I woke up late today, around 11pm, showered, then drove out to the Plaine de Plainpalais, near the old city, where there is a flea market every weekend. I forgot to bring my map.
I was able to find the market just fine, though. There are decent signs around if you know where to look for them. I began browsing the stalls surrounding the park, but extreme hunger was limiting my shopping ability. I found a brasserie and went inside.
The brasserie had all kinds of pastries and breads in the display, and a few sandwiches. I selected a cold cut sandwich, a pretzel with swiss cheese, a piece of cake, and some fresh-squeezed orange juice. I said, "si" instead of "oui" when asked if I was going to eat in the restaurant, and then took a seat. The woman brought out my food.
There was an old lady sitting beside me, eating pea soup. She turned to me and said, "Bon appetit."
"Merci," I said, and then she began rambling in French. When a suitable gap appeared, I interrupted.
"Je parle seul un peux francais," I said. (I only speak a little French).
She paused, then started to speak more slowly. "Vous," pointing at me, "mangez tous?" She waved her hand at the food on my table. (You're eating everything?)
"Oui," I said. "J'ai faim." (Yes, I'm hungry.)
She began rambling on in French again. I gave her a confused look and said, "Je ne comprende pas." (I don't understand). Once again she paused, and then spoke exceedingly slowly, using large, careful hand movements as though explaining to an idiot.
"Le potage," she said, pointing at her soup, "est bon." She made some kind of swallowing, eating motion at her throat. The soup is good.
"Oh? Ca c'est bon?" (The soup is good?) I must have sounded like an idiot, but my French is functional, not conversational. "Bon appetit," I said, and dove into my sandwich.
The food was good, although the cake was a little on the spongy side. I walked back out to the market and did a lap of the park, walking slowly and absorbing the atmosphere. It was fairly busy but not crowded, and most people were selling antiques -- books, records, glass, clothes and silverware. There were some people selling old farming implements, and asian novelties, and pirated videos. In general, though, nobody seemed particularly interested in selling anything. The vendors sat relaxed behind their wares, casually ignoring you.
I completed a tour of the market after an hour or so. Without my map, I really had no idea where anything interesting was. In fact, even with the map I would have been at a loss. So, I headed off in the general direction of the Old City, hoping I'd come across something. I passed a few old buildings and came upon a park next to the university. The grass does indeed appear domesticated, but then again, doesn't all grass look that way?
I'm now sitting in front of a large concrete wall, the Monument de la Reformation, which is, as you might guess, a monument to the Swiss reform. The events it celebrates appear to have occurred around the 16th century. Various statues, the heroes of the reform, are carved along the wall and engraved into it are words commemorating important documents from various western cultures (presented here in the manner in which they are engraved):
In the center of the wall, which must be about 100 meters long, are four larger statues of bearded men in long robes and skull caps. According to the names engraved around them they are Calvin, Farel, Beze, and Knox.
I've noticed that in general the Swiss don't seem to smile very much. I tend to smile when I make eye contact with people, just because that seems to be the right thing to do. The Swiss, apparently, don't have the same opinion. I was sitting on a bench in the park, though, and as a little girl ran by she turned around and looked at me, gave me a shy smile, then continued running. I guess there is hope for a new generation.
I'm in an outdoor cafe in the Place du Bourg-de-Four, drinking coffee from a tiny cup, and the bells are ringing.
They started about 5 minutes ago, and they're strident and clamorous. It's hard to think of new ways to describe bells -- I've heard them called strident and clamorous so many times that it seems like it's the only way. Well, let me try a bit harder.
They sound like the music rocks would make if rocks were musical. They rumble without bass, clatter in the simplest tones. The sound is an odd combination of chaos and order -- pure, clean vibrations, perfectly round individual stones, avalanching down in a discordant landslide from some unseen tower around the corner. The stones bounce and fill the triangular Place du Bourg-de-Four, echoing off the mottled brick and shattering the narrow, flowered windows. There is a music in the sound but it is hidden deep, each note buried by the one before, each one bouncing into place and being obscured by the gathering rubble.
No one else seems to notice the bells. Around me, impeccably dressed Europeans sip coffee from tiny cups and smoke too many cigarettes, and meanwhile we're all being buried in the ringing cacophony.
The avalanche continues, then softens. The sound has changed subtly. The rocks become water, flowing, falling, swirling, draining out of the courtyard. One note has risen above the others, repeating, gathering order out of the noise splashing around me. It is a sad, desperate note, with so much to say but only one way to convey it. The other bells continue to soften, lose their strength, sapped by one note that is speaking a simple truth. As they disappear I can finally hear them all singing the same futile lament. The single note continues to ring, lapping against the cobblestones. The others are gone. The lone bell speaks once more, whispering into the courtyard, and, finding nothing but impeccably dressed Europeans drinking coffee from tiny cups, sighs away into the night.
I felt like a ghost this afternoon, haunting the streets of Geneva, retracing the same steps as yesterday and the day before. I've been cursed to wander, searching, and I don't even know what I'm looking for.