Sunday morning in Lyon: one day left

The clock just struck noon, and I'm sitting at a small café near Place Bellecour, nursing my second coffee of the day. The weather is still stubbornly cloudy, about 13°C according to my phone, though it's supposed to clear up later. Not that it matters much – I'm leaving tomorrow anyway.

I've been up since 7:30 this morning, unable to sleep in despite having nowhere particular to be. My restlessness has been growing steadily these past few days. Even though Lyon is beautiful and there's still so much to see, I feel the familiar pull to move on. Good thing my train to Marseille is already booked for tomorrow.

This morning I took a long walk along the Rhône, retracing some of my steps from the other day, but continuing further north this time. The river was calm, a few early joggers and cyclists passing by. I found myself walking faster than usual, as if trying to outpace my thoughts.

I'm still processing that whole AI simulation situation. It's been three days since I sent that email to Data Sør, and still no response beyond the automated acknowledgment. I keep checking my inbox compulsively. Part of me wants to just let it go – I'm leaving France soon anyway, and there are so many more important things to focus on during this journey. But another part feels... violated. It's strange to think of some digital version of me out there, mimicking my thoughts and experiences.

After my walk, I stopped by a small bakery and picked up a pain au chocolat. The baker smiled when I ordered in my clumsy French. "You are leaving tomorrow?" she asked, recognizing me from previous visits. When I nodded, she added an extra madeleine to my bag. "Pour la route," she said with a wink. These small kindnesses from strangers never fail to touch me.

I've been thinking about what I still want to do on my last day in Lyon. The Diana Krall concert tonight at L'Amphithéâtre sounds tempting – I've always enjoyed her music. There's also a special screening of "Into The Wild" with Sean Penn at the Lumière Festival. Both seem like fitting ways to end my time here, though I'm leaning toward the concert. There's something about live music that speaks to the soul in a way that even the best films can't quite match.

I still haven't made it to Parc de la Tête d'Or, which was on my original list of places to visit. Perhaps I'll head there this afternoon if the clouds break as forecast. It would be nice to see some green space before moving on to Marseille.

As I sit here watching people pass by, I realize I'm approaching the 50-day mark of my journey. Almost a tenth of the way through this sabbatical. Sometimes it feels like I just left Kristiansand yesterday, and other times it feels like I've been traveling forever. I wonder if this is what the entire 500 days will feel like – a strange stretching and compressing of time.

I've started making lists in my journal – things I've learned so far, places that have surprised me, foods I never knew existed before this trip. It helps to have these concrete markers of progress, something to look back on when I wonder if I'm actually changing or just moving from one place to another.

The café is filling up now with the Sunday lunch crowd. Families dressed in their best, couples leaning in close across tiny tables. I should probably finish this coffee and move on. Let someone else have the table.

Marseille tomorrow. The Mediterranean. A new chapter in this journey.

453 days to go.