I have currently been living in Dijon, France, for a little over a month; long enough to get moderately well established in this city, to work out my favorite boulangeries, bars, and so on, and figure out how late I can sleep before I miss my tram and therefore class.
But I am mostly here today to talk about the city. Dijon, of course, is mostly known stateside for mustard (in fact, my host family eats it literally every night with dinner, much like salt or pepper. It’s much hotter mustard than normal, actually, and it reminds me quite a lot of the fresh-ground horseradish that my grandmother makes). However, Dijon does boast some attractions other than condiments.
Wine, for example.
I would like the record to reflect that a) no one drank these because they are much too valuable and only worth collecting dust and b) I am 21 and a half.
And other more classic French attractions: like most French cities, the centre-ville of Dijon is the oldest part of town, made of layers of buildings dating from the Gallo-Roman era, the early medieval periods, and the Renaissance.
The little tower in the middle of the photo is from the Romans: literally thousands of years old. It is in my courtyard.
This is either one of the last remains of the medieval wall that surrounded Dijon or a tiny Arc de Triomphe; it is possible that I misunderstood the tour guide.
In ye oldene times, Dijon was the capital of the Duchy of Bourgogne (Burgundy); now, Dijon is still the capital of Burgundy, but the government is socialist instead of monarchist.
The palace of the Dukes of Burgundy aka my backyard.
The further you go out from the centre-ville, the most similar to blocks of concrete the buildings look.
I live smack dab in the centre-ville, on a road that runs a block parallel to the main shopping and walking road of Dijon. This is highly convenient for my ability to access shops and restaurants and so on; this is much less convenient for my wallet. (Everyone in France looks so stylish all the time, which is a far cry from UPS’s brand of hipster grunge. And they always wear little booties, regardless of the rain or snow levels.)
I’m gonna sign off now, otherwise I’ll continue talking about how the French are just too stylish and beautiful. Join me next time for more unorganized talks about my days.