I rushed out of the door, turning the knob several times to ensure I had locked it before dashing out of the condominium. On the street, I walked briskly along the Saône, one arm swaying vigorously, the other gripping my smartphone-cum-GPS, staring down at the dot on the screen moving in tandem up the road to my destination. I was meeting my guide for a tour of the street art in Lyon’s Croix-Rousse neighborhood on the last week of a nearly three-month sojourn, the better part of which I spent in monastic retreat, reading, writing, and yet unable to yield completely to the quiet of the placid, leisurely Southern French city. A lifetime spent in an energetic, fast-paced metropolis will do that. The six months spent in London before then were just my speed, despite gritting my teeth whenever a large, red double-decker commuter bus whizzed past me on the street or while wading through hordes of commuters for a coveted seat on the morning overground train from Queens Road Peckham to Shoreditch. Back then, a part of me pined for a bucolic escape. The thought was comforting, but now that I found myself in a city that moved slowly, with swaths of lush greenery right outside my window, I longed for the hustle and bustle and wished to ensconce myself in the folds of chattering, jostling crowds. There is comfort in disappearing in a crowd.

I arrived at Place des Terreaux, catching my breath and nursing a strained neck with the palm of my hand while scouring the sparse public square for a woman fitting my guide’s description. I spotted her in the distance waiting patiently by the Musée des Beaux-Arts on this scorching hot June morning.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” I said. “ Not at all,” she assured me. After getting acquainted, we commenced our tour, walking up the narrow streets of Vieux-Lyon, my guide pointing out the pixel art and collages hiding in plain sight–a pixelated Mario of Super Mario Bros. fame hovered right by a street lamp. A 3D bonobo flashed an impish grin between two street nameplates. A few streets in, we reached Place du Forez where the city seemed to be coming alive with patrons out on café terraces sipping coffee and taking drawn-out drags on slim cigarettes. I marveled at the bustling, crowded courtyard, blathering oohs and ahs at my guide as tourists are wont to do. Just then, she tapped me on the shoulder. “Look up,” she said. I craned my neck up expecting more street art protruding from the sides of the brick buildings encircling us. Instead, I saw a familiar sight. I had seen it countless times before. Yet, just then, I saw it for the very first time. A sky so blue, I fell immediately silent. The cerulean expanse had taken my breath away.

I haven’t looked down since, and my neck is the better for it.