I'm finishing my lunch in an outdoor cafe along a busy street in one of the commercial areas of town. This section is lacking some of the charm of the old city -- there's less pedestrian traffic and the buildings are of the generic office variety. It rained all night, but now the sky is sunny and clear and a cool breeze is blowing.
I was out of bed around 10 am this morning, and decided to head for the Red Cross Museum. It took my several tries to get there: first because I couldn't turn left when I needed to, then when I couldn't find the entrance to the musuem, and finally when I couldn't find any parking. I finally mounted my car halfway on the sidewalk, as is the Genevan custom, and walked into the museum.
The museum was dark and forboding, with very little colour, and it went about its work in a serious manner. Inside were exhibits detailing the history of the Red Cross, and the history of human disasters throughout the late-19th and 20th centuries. Most of the exhibits were focussed on wars -- in particular World War I. The two final exhibits, "The Modern Era" and "Today," were closed for renovations -- disappointing, since I probably would have been more interested in their contents. I spent about half an hour in the museum.
Across the street is the Ariana Museum, which houses glass and porcelain exhibits. I didn't find it interesting at all. The most exciting thing I saw was a plate of glass olives that reminded me it was lunch time.
For lunch I finally had fondue. In particular I had fondue morille, or fondue with morel mushrooms. The melted cheese had been mixed with a healthy serving of white wine, giving it a strong floral aroma and a taste of sour alcohol. Wrinkled mushroom caps added some diversity to the mix. The fondue was served with large chunks of chewy peasant bread, which I subsequently speared and swizzled in the sauce, then ate with much delight.
I had another coffee after lunch. I'm concerned I might be developing a bad habit.
It didn't take very long for me to get sick of the city again, so I'm going to head west and drive randomly through the mountains now.
Warning: the Swiss have obtained clumping cat litter technology. World domination is imminent.
On the way back to the car I stopped by at a Swiss grocery store, just to see what was inside. In general, it looked like any other grocery store. Fresh fruits and vegetables, meat and bread, dairy, and packaged food. I didn't find anything overly surprising. They had mexican food (all Old El Paso brand) and thai food (all Thai King brand). I'm running short on francs so I didn't buy anything -- but then again, I didn't find anything that I needed to buy.
So, I went for a little drive, and stumbled upon CERN, the world's largest particle accelerator. What a lucky find! Particle physics is one of those subjects that I find extremely fascinating, so I went inside to take a look.
I followed a school tour down to the exhibit center called Microcosm. There, they describe some of the basic physics and construction techniques used in the particle accelerators. It was a little bit interesting, but not hugely riveting. I asked at the reception if there were any other areas of CERN open to visitors, but she said, no, only on saturdays, and you must reserve a week in advance. Oh well.
Now, where to? Those hills I wanted to visit are in France. For some reason, I'm particularly reluctant to cross the border. I want to discover as much of Switzerland as possible, and save France for another day, but it appears I've reached the western limit of the country. On the other side of the Geneva, in France, there's something called the teleferique du Saleve, which is a tram that goes up into the mountains. It sounds like an interesting place to visit and should give good views of Geneva. Evian (of bland water fame) is just around the corner on the lake. But, I think I might head north again, towards Lausanne, but stop in one of the smaller cities along the way. I was really interested in touring a chocolate factory but according to the hotel concierge, the nearest one is in Bulle, near Gruyere, and it's closed on Mondays.
I ended up turning south instead of north, for no better reason than the towns to the south had names that reminded me of the Three Musketeers. The road passed through a string of small villages, most dedicated to the production of wine, and most fairly empty. A tour of some wineries could be fun, but I think most of them are closed. Neat rows of vines climb over the hills, and all of them are heavy with big black grapes. Harvest time is at the end of the month.
After driving for a while I noticed several parking signs along the road. Normally not noteworthy, but I was pretty much in the middle of nowhere, between towns. I soon realized that I was in a nature preserve. I drove a little further along to the next town, parked, bought a bottle of water, and went for a walk.
It turns out I went in the wrong direction. I meandered through a campground which had rabbits as its sole occupants. I tried to find a trail to somewhere, but the campground was bordered on all sides by fields. The dirt in the fields was pale brown and very clumpy.
I turned back to the road and went to the other side. I found a trail, and a sign which gave walking times to the nearest towns in each direction. They varied between 1 and 2 hours. I chose left, and kept walking.
A few minutes later the trail ran alongside the river, so I stopped to take pictures. A woman was walking her dog, and we started talking.
I told her I was from Canada. She said she'd like to visit Canada, but not in the winter. Is it very cold? I told her that Vancouver isn't, and hardly gets any snow, but that she should probably come in the summer anyway.
She had been to the United States, though. "The people there, they are very...." She struggled to find the right word. "...relaxed."
I smiled in agreement. People in the old city in Geneva seem very tense, and are always in a hurry, I said.
"Yes," she said. "Geneve is so small, and people all walk so fast."
She continued on to the restaurant at Les Granges for a drink and I continued down the trail, taking pictures as I walked. Soon it started to get overgrown, muddy, and a little ambiguous, and I wasn't in the mood for a very strenuous expedition, so I walked back to find a spot on the river to relax.
The river is clear brown, flat and shallow, gurgling peacefully along. Smooth round rocks line the bottom, and trees on the far bank lean over, skimming the surface with their leaves. There is a bend in the river here, and on this side is a wide bank of loose stones and weeds. A cool breeze is blowing from (what I think is) the east, where cool gray clouds have piled up. To the west is diminishing blue sky. I think rain is on the way.
I get a sense that this is a very old place. It has none of the youth and vigour of the rivers and forests I'm used to being near. It is a place for quiet and waiting. Instead of bursting forth greenery, the trees spend their time casting leaves into the river, one by one, and watching them float by. This place feels like it is from a time long ago. Up the river from me the water is a little wider and flat, broken by just a few ripples, and a path dips into the water from the other side, and I would not be at all surprised if a medieval horseman suddenly emerged from the bushes and gingerly splashed his way across the river.
I stopped in at the cafe here at Les Granges for some coffee and to try to absorb some of the local character. I walked into the restaurant and asked the lady behind the counter for some coffee. "Du cafe, s'il vous plait," I said, and walked back outside to sit on the bench. A few minutes later she brought out two cups -- she thought I'd said "deux" (two) instead of "du" (some). "C'est bien," I said, "j'ai soif." (That's okay, I'm thirsty.)
Les Granges seems to consists of this restaurant, a collection of farm animals, and not much else. Spread under the shade of some oak trees are a few tables and chairs, some of them plastic, some old painted wood. The bark of the trees is mottled like army camouflage. When the wind picks up, dry leaves discuss the best ways to rearrange themselves among the legs of the chairs.
This place doesn't feel much like Switzerland. It does feel a whole lot like France, though. The image of Switzerland I've previously known -- all milk maids and happy cows and quaint mountain villages -- is probably more common further east, in the German part of the country. Here, around Geneva, the people are unmistakably French. It's in their food and their language. I've even seen a few people wearing berets.
From Les Granges I continued playing connect-the-dots with the countryside towns. My goal was somewhere up high, where I could get a better view of the city as a whole. I continued through wine country for a while before getting reabsorbed into the outskirts of Geneva. I went all the way around to the far side, ending at a town called Thonex, then headed back the way I came. I never achieved my goal to get up into the hills, being thwarted by France on each side. I wonder if it weighs heavily on the Genevan psyche to know that the French are staring down at them from all sides?
The town of Carouge had been described in a few of my guides as an old village, similar to Geneva's old city. I drove through downtown Carouge but couldn't find anything worth stopping for. Once again my familiar haunts drew me back in and I soon found myself wandering in familiar territory -- only this time with a better parking space.
Round and round the old town I walked, wandering, looking at menus for dinner, passing them up, moving on... I stopped back in the Place du Bourg-de-Four and had a beer on the outdoor patio, read for a while in the gathering twilight, then continued my haunt.
I went down to the Jardin Anglais, on the lake, but it was empty of people. I walked along Rive street, but all the shops were closed. I wandered back into the old town, intent on finally picking a restaurant. I was examining a menu when I heard two women behind me, discussing restaurant possibilties in English. If there were ever a more inviting opportunity to make friends while travelling, I've never seen it.
Margaret and Helena were from Canada (Toronto) and were studying architecture in Nice, France. They'd taken a four day weekend to look at some buildings in eastern Switzerland and had taken a few hours to wander the city of Geneva while they changed trains. They only had about an hour until their train left, and no time for a sit-down dinner, so I walked with them to the train station where they could get something quick to eat.
It was so nice to have a conversation, a real conversation, after five days of half-understood, stammered French. The three of us weren't hugely talkative and we discussed the vague things that strangers tend to talk about. I asked them if there was anything they missed about Canada while they were living in Nice.
"Here, people just drop garbage on the ground," Helena answered. I thought Geneva was actually immaculately clean, but Helena said France was very bad. "And there's dog shit everywhere."
I left them at the train station and wandered around in search of my last meal. I was now in a a different part of the city, across the river, but the old town drew me back. It was unavoidable. I eventually picked the restaurant Les Armures, picked essentially at random, and settled into my chair in anticipation of a feast.
The restaurant was noisy, wooden, kitschy, brown, humid, and smokey. These attributes seem to be typical for Genevan restaurants -- even the fancier ones as I assumed this to be. I selected a salad with rabbit, a steak, and a Swiss red wine. The salad was okay if a little on the simple side; the steak was even simpler and was served with french fries. Disappointing, initially, but they turned out to be the best french fries I have ever had. I guess they're better as you get nearer the homeland. Dessert was fresh pineapple with kirsch liquer -- again, very simple, not particularly impressive, and certainly not worth the price. The whole meal cost me 70 francs -- a large amount even in the ridiculously expensive city of Geneva. I did enjoy my post-meal coffee, though.
Finding my car again proved to be a bit of a challenge, as I'd parked in some hidden corner of the old city, and I discovered that, despite my seemingly ceaseless wandering, there were streets in the old city down which I'd never set foot.