remember so many shades of blue. I also remember that it was freezing. I kept a journal in those days, not a blog. Too bad it's in storage, or I could bore you with more details from the point of view of a 16-year-old, instead of the ones from a 56-year-old.

We didn't eat like this every night, but are you getting a sense of why I would turn out to harbor this love of French food? Also, what 16-year-old wouldn't love a country in which you were served wine every night?

You can't mention a cookie in a post about France without mentioning the most famous cookie ever to appear in literature: the madeleine in Proust's Remembrance of Things Past. For those of you who care, here is one passage from the book about that cookie and its effect on the character's memory:

She sent for one of those squat, plump little cakes called "petites madeleines," which look as though they had been moulded in the fluted valve of a scallop shell. And soon, mechanically, dispirited after a dreary day with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory - this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me. I had ceased now to feel mediocre, contingent, mortal. Whence could it have come to me, this all-powerful joy? I sensed that it was connected with the taste of the tea and the cake, but that it infinitely transcended those savours, could, no, indeed, be of the same nature. Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it?

If I go back to Brittany (and that's on the to-do list while we are in Amsterdam) I plan on finding those Breton butter cookies and having the taste instantly transport me back to my 16 year-old-self. I'll keep you posted.

I could go on and on: telling you about how I loved to watch Julia Child on The French Chef on Saturday afternoons with my mom, and how I adored Maurice Chevalier. I had the easy-play songbook for Gigi. Somehow, my rendition on the piano never sounded as smooth as his voice. And then there was his accent.... And that smile....

That was a very long trip down memory lane. Let's get back to Lyon. After our visit to the outdoor food market, we visited the indoor market/temple of fine food: Les Halles de Lyon Paul Bocuse. For those of you who don't follow food news, Monsieur Bocuse is the Ted Williams of the food world. (Since it's World Series time, I went with a baseball reference. Those of you who follow baseball even less than food will just have to miss the analogy). He's a classic. He's been at it forever, and he shuns the fussy stuff in favor of traditions.

Here he is, reverently half-covered in shadow. I really wanted Peter to pose in front of this mural, but as you can well imagine if you know Peter, that was never going to happen.

So many bottles. So little time.

This kind of candy is really too good-looking to eat.

Not all the food was upscale. This shop had all kinds of goodies, like Skippy peanut butter, Fluff, and these goldfish crackers. When you're in the mood, they are every bit as good as mousse au chocolat, right?

The neighborhood was brimming with food-related shops. Peter loves kitchen stores, and this one didn't disappoint. I'll tell you what was disappointing: his refusal to try on the chef's chapeau so I could snap his photo for the blog.

I had to settle for this surreptitious shot of him searching for the perfect sauté pan. The search continues, by the way.

To ready ourselves for our first Lyon dinner, we climbed up and up the hill to see some Roman ruins: the ancient theater of Fourvière. The theater was built starting in 15 B.C. We felt silly complaining about the steep walk up the hill when we thought about the Romans trudging from Italy to France with huge slabs of rock to build this thing.

We rarely see a sky this color in Amsterdam. I found it every bit as grand as the theater.

One thing about steep climbs: they usually result in some awfully nice views. This one did not disappoint.

After our long walk over the twin rivers, the Saône and the Rhône - I'm loving the chance to add that circumflex over the o's in two words in one sentence - we were ready for anything our restaurant chef was ready to throw our way. The sense of anticipation was almost visible in the air outside Daniel and Denise. It's one of the most beloved Lyonnais bouchons, restaurants serving typical food from the region: duck paté, sausages, and other mystery meats. I was determined not to ask too many questions about what came from which part of the animal and just enjoy. We all waited patiently for the doors to open at 7 p.m. for the first seating.

Somehow, the restaurant managed to gracefully seat the crowd, which grew and grew after I snapped this photo. Even more amazing was the way they made each of us feel welcome and special.

The hardest decision to make was whether to order three, four, or five courses. What do you think we chose? Hint, there was both a cheese and a dessert course.

In my book, bread pudding is the ultimate comfort food. So I couldn't pass up the chance to order it in the capital of food. My oh my. Or rather, Ooh la la!

After a long and luxurious meal that included some of those fabled Lyonnais specialties, we walked back to the hotel. The city was all lit up, as if to say, "Take that, Paris. I'm just as glam."

Day Two in Lyon found us taking a break from food tourism to check out the huge flea market in Villeurbanne. It's a bit of a trek on a tram, and then a walk, but you know you're getting close when you see cars jammed up against each other along the side of the road. We wandered up and down the aisles of stalls - reportedly around 400 of them designed for you to find that perfect bargain - along with families with kids and dogs, hipsters, and probably a few tourists like us.

I saw many accordions, and thought of my dad, who picked one up while he and my mom visited Estonia. When he returned to the U.S. with his accordion in tow, he proudly serenaded his grandchildren, who were too polite to tell him how out of tune it sounded. No matter. It made his face light up when he played it.

There were plenty of bike lanes in Lyon, and an active city bike program. I felt right at home when I saw all these used bikes for sale.

There were lots of dishes and pots and pans for purchase by the other aspiring chefs, in addition to Peter, wandering around.

And there were lots of items for sale that you never knew you needed.

Then, in advance of our second Lyonnais dinner, we walked to and around the gorgeous Park de La Tête d'Or. A Sunday afternoon in the park felt like a very French thing to do. The park was filled with people walking, running, biking, and even one fellow walking on a rope stretched between two trees. I assumed everyone was walking off one meal and getting ready for the next. Isn't that what everyone is doing in Lyon?

All that walking put us in good stead for our dinner at Carré Royal. The server/owner was delighted to hear me speak a little French. So delighted, actually, that she launched into a full dissertation in rapid-fire French on the different white wines on the menu. When we finally stopped her to admit that I didn't quite understand all of her wonderful descriptions, she happily switched to English, calling one of the wines "fat". We later realized she meant "full-bodied". The place was gorgeous, the food was delicious, the price for those four courses really reasonable, and best of all, it was open on a Sunday, which most of the other restaurants were not.

Here's the full-bodied wine with the local cheese, served to us along with a long tale about where it hailed from. Since the story was in French, I can't pass on many details. Anyway, I preferred to think of the wine as big-boned, not fat. If m… — Here's the full-bodied wine with the local cheese, served to us along with a long tale about where it hailed from. Since the story was in French, I can't pass on many details. Anyway, I preferred to think of the wine as big-boned, not fat. If my food photography seems rushed, it's because it was. I didn't want to be one of those Americans who is so busy snapping photos that she doesn't enjoy her food.

We spent the last day in Lyon at the Musée Des Beaux Arts de Lyon, a grand old museum with a lovely courtyard inside. And we managed to squeeze in one more delicious meal, a late lunch, before boarding our plane back to Amsterdam. We were surrounded by tables of French couples and groups, chatting away over their long, luxurious meals. This was in stark contrast to a typical lunch scene in Amsterdam, which mostly involves sandwiches. The tradition in the Netherlands is that you only have one "warm" meal a day, usually at dinner time. Americans I know who are married to Dutch men verify that their in-laws say that if you have a warm meal at lunch, you need only eat a sandwich at dinnertime. Imagine the French (or Spanish or Italians) foregoing either the long, warm lunch or the longer - and equally warm - dinner. We could chat about whether those warm and unhurried lunch traditions have had an affect on the economic productivity in countries who follow that custom, but that's a subject for another post.

Inside the museum, I actually saw someone reading a book by Nietzsche. I have this impression that every French woman and man is incredibly well-read. Veronique, a member of my book group here, certainly proves that theory true.

Even the name of the airport, Lyon-St. Exupéry, brought me back to another memory from my Francophile childhood. I loved this book, even if I had no idea what it meant. "And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that… — Even the name of the airport, *Lyon-St. Exupéry*, brought me back to another memory from my Francophile childhood. I loved this book, even if I had no idea what it meant. "And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; What is essential is invisible to the eye." Very deep thoughts for a 5th grader to unravel.

I think my love of pottery and china also began during that teenage trip to France. We took a day trip to a town called Quimper, best known for its distinctive pottery. I'm guessing some of the other teens were bored silly, but I loved it. It reminds me of some of the Dutch pottery. Maybe the seed was planted all those years ago for me to move here?

If you visit me in Amsterdam, I'll take you to this place along the Herengracht canal. Here, the phrase, "I feel like a bull in a china shop" turns from a mere simile to a reality.

I'm not sure what this next song is actually supposed to be about, but it reminds me of my main job in a house where I'm not the main chef: doing the dishes. I heard this song in a recent spin class, and if you sing it in your head as you wash, it makes the time and the task go by really quickly.

I wasn't sad about returning to Amsterdam. However, I felt a little guilty to tell the truth, as if I had been unfaithful somehow. I had spent the weekend with some sexy French food, and was more than a little wistful about leaving it behind. As you can probably tell from some of the photos, Peter was in heaven. For a man who can spend an entire dinner conversation talking about the relative merits of different styles of Southern barbecue, this was a chance to taste some foods he had read about, but never had the chance to get fully acquainted with over dinner. I was happy to be his companion on this journey to his happy place.

I couldn't help but wonder what life is like for American expats living in France. Do they take for granted their perfect baguettes, the musical language, the grand buildings? Do they look forward to a change of pace and come to Amsterdam for the sandwiches, the coziness, the small-scale beauty? Maybe the grass is always greener on the other side of the plate.

I found this place in Amsterdam after we returned from Lyon. So I'm not the only one harboring a secret crush on French food?

This Dutch man was sporting a beret, which shows that maybe the line between the French and the Dutch isn't so wide after all.

Years ago, I wrote to my great-aunt Sue, my grandmother's sister. She was living in a nursing home in New York City. She wrote back with the following words, which have stayed with me: "[Your letter] brought back pleasant memories. I would give up a million tomorrows for just one yesterday." That struck me as so sad - both at the time I received the letter when I was in my 20's - and now. I'm thinking of my friend Kelly, who died 19 years ago today. She would have given anything for just one tomorrow. I'm not sure what all of this means about the importance of memories. Maybe when you are old, they loom larger because they are the only times of joy you have. But memories are important not just to those at the end of their lives. Our friends and family stay with us, long after they are gone, because of all the memories we so carefully and lovingly save of them. And while those shoe-boxes of memories are important, so are the chances to create new ones, with exciting tomorrows.

An image to carry with you whenever you need your spirits lifted. I picture Kelly just like this.