Chapter 57 - In Which The Intrepid Explorer Nearly Gives Up

...But ends up having an amazing time! Hello one and all, I have just returned from Geneva, Switzerland. Before I go any further, I will remark that this is longest post I've ever put up. Going only slightly further, I will remark to the more conservative readers of my adventure journal that you will no doubt approve of the methods in which I arrived in Geneva, and probably the methods in which I stayed there. Conversely, the anti-hight-speed-train readers will disapprove of my means of return. Regardless, what is done is done and I am safe and like I said, I had an amazing time! So, where to begin.

(Figure 1: The Intrepid Explorer)

Let's start out with my friend Abby Eakin and I first deciding to go to Geneva. It began something like, "Hey Abby, do you want to go to Geneva with me?" to which she replied, "Sure, when?" And from there we began to plan a whirlwind voyage. Upon discovering the weather was going to be rainy and in the low 50s high 40s (highs, all) and nearly freezing at night, we began to have our second thoughts. These second thoughts gradually turned into approval as the journey seemed more and more possible. How would we get there? Well, by car. But Peter, neither you or Abby have cars. How ever would you get there? you ask quizzically. Though some of you will be inclined to cry havoc and scold me, we hitchhiked. I would also like to remark that I am still alive, and everything went smoothly. There's a but coming up, isn't there Peter? you cleverly deduce. Well yes. So, here we are at 3 in the afternoon standing outside the Ikea in Montpellier, holding up a makeshift sign saying "Nîmes/Geneve" and thumbing it by the roundabout next to the A9. Our hopes were not high, but at the very least, we were still in Montpellier and it was a sunny, happy day. And then, much to our surprise, after about twenty minutes, a woman and her husband pulled over and offered to take us to Nîmes. The woman was Valerie and her husband was Jean-Pierre and they were Franco-Suisse and sympathetic to our aims. The half-hour journey was very nice, and our spirits were raised by our newfound means of conveyance. We were dropped at the turnpike in West Nîmes, where we had to wait for about forty minutes before Julien arrived and took up to his home city of Montélimar, about half-way between Orange and Valence, and about 100 km closer to Geneva. I napped briefly, and he and Abby laughed at me while I did so. Upon arriving in Montélimar, Abby and I went to the bathroom and almost before we could reach the other side of the road, a young woman, Liza came and offered to take us to Lyon. It was about 6PM at this point, and was just beginning to become dusk. Here is a picture of our journey across the Drôme - the plains of the Rhône River Valley to the south of Lyon.



(Figures 2-5: Liza's car; The Drôme; Clouds over Lyon; traffic)

Liza dropped us at a service station in South Lyon. We had luckily beat a thunderstorm to the west of us which had Abby and I very afraid for our prospects. It was not the storm we should've been worried about, but rather the fact that night was rapidly approaching. Hitchhiking in the dark is not at all advised, and is nigh on impossible, as we discovered. At about 8:30PM, we decided our efforts at reaching Geneva by car were likely to be futile for the night, so we changed our sign to read "Gare - Lyon" and within a few minutes, a nice man, Olivier, offered to take us to the Perrache train station. Upon reaching it however, we discovered that the last train to Geneva for the day had left moments earlier from the main train station about a kilometer away. Ooops. So, what ever were Abby and I to do? Try and walk alongside the A42 in the hopes of getting a hitch? you guess, and then going to the main train station to see if we couldn't get a train to well, anywhere? you inquire, and then find out that the train station will close in half an hour and you will be forced to spend the night walking around the streets to keep warm, because it's 41F outside and the windchill brings it to about freezing, and without a fully-charged video iPod with episodes of Anthony Bourdain (who you now love) you would've given up completely and been merciful and killed Abby with a large stone before drowning yourself in the Rhône or just eating your hands and then bleeding to death or something equally gruesome? you postulate, and then discovering at 5AM when the train station opens again that it is still freezing cold, you are starving, haven't peed in several hours, haven't slept in longer, and are wondering why the hell you went on this stupid, stupid trip in the first place? you query. That scenario may or may not have come to pass. For those more inclined for the sweet rather than the sour, let us just say that the night passed safely. Here might be Abby and I standing outside the metro stop in Villeurbaine - which may or may not be the ghetto in Lyon I was told by my French professors at Mac to avoid at all cost unless I particularly felt like dying.

(Figure 6: Abby & I in Villeurbaine)

So, 5AM rolls around and Abby informs me that she is sick (literally, she had a cold) and tired (likewise, hadn't slept that night) and wanted to go home. And thus she did, and we parted without hard feelings, having made it so far, and I being healthy and ever the adventurer went on further. I bought my ticket to Geneva, she bought her ticket to Montpellier. Two blissfully warm and well-slept hours later, I arrived at the Cornavin Station in Geneva. Geneva is located at the headwaters of the Rhône River, which flows out of Lac Léman (though you know it by the name Lake Geneva). It is the home of the Reformation, John Calvin, the Red Cross, the European offices of the UN, and most of all watches produced in for the high-end market. Having texted Simon on the train... oh wait, you don't know this part of the story yet. You see, because there were no hostels in Geneva and getting a hotel room would make my most recent phone bill look like candy money, Abby and I (and now just I) had decided to use the wonderful website called Couchsurfing.com, which is basically a geographical-based list of people who are willing to take up complete strangers for a night or two or more for free. It is in some ways a return to the long-lost era when you could count on, well, the kindness of strangers. That, along with hitchhiking, were to be the foundations of our back-to-the-farm-and-socialism-too weekend. So, a few days earlier, I had gotten in touch with a German guy living in Geneva named Simon who agreed to put Abby and I (and again, now just I) up for Friday and Saturday night (though it eventually turned into being Saturday and Sunday night). That's the background story. So, I had texted Simon on the train at about 9AM and gotten no reply, and figuring he was still asleep by the time I arrived in Geneva, went to see the sights. Geneva is not at all like the Mediterranean city of Montpellier. I will digress again for a moment, bear with me.

Things the Swiss do right that the French don't:
1) Words for 70, 80 and 90 that make sense and don't require complicated mental addition
2) Chocolate
3) Beer
4) Streets that generally go for more than 5 feet without changing direction or name and are laid out more or less in a grid pattern
5) Beautiful architecture

Things the French do right that the Swiss don't:
1) Speak French correctly
2) Cheese (no, I did not have Swiss cheese in Switzerland. I have had it in France, though there it is called Émmental)
3) Wine
4) Cheap things
5) Okay, I can't think of a fifth

Rather than go over in words all the things that are neat and cool about Geneva, here are some pictures! Yay! Pictures!







(Figures 7-17 : It is really fucking annoying to try and put pictures on this website. I will be taking a big stick to the man or woman who vexes me so. Wait, did I say stick, I meant sharp, thin, agonizing knives. Anyways; the first several are Geneva's streets; the Cathedral Saint-Pierre; Lady Geneva and her lesser-known sister Murgatroyd; Swans on the Rhône; stained-glass window in the Cathedral)

I realize this post is getting to be extremely long, but I don't care. If I don't do this now, I never will, and chances are I can still interest you yet! So, I went to see the Cathedral of Saint-Pierre which was built by John Calvin, the man who more or less turned Geneva into a Protestant Rome during the 16th century. The architecture reflects this, with lots of elegant stone buildings reminiscent of the later Hausmannian Paris. I liked it a lot, and despite being in the mountains, Geneva is by a lake! Thus, it is flat enough to get around easily. After getting done with the Cathedral and the Museum of the Reformation, I gave Simon a call and headed over to his place. He lives at 49 Rue de Lyon near the train station. After walking back there, I walk along the Rue de Lyon and find 47, and 51, and 53, and 45, but no 49. All of the former are right along the street. There is an alleyway between 47 and 51, and upon closer inspection of this sign: I find where he lives. My first impressions were as follows. "Okay, wrong house, clearly. Maybe I need to go further." I call Simon. Nope, I was right. "It's the house with ivy all over, right?" This is affirmed. This is also the place where mere minutes ago I had passed a drug deal and several shopping carts filled with empty beer cans. "What the hell have I gotten myself into?" is the second thought to go through my mind. The third thought is more comforting. After reflecting on my near-death experience in the freezing Lyonnais night, I realized that my karma was way out of balance. I had genuinely suffered! I deserved karmic recompense! This place was gonna be great, and nothing in the universe could stop the enthalpy that I was due!

(Figure 49: The Sign of the Prancing Pony)

As it turned out, I was spot on correct. Simon lives in a building that is essentially a squatter commune. I have no knowledge of how common
these are in the United States, but they are not unheard of here, especially in cities with large international populations (Geneva is only about half Swiss, actually). Also, the unfavorable immigration environments placed upon European nations by the more conservative elements of their governments make it necessary to give a certain amount of fuck you to the man. Lastly, Geneva is an extremely expensive city to live in. I say Simon lives in essentially a squatter commune because he does indeed pay rent - about 150E per month, or $250. This, in a city where a room for 500E per month is a steal. Simon is a bike messenger and university student in law and international relations and is quite knowledgeable on Switzerland, Swiss law and things pertaining to Europe in general. He lives without about 20 or so other people in this building, which incidentally is the former servants quarters of Voltaire. I'm not sure if there is some hidden poetry in that fact, I've never read Voltaire. I have had limited experience with communes and cooperatives, and all of my friends who pretend to be socialists, much though I love you, you are all as bourgeois as they come. So, my weekend here was... new.

(Figures 19-21: The Main Kitchen; Graffiti; Garbage)


And extremely hospitable. Upon getting to Simon's, he gave me directions to the UN, let me leave my stuff there, and was a very nice man all around. My pack lightened, I went off to the UN. The UN office in Geneva is located on the site of the estate of an old Genevois nobleman's home who died without heir and left the vast estate to the canton. His will stipulated that the site should be turned into a park, which excluding the UN buildings, it is, and that his prized peacocks should be maintained on the premise for posterity, which they still are. I remember looking out one of the windows before finding this out and saying to myself, "Is that a peacock?" Yes Peter, it was. The UN buildings were originally constructed to house the League of Nations and are in a wonderful art deco style, except the newer parts which no doubt that rat bastard Le Corbusier got his hands on. Ugly, ugly concrete blocks. The main building though, was untouched by his meddling hands. Here are some pictures.







(I have no idea how to rectify these two columns, but mark my words someone will pay for that. Figures 22 - 27 (l/r clockwise): The Broken Chair - symbolizing landmine victims; the Palace of Nations; the Spanish Room - named so because everything in the room is a gift of the Spanish government; President Wilson at the League of Nations; me in one of the 34 conference rooms; the United Nations sign)

The tour was well-presented, and I am fairly certain I am the only person I know to have been to both the New York offices of the UN as well as the Geneva ones. Correct me if I am wrong. I like the UN a lot, and I bought postcards, which some of you will be receiving soon. I am slowly working towards fixing the correspondence deficiencies, which leads me to my third tangential list.

Things about France and Switzerland that blow in comparison to the US
1) Nothing being open on Sundays
2) Marginally more things being open on Saturdays
3) No Mexican food
4) Small portions of all food
5) Large, unwieldy and quite frankly horrible inefficient bureaucracies (there are some things that capitalism does right!)

Now, the reason I mention numbers one and two are because after the UN, I went back to the train station to get my ticket to return to Montpellier in the morning. Only... the ticket office that services the SNCF - the French national train service - closed fifteen minutes before I arrived, and wouldn't open again until Monday (today having been Saturday). Ooops! I tried to find a way around it, but there was none. Even though France was only a few miles away, I had no envy to walk to Annemasse (the city right across the border from Geneva) only to be told that the ticket office there was also closed. Also, a ticket from Annemasse to Montpellier, though only three or four miles from Geneva, is nearly 100 euros and requires three changes of train - once in Lyon and again in Valence. I wasn't gonna have that. If that were the case, I'd have better luck hitchhiking back!

After the UN and the train station debacle, I went back to Simon's and well, seeing how I'd slept two hours in thirty, I took a nap. I was awoken an hour or two later by Simon returning with his Malien friend Kata and several weeks worth of groceries purchased on the other, cheaper side of the border in France.
Geneva is in a small point of land only a few kilometers wide and is otherwise enveloped by France. One can bicycle from the northern French side to the southern French side through Geneva in less than an hour. After this, Simon went off somewhere, and I decided to be useful and organized the groceries as best as I could. By the time Simon got back, he had with him Ana, another couchsurfer, from Colombia,
who was studying in Grenoble and decided to come to Geneva for the weekend, as well as his friend from the house, Michael (pronounced like Mikhail), a French-Moroccan, and two Suisse-allemanique (German Swiss) friends of his who'd be joining us for dinner. Of course, like a good host, before dinner came beer, which is, as I mentioned before, much better in Switzerland than in France. Really, France only has wine going for it, and a few other things gastronomic in nature, but not really anything else. Believe me, I'm making a list to present to Congress in hopes of rationalizing an invasion.

(Figures 28 & 29: Simon & the Suisse-allemanique; Simon & Michael)

Around 11PM, Simon took us downstairs to the second kitchen, where the members of the house and various guests were assembled, and where Michael and Hassan, their Senegalese friend, were making a Senegalese dish of chicken, rice and potatoes in spices. It was unbelievably delicious! Afterwards came music, care of Hassan and Javier, a man from Barcelona, and once everyone had eaten we went to bed. Wait, no we didn't. As I recall, we were told to put our coats on, Ana and I, because we were all going to another squatter house where there was a party. And what a party. I have never seen so many people in a single dwelling before in my life. There must've been easily 150 people in a space no larger than my first floor at home. And everyone was smoking. It was like being in twelve different bars compressed into one bar. Ana and I were both tired and since we didn't know, well, anyone, we left after an hour or so, and went back to Simon's and to sleep. I slept for nearly ten blissful hours.



(A/V Supplement 1: Hassan singing at dinner)

I was awoken to Ana and Vlad, a Peruvian squatter friend of Simon's taking to one another in Spanish. I dressed, talked with them for a while, and then got my stuff ready for the day. Ana and I said goodbye to Vlad, who went to sleep, and to Simon, who went back to sleep. Ana had her bike with her, and was going to see all the things I had seen the day before, and so after we went to the train station for me to rent a bike for myself, we parted. Geneva, like many other cities in Europe, is very bike friendly. I decided to head down the Quai Gustav-Ador (named for one of the first heads of the International Red Cross) along the south side of the Lake Geneva. Wow was it pretty. Here, look for yourselves!







(Figures 30-34: The Jette d'Eau; apartments on the banks of the Rhône; Mont Blanc in the distance; the UN compound across the Lake; the Place of the Augustins and the Jura Mountains)

After that, I biked back to the city and went to the Museum of Contemporary and Modern Art. Though I don't remember much of what I saw or names attached, it was free and I do recall that it was not all crap. I am not the biggest fan of modern art, and I am frequently inspired to rage when I find some artist has painted seven canvasses in the same shade of gray and asked us to reflect on our memories of apple pie, swing sets and Richard Nixon. I have a lukewarm tolerance of Pollock, and most things past Picasso upset me (although I do like Roy Liechtenstein and Lucien Freud). I like Delacroix and Rembrandt and David Hockney and Edward Hopper, not look-at-this-big-red-dot-I-painted-I'll-call-it-Big-Red-Dot-c'mon-pay-me-a-million-dollars-now. Afterward, I had to get the bike back by seven (or face certain death at the hands of the Swiss Army) and it was nearly six, so I headed back to the station. And what should I see on my way back but...

(Figures 35 & 36: Capitalism!)



Believe it or not, these don't exist in France. They may have caved on McDonald's, but they still resist the Green Lady of Seattle. I also got McDonald's, which happened to be right across the street, and it as you can see from the other picture just how much a Big Mac meal will set you back. Like I said, things in Switzerland are not cheap.

I headed back to Simon's having had an excellent day (it was also much warmer - low to mid 60s and partly sunny). I had some potatoes and sausage that had been made earlier, and went to have some coffee with Javier as Simon had to study. We went downstairs to find the oldest resident of the house, David, a Frenchman who looks like he'd be most comfortable in the Hell's Angels, jokingly accusing everyone who entered of stealing the last of the mayonnaise. I am always surprised to discover that humor exists between languages and cultures, and that we Anglophones do not have a monopoly on comedy. In an effort to calm what was becoming a rant, I went up to Simon's room, asked him for a couple of eggs, some vinegar, oil and mustard, and Hassan, Michael and I set off to make homemade mayonnaise, as well as fries that were being prepared. It began as my project. Then Michael took over. Then Hassan took over. Then Michael said Hassan was doing it wrong.

Michael: "Hey! Be careful to stir in the same direction or it'll whore up." (Whore is the equivalent of fuck, as well as damn, in French - I don't like the substitution)
Me - stirring: "Okay. But we need to add some vinegar now."
Hassan - adding vinegar: "This is what the whore needs!"
Michael: "Ah, whore! That's too much vinegar!"
Hassan: "No, no, it needs vinegar. It tastes too much like whore oil." (There is also no gerundive form of whore, like there is for fuck or damn)
Michael: "No! My ex-girlfriend taught me how to make mayonnaise once. Just add more whore oil, whore!"
Me: "I think there's enough oil. Maybe if we add lemon juice?"
Hassan: "Good idea!"
Michael: "What? Oh whore! You're going to ruin the whore mayonnaise with your whore lemon juice!"
Hassan: "Oh whore, calm down whore!"
Michael: "Whore! It's like soup now!"
Hassan: "At least it has whore flavor."

Maybe these sorts of things are not meant to be translated from French to English. It really loses any value it had, but I hope at least one of you laughed at some of that. After we made mayonnaise, Simon came down and asked me if I wanted to come with him to hang out with some university friends of his. I said sure and we took the bus to the other side of town. On the way, we discussed the various differences between the United States and Europe. For instances, whereas Geneva can be crossed by car in about ten or fifteen minutes, crossing the Twin Cities in an hour is a feat. Simon bikes to work - thirty seconds. Me biking to work - ten minutes. The university to Simon's home by bike - twelve minutes. Mac to Stillwater - three hours, plus. Additionally, I asked him about the way the Swiss (all non-French francophones, actually) have numbers for 70, 80 and 90. It makes a lot more sense that way - normally 70 is 60-10 (soixante-dix), 80 is 4-20 (quatre-vignt) and 90 is 4-20-10 (quatre-vignt-dix). In Switzerland, it's just 70, 80 and 90 (septante, octante, nonante). He also told me that during WWII, spies claiming to be French would be quizzed in quick equations to see if they were genuinely French or not. Believe me, numbers are extremely hard for foreigners. I always have to take a minute to think about what a number is, even if I understand everything else someone is saying to me.

We arrived at the University housing where his friends live. Apparently, it's nigh-on a squatter commune as well. We arrived to find the students within eating dinner and painting the walls. I painted a face of a man in blue above the sink. We couldn't stay too long, as we had to catch the last bus back. After all that, we returned to Simon's where he was hosting two Suisse-allemanique girls who were leaving from the airport the next morning. They talked in German together while I checked my e-mail and bought my ticket for my return to Montpellier. I nearly had a heart attack when I thought I had bought a ticket for 1:30 in the morning (roughly 10 minutes later from the moment I bought it) instead of 1:30 in the afternoon. Luck was on my side, and I got all my affairs in order and went to sleep. I woke up the next morning when Simon left, bid him a fond farewell and many thanks for his incomparable generosity, and headed off to the International Museum of the Red Cross. It was very well presented, even if it was a bit of a small museum. It is little wonder that so many international organizations are located in Geneva - it's a city in a neutral country that never takes sides and is conveniently located at the (beautiful) heart of Europe. I left the museum with about an hour and a half to spare, and went to the post office to mail my letters and postcards, and then went to the train station. I spied a Mexican restaurant on my way there (there is no way Geneva could not have one Mexican restaurant) but it was too pricey, especially since I know I have taco seasoning mix on the way from the US. I got through customs just fine and finally boarded the TGV direct to Montpellier. I was at last headed back, a day late and an adventure later.






(Figures 37-41: A protest against the Iranian governments abuse of its citizens; a turn-of-the-century battlefield medical kit - note the bone saw below; the Australian triplet helper kangaroo of the Red Cross; various prosthetic legs for landmine victims)

With that, and with these few pictures of the French countryside I took on the way back, I will say au revoir. My next adventure: back to Barcelona! Toodles and love.






(Figures 42-46: Don't cross the tracks or you'll never be able to put your arms down!; various shots of the countryside; nuclear power!)

P.S. As I am posting this (I feat which has taken over an hour now because of the bloody way these pictures load), I am hearing news of my friends who went to Oktoberfest in Munich for the weekend. Apparently they also had an adventure, but more one that has gone extremely poorly and against their plans. Moral of the story: travel light (in baggage and in persons), embrace the unexpected, and don't plan too much, because you never know when your plans will cost you (what if I had bought a ticket for 1:30AM? Yikes!)