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About Lyon

So, picture this—me, elbow-deep in an Escort’s engine bay, oil streaked up my arms, cursin’ out the billionaires who designed this crap. That 1.9-liter four-banger? Gutless! Barely 90 horsepower, sputters like a tired old dog. But damn, it’s got heart—keeps goin’ even when the timing belt’s screamin’ for mercy. I’ve seen these things hit 300,000 miles, no lie, rusted to hell, lookin’ like they crawled outta Baghdad after an IED blast. “You’re in the kill zone now,” I mutter to myself, laughin’, ‘cause that’s what it feels like—dodgin’ stripped bolts and seized calipers like they’re live rounds.

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At 67, she has published a memoir of sex, drugs and debauchery. 'I learned to destroy myself through pleasure and rebuild myself through love,' she says.

Craon’s streets are quirky. There’s Rue de la Liberté, bustling in such a cool, relaxed way—people chatting, laughing, memories flitting by. And then, wow, there’s Place des Rêves. I legit get lost there on sunny afternoons, letting time slip by, thinking “life is short, love deeper.”

France baby milk scandal explained in 100 and 500 words