The title of this Lofi Girl fic, "Le Bruit Doux de la Ville," can be translated as "The Soft Sound of the City" or "The Soft Noise of the City." As ever, I'd love to read your thoughts on this. Hope you enjoy!
Content Warnings: None
You can read the fic on AO3 here
Content Warnings: None
You can read the fic on AO3 here
It takes Jade exactly seven seconds. Seven seconds from the moment the lock clicks shut behind her apartment door, to the satisfying snug fit of her oversized headphones settling over her ears, the plush cups soft against her skin, sealing out the immediate clatter of the stairwell (Madame Dubois’s yappy terrier already starting its morning chorus two floors down) and sealing in the warm, crackling embrace of a well-loved beat. She adjusts the cord, tucks her phone into the deep pocket of her oversized green merino sweater, winds her scarf around her neck just one more time, and begins the descent down the echoing spiral staircase, the worn wooden steps groaning companionably beneath her boots.
The heavy outer door of the Haussmannian building yields to Jade with a sigh, opening onto the Rue Lanterne. Lyon breathes around her, a cool mid-morning air laced with the scent of baking bread from the boulangerie down the block and the faint, damp aroma rising from the nearby Saône. Sunlight, not yet harsh, washes over the tall, narrow building fronts, turning the ochre and pale rose walls into canvases of shifting shadow and light. Wrought iron balconies, intricate as black lace, curve gracefully below long windows, potted geraniums adding defiant splashes of red against the mellow stone. Jade pauses for just a moment, letting the music settle into her bones, syncing her breaths to the gentle rhythm. This part—the stepping outside, the immersion—is already better than being at her desk for one more hour.
Her desk is... fine. Necessary. A sturdy wooden surface piled with textbooks thicker than bricks, notebooks overflowing with spidery handwriting and quick sketches, pens scattered like fallen soldiers, and the ubiquitous glow of the lamp casting a focused circle of light that feels increasingly like a cage the longer she sits within it. She likes the paintings, truly she does; she wouldn't be pursuing art history if the swirl of oils, the captured moments of life or myth, the sheer technical brilliance didn't spark something deep within her. Learning about Poussin's controlled classicism, the dramatic chiaroscuro of Caravaggio (even if Lyon only has a copy attributed to Finson), the revolutionary brushstrokes of the Impressionists—it fascinates her, intellectually engages her. But the process of study, the hours spent squinting at reproductions, memorizing dates and provenances, dissecting composition until it feels less like art and more like geometry homework (which she was never very good at anyway)—that part grinds her down. It feels static, confined, illuminated only by that single, often too-warm lamp.
The walk, however, is dynamic. It's kinetic. It's music weaving through her thoughts, a personal soundtrack curated from hours spent digging through streaming platforms and obscure forums and niche personal blogs. It's the city unfolding around her, a living museum far grander than any single building.
Her feet find their rhythm on the uneven pavement stones, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, carts, protests, celebrations. She glances up at the traboules entrances, those hidden passageways unique to Lyon, dark invitations to secret courtyards and shortcuts known only to locals (or very dedicated students exploring on non-study days). She notes the different styles of doorways, some grand with carved lintels, others modest arches tucked away, all hinting at the lives lived behind them. The architecture itself tells stories, whispers history in a language of stone and plaster and ironwork, a narrative far more immediate than the ones confined to many reread pages of Janson's History of Art (heavy enough to double as a doorstop, that one).
She turns onto Rue du Bât-d'Argent, heading towards the river, the crowds thickening slightly. The music changes alongside to a track a bit more upbeat to navigate the flow of people—shoppers with woven baskets, business people talking animatedly into phones, other students likely heading towards the university or, like her, the museum. She keeps her headphones firmly in place, a shield and a score. It allows her to observe without being drawn into conversations, to remain in her own bubble of sound and sight. She catches snippets of French, rapid-fire and musical, the occasional tourist group speaking English or German, the rumble of a bus passing, the distant chime of a tram—all muffled, softened, integrated into the lofi landscape playing only for her.
Crossing the Quai Saint-Antoine, the buildings fall away to reveal the sweep of the Saône, flowing placidly, sunlight glinting off its surface, bateau-mouches gliding slowly past. Across the river rises the Fourvière hill, crowned by its showy basilica, looking almost like a misplaced wedding cake against the bright blue sky. Jade prefers the view from down here, the working river, the bustling quay market, the handsome building fronts lining the presqu'île. She ambles along the quay for a block, the breeze cooler here, the river's scent stronger on the air. She likes the contrast—the ancient stone structures meeting the fluid, ever-changing waters. Lyon's essence.
Then, she turns inland again, plunging into the streets leading towards the Place des Terreaux. The buildings grow grander here, more imposing. She navigates the Rue d'Algérie, the shops becoming more upscale, art galleries beginning to appear alongside the boutiques. Her pace quickens subtly, anticipation mixing with her genuine enjoyment of the walk.
And then, the square opens before her. Place des Terreaux. It's vast, impressive, dominated on one side by the magnificent Hôtel de Ville with its embellished exterior and clock tower, and on the other, her destination: the Palais Saint-Pierre, home to the Musée des Beaux-Arts de Lyon. The sheer scale always makes her pause. In the center, the Fontaine Bartholdi, that dramatic sculpture of France driving her chariot pulled by four powerful river-horses (representing the Garonne, Loire, Seine, and Rhône, a fact drilled into Jade time and time again), commands the space, the crystal waters cascading energetically even as the bronze figures remain frozen in their dynamic pose. Jade skirts the edge of the fountain, watching the play of light on the waters and the dark metal, a small flock of pigeons strutting obliviously around its base.
The museum building itself is a masterpiece, a former Benedictine abbey transformed, its long, classical frontage stretching across the southern side of the square. Arched windows march along its length, interspersed with pilasters, the pale stone glowing warmly in the sun. It is solid, permanent, a repository of centuries.
But Jade doesn't have the time to just stand out here and admire its entrance—she has actual paintings to observe. With that thought settled, she sighs once in gratitude, reaching up to remove her headphones from her ears.
Well, looks like the walk's over, Jade. You've got things to do.
The heavy outer door of the Haussmannian building yields to Jade with a sigh, opening onto the Rue Lanterne. Lyon breathes around her, a cool mid-morning air laced with the scent of baking bread from the boulangerie down the block and the faint, damp aroma rising from the nearby Saône. Sunlight, not yet harsh, washes over the tall, narrow building fronts, turning the ochre and pale rose walls into canvases of shifting shadow and light. Wrought iron balconies, intricate as black lace, curve gracefully below long windows, potted geraniums adding defiant splashes of red against the mellow stone. Jade pauses for just a moment, letting the music settle into her bones, syncing her breaths to the gentle rhythm. This part—the stepping outside, the immersion—is already better than being at her desk for one more hour.
Her desk is... fine. Necessary. A sturdy wooden surface piled with textbooks thicker than bricks, notebooks overflowing with spidery handwriting and quick sketches, pens scattered like fallen soldiers, and the ubiquitous glow of the lamp casting a focused circle of light that feels increasingly like a cage the longer she sits within it. She likes the paintings, truly she does; she wouldn't be pursuing art history if the swirl of oils, the captured moments of life or myth, the sheer technical brilliance didn't spark something deep within her. Learning about Poussin's controlled classicism, the dramatic chiaroscuro of Caravaggio (even if Lyon only has a copy attributed to Finson), the revolutionary brushstrokes of the Impressionists—it fascinates her, intellectually engages her. But the process of study, the hours spent squinting at reproductions, memorizing dates and provenances, dissecting composition until it feels less like art and more like geometry homework (which she was never very good at anyway)—that part grinds her down. It feels static, confined, illuminated only by that single, often too-warm lamp.
The walk, however, is dynamic. It's kinetic. It's music weaving through her thoughts, a personal soundtrack curated from hours spent digging through streaming platforms and obscure forums and niche personal blogs. It's the city unfolding around her, a living museum far grander than any single building.
Her feet find their rhythm on the uneven pavement stones, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, carts, protests, celebrations. She glances up at the traboules entrances, those hidden passageways unique to Lyon, dark invitations to secret courtyards and shortcuts known only to locals (or very dedicated students exploring on non-study days). She notes the different styles of doorways, some grand with carved lintels, others modest arches tucked away, all hinting at the lives lived behind them. The architecture itself tells stories, whispers history in a language of stone and plaster and ironwork, a narrative far more immediate than the ones confined to many reread pages of Janson's History of Art (heavy enough to double as a doorstop, that one).
She turns onto Rue du Bât-d'Argent, heading towards the river, the crowds thickening slightly. The music changes alongside to a track a bit more upbeat to navigate the flow of people—shoppers with woven baskets, business people talking animatedly into phones, other students likely heading towards the university or, like her, the museum. She keeps her headphones firmly in place, a shield and a score. It allows her to observe without being drawn into conversations, to remain in her own bubble of sound and sight. She catches snippets of French, rapid-fire and musical, the occasional tourist group speaking English or German, the rumble of a bus passing, the distant chime of a tram—all muffled, softened, integrated into the lofi landscape playing only for her.
Crossing the Quai Saint-Antoine, the buildings fall away to reveal the sweep of the Saône, flowing placidly, sunlight glinting off its surface, bateau-mouches gliding slowly past. Across the river rises the Fourvière hill, crowned by its showy basilica, looking almost like a misplaced wedding cake against the bright blue sky. Jade prefers the view from down here, the working river, the bustling quay market, the handsome building fronts lining the presqu'île. She ambles along the quay for a block, the breeze cooler here, the river's scent stronger on the air. She likes the contrast—the ancient stone structures meeting the fluid, ever-changing waters. Lyon's essence.
Then, she turns inland again, plunging into the streets leading towards the Place des Terreaux. The buildings grow grander here, more imposing. She navigates the Rue d'Algérie, the shops becoming more upscale, art galleries beginning to appear alongside the boutiques. Her pace quickens subtly, anticipation mixing with her genuine enjoyment of the walk.
And then, the square opens before her. Place des Terreaux. It's vast, impressive, dominated on one side by the magnificent Hôtel de Ville with its embellished exterior and clock tower, and on the other, her destination: the Palais Saint-Pierre, home to the Musée des Beaux-Arts de Lyon. The sheer scale always makes her pause. In the center, the Fontaine Bartholdi, that dramatic sculpture of France driving her chariot pulled by four powerful river-horses (representing the Garonne, Loire, Seine, and Rhône, a fact drilled into Jade time and time again), commands the space, the crystal waters cascading energetically even as the bronze figures remain frozen in their dynamic pose. Jade skirts the edge of the fountain, watching the play of light on the waters and the dark metal, a small flock of pigeons strutting obliviously around its base.
The museum building itself is a masterpiece, a former Benedictine abbey transformed, its long, classical frontage stretching across the southern side of the square. Arched windows march along its length, interspersed with pilasters, the pale stone glowing warmly in the sun. It is solid, permanent, a repository of centuries.
But Jade doesn't have the time to just stand out here and admire its entrance—she has actual paintings to observe. With that thought settled, she sighs once in gratitude, reaching up to remove her headphones from her ears.
Well, looks like the walk's over, Jade. You've got things to do.
