VI
For me, it wasn't just a path. It was where I began to understand that the most beautiful aspects of France aren't found on its boulevards, but in the quiet, unassuming lanes that lead people to each other.
The French national team is making steady progress in the 2026 World Cup. The team in blue is always remembered as a diverse group of people of many different skin colors, origins, and stories, all united under one flag. Therefore, every time I see the French team take to the field, I am reminded of a city nearly five hundred kilometers from Paris.
Visiting Lyon for just two short days, I thought I was simply stopping in a heritage city famous for its cuisine, ancient streets, and the Rhône and Saône rivers embracing the city center. But Lyon taught me that there are paths not shown on tourist maps, yet it is where people find each other.
Panoramic view of Lyon from Fourvière Hill.
These roads are not for tourists.
I arrived in Lyon on a late autumn morning, the city still shrouded in a thin layer of mist. From the train station, I left my backpack at the hostel and walked to Vieux Lyon, the old town at the foot of Fourvière Hill. The narrow cobblestone streets, the rows of houses with their characteristic pale yellow hues of southern France, and the small windows covered with flowers gave the whole neighborhood a peaceful atmosphere quite different from Paris.
I walked slowly, stopping at a few bakeries, listening to the church bells echoing down from the hill, then followed the rocky slopes to reach Notre-Dame de Fourvière Basilica. The fog that day was so thick it almost completely obscured the city below. Lyon appeared hazy, like a pencil drawing, lacking the spectacular scenes tourists usually expect, yet making one want to linger longer in that stillness.
Lyon in the late autumn mist, as seen from the Fourvière hill.
The Bonaparte Bridge spans the Saône River, leading into the old town of Vieux Lyon.
A peaceful afternoon on the banks of the Saône, where the old buildings are reflected in the water.
It wasn't until I descended into the old quarter that I began to notice the old wooden doors nestled between the rows of houses. Many of these doors seemed to lead to ordinary homes, but when opened, they revealed stone-paved courtyards, spiral staircases, long corridors winding through the streets, and then unexpectedly opening onto another road.
The people of Lyon call them traboules. They weren't built to showcase architectural beauty or attract tourists. Centuries ago, silk weavers used these pathways to transport precious rolls of silk, protecting them from the elements. During World War II, the French Resistance used this very traboule network to secretly move through the city, a task difficult for the German army to control.
For centuries, this same path has quietly continued its work: helping people find the shortest route to connect with one another, no matter where they come from.
A postcard of Traboule, where secret passageways have held the soul of Lyon for centuries.
A quaint corner of Lyon
A traboule in the heart of Lyon.
World Cup, where all roads lead to the same destination.
It wasn't until the World Cup returned that I understood why Lyon always came to mind whenever I saw the French national team take to the pitch. I didn't see the stars or the trophies first. I saw many different paths converging.
Some were born in Paris, others grew up in Marseille, Lyon, or Toulouse. Some have Algerian, Senegalese, Cameroonian, Guadeloupe, or Portuguese ancestry. Each player joined the national team on a very unique journey, like traboules that start from different points but ultimately lead to the same pitch.
That's also what makes French football so special. Their strength has never come from uniformity, but from the ability to connect differences into a cohesive team. After Zidane came Henry, after Henry came Griezmann, then Mbappé, Camavinga, Tchouaméni… Each generation only goes a certain distance and passes on the torch to the next. They don't start over, nor do they try to completely replace those who came before them. They simply continue the journey that French football has persistently built over decades.
The ancient Roman theater Fourvière, a structure nearly two thousand years old.
The Church of Saint Nizier has stood silently in the heart of Lyon for centuries.
Place des Terreaux square with Lyon City Hall
To this day, what remains in my memory from Lyon are the traboules, the small pathways that, without someone pointing them out, are easily walked past without realizing that behind the old doors lies a sun-drenched courtyard. I also remember the golden rooster on the summit of Fourvière, a symbol that has silently looked down upon the city for centuries. One image is high above, the other is low, but both quietly draw people closer together.
Football is like the traboules of this city. It opens pathways for many different people to meet under the same colors. When the opening whistle blows, it's like the rooster's crow on Fourvière Hill heralding a new day.
The trophy will eventually have an owner. The cheers will eventually die down. But just as the traboules have silently connected the streets of Lyon for centuries, football continues to open pathways for people to find each other. That is what lasts longer than any title.
The Notre Dame de Fourvière Basilica, with its iconic rooster, silently gazes down upon Lyon from the hilltop.
A small shop in the heart of Lyon's old town.
The stone walls of Vieux Lyon's old town are covered in crimson vines.
