72 Hours in Geneva

*An experiment with a comprehensive (perhaps pedantically so) narration style.*

Part 1

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My alarm wakes me up at three on a Monday morning in April. My flight to Geneva is at six. The airport, luckily, is only about ten minutes away. I’ve ordered a taxi to pick me up at four, on the street below this cramped apartment complex, with the aim of arriving at the airport around two hours early. Last night I bade a fond farewell to the Venezuelan family with whom I’ve been cohabiting for the last three weeks. I will be out the door today before any of them wake up.

As I take a shower, then finish packing my toiletries in my suitcase, I’m pleased to observe that I’m not as tired as I feared I might be. I’ve slept maybe five hours. I vaguely wonder if the airport timeline and sense of purpose to my getting ready is helping me feel less tired than I otherwise would be feeling. 

I quickly finish packing and make my way down to the street corner. Soon after, the taxi arrives and we are on our way. The driver and I make polite small talk on the way to the airport. His accent sounds vaguely Argentinian to me. I ask him where he’s from. 

“Uruguay.”
“Ah, I thought you might be Argentinian.”
“The accents can be similar maybe, if you’re not very familiar with them.”
“Yeah, and I’m commenting as someone who speaks Spanish as a second language, so for me it’s probably even harder to distinguish them.”
“Mmhmm.”

After a brief pause, the driver begins to joke a little about the relationship between Uruguayans and Argentinians, how there can be animosity between them but they mostly get along. I feel by continuing the conversation he is reassuring me for having mistaken his accent. I laugh warmly – receiving his reassurance with gratitude. 

“…How long have you been living in Valencia?” I ask
“10 years.”
“Oh wow, how do you like it?”
“It’s nice. It’s comfortable here. You know, it’s not home. But I can’t complain.”
“Mmmm.”
“And you? just here visiting?” He asks
“Yeah, just visiting for a few weeks.”
“Mmhmm.”

In the airport I double-check that there are no Covid requirements for entering Switzerland. I should have done this earlier, but luckily it seems I’m all good. Once I’m through security and I’ve identified my gate, I decide to get some coffee and breakfast. I’m in line in front of a young, French-speaking couple. I don’t speak French, so I have no frame of reference for guessing what French-speaking country they’re from. Probably France, given it’s the closest French-speaking country to where we are now. But we’re in an airport, so you never know. Once it’s my turn I order quickly. It’s easier to put on a more native-like accent when I’m ordering things I’ve already ordered many times, and have heard others order many times, in Spanish. 

The French-speaking couple behind me order in a mix of broken Spanish and English. I consider, with satisfaction, that to the couple I could be Spanish, or from some other Spanish-speaking country. My American (or more particularly, U.S. American / United Statesian*) identity is likely hidden from them. 

*Footnote: I’ve been made to understand (by Mexicans) that the exclusive application of the word “American” to people from the U.S. is no longer quite politically correct. Technically, anybody hailing from any country in the Americas is also an American. I don’t find the broadening of the word “American” in this way to be unreasonable. In the above instance, I’ve flamboyantly offered the option “United Statesian.” For the rest of this piece, however, I’ll be sticking with the more common “U.S. American”. But moving beyond the semantics, the point in the paragraph above is to convey my perverse, misguided pride in being able to hide from the French-speaking couple that I’m a native English-speaker. End footnote.

I fly to Madrid and then on to Geneva after a short layover. I arrive on schedule. I’ll be visiting my Italian friend, Simona, here for three days. I realize only now, after landing, that this is the very first time I’m in a French-speaking place. It’s actually a little bit thrilling to hear French spoken in the wild. I’m naively amazed when I notice nondescript-looking people, even ugly people, speaking French and milling about. Until now, the French language for me had still maintained, almost entirely intact from my adolescence, that glamorous and daunting veneer personified by a pretty, sophisticated woman wearing a beret and reading philosophy. Now, with great relief and also some embarrassment at my provincial ridiculousness, I take in the details of this natural French-speaking atmosphere around me, and my idealized image is finally, mercifully, punctured.

I step out of the airport and follow Simona’s previously texted directions to catch the bus that stops nearest her apartment. I board the bus and sit down, only to realize that I’ve entirely forgotten to buy a bus ticket. The bus sets out, and I sit self-consciously, trying not to take up lots of space with my three bags (everything I’ve been living from for the last eight months), and trying not to be too blatant in my curious peeping at the other passengers and the city around me. Luckily, nobody asks to see a ticket. Later, Simona will inform me that occasionally a city employee will be on board for the purpose of checking tickets, and that the fine is 150 Swiss Francs for those caught without one! It seems I’ve begun my time in Geneva with some luck.

My first impression of the city is that it seems calm and tidy, and also damp. Students and business people walk purposefully down the sidewalks in rain jackets or under umbrellas. The vegetation could be North American – I guess the latitude is probably not too dissimilar. Nothing too exotic, aside from the language. As I’m getting off the bus I see Simona is on the sidewalk waiting for me. I’m immediately relieved and happy to see her. We hug. We greet each other in English and then Simona begins asking me questions happily in Spanish. I follow her lead and we continue chatting in Spanish. With a local friend at my side, I’m immediately more at ease and less self-conscious in this new and foreign locale. We soon arrive at her apartment, which is on the top floor of a 7-story building, across from a modern-looking hospital complex. She shares the apartment with three other roommates. She lets us in, and my first impression is of white walls and a minimalist, modern style. On the side of the apartment opposite the entrance, big floor-to-ceiling glass doors lead out to a balcony with views over the hospital’s central courtyard and its leafy gardens. I’m impressed. I expect the rent here must be high, but I’m still genuinely astonished when Simona says she and her three roommates pay 1300 Swiss francs each in monthly rent.

We continue chatting in Spanish, a little bit more loudly and ostentatiously than what would be strictly natural, as we take off our jackets and shoes in the entrance, and I hear that someone is moving about in the kitchen. My chatting in Spanish, I know, is partly for that person’s benefit, to peremptorily send the message that I’m not the typical “ignorant American.” It occurs to me, as she asks me whether I want to hang my coat in the hall closet and I accept, that Simona is likely motivated to show off her Spanish as well, as she probably wouldn’t have had much prior opportunity to do so in front of her roommates. I would hazard a guess that we share a similar, though unvoiced, understanding that (and especially in Europe) language is status.

We enter the kitchen area and I meet Vinçent, a Swiss native himself but whose parents are from a small town in nearby Southeastern France, and who I soon discover is a biochem PhD student. He greets me in French as we shake hands and I reciprocate, but in English. He then switches to English and asks me how my flight was. He is tall and thin, with messy dark hair and a somewhat unkempt mustache. After some initial pleasantries I go to put my things down on the couch while Simona and Vinçent continue talking in French. Then I return and we have a somewhat distracted, but not awkward, conversation in English as Vincent finishes cooking and Simona checks something on her phone. We sit down at the kitchen table and eat together. Vinçent pours us tiny cups of coffee from a silver, stove-top Moka Pot.

“I don’t know if you like dis or if you prefer more diluted stuff like in America.”

I smile, not knowing how to respond. The Moka Pot allows for two rounds of coffee each, which Vinçent doles out judiciously, filling his own cup last. It’s almost ritualistic-seeming, the refilling of the shot-glass sized coffee cups. I see the appeal. We finish our coffee and Vinçent goes to prepare another Moka Pot. While it sets, he collects various food items, including a freshly-cooked pan of some sort of omelette scramble, and brings it all to the table. I’m touched, suddenly realizing that Vinçent was cooking in preparation for my arrival from the beginning. The three of us make light conversation while we share breakfast. It’s a nice scene. I feel happy and included. Simona shares anxieties about her job search. She’s been offered an intern job at a biomedical research firm. Vinçent and I try to encourage her, and I give her some cautious advice, not wanting to unduly influence her decision. I say that it’d be good to accept the position and at least get some experience. My view is that being an intern isn’t that bad, because at least you have an established mentor and you’ll maybe adjust more smoothly to the organization and learn better than if you were let out on your own with no guidance. Vinçent wonders whether it’s necessary for Simona to have an internship at all, given that she’s already completed a PhD and a postdoc, making this all seem like a step backward. Later, Simona gets up to go to the bathroom, leaving Vinçent and I alone for the first time. We pass a few beats in silence. Then I point to a corner where a symmetrically-stacked shelf of records is crowned neatly by a record player.

“You like music?”
“…Yeah.” He says that in fact he’s in a band with a couple of friends.
“Oh wow, what kind of music do you all play?”
“Oh, you know, electro funk sort of stuff…” – he trails off in an embarrassed way.
“..electro what?”
“Electro funk”
“Oohhh electro funk. Wow! Cool man.”

Simona returns and we all clean up. Vinçent takes a shower and leaves the apartment to do something at his research lab. Later I ask Simona if it was a prior arrangement for Vinçent to cook breakfast and she confirms that they’d talked about it before she left to meet me at the bus stop, and Vincent had agreed to cook a late breakfast for the three of us. I thank her again for her and Vinçent’s thoughtfulness.

I decide to take a short nap on the couch while Simona responds to emails. I sleep for maybe 30 minutes. When I wake up, I see that I’ve drooled on the pillow. I raise the pillow to show Simona my drool spot. She’s sitting across the room at the kitchen table. I apologize happily as I laugh. Simona laughs too – “don’t worry about it!” I’m always slightly euphoric and giddy when I’m freshly awake from a nap. It feels good to share the giddiness.

Later that night, we are at dinner at a Lebanese restaurant. We are waiting for two of Simona’s Italian friends to join – Simone 29 (pronounced Simon-Eh), and Roberto 31, both physicists at CERN. In deciding where to eat, earlier, while on a walk together through the city, Simona had narrowed it down to an Iranian place and this Lebanese place. She’d asked me to make the final call, and I’d been tempted to choose the Iranian restaurant in order to show off my Farsi, but ultimately decided against it due to the fear that it would backfire. After all, I only know low-intermediate Farsi and am not yet very confident with the language. Also, I was worried that the others might suspect my self-aggrandizing motives for choosing the Iranian restaurant, and therefore decided that the Lebanese restaurant was probably safest on all counts. Simona had mentioned that Roberto is vegetarian, so I faux-selflessly offered that the Lebanese restaurant might have more vegetarian options. 

Our waiter, seeming to me to be a little too fancy and formal for this small family restaurant, comes to our table and Simona talks to him in French. He addresses me in French and I smile and say:

“Sorry, I don’t speak French.” 
“English?”
“Yes.”
“Well I’m going to have to charge you extra for that.” he responds, without skipping a beat, a coy smile on his face.

I laugh abruptly and somewhat hollowly at his joke, both impressed by his wit (although I’m sure its a canned line he uses often for tourists) and also somewhat uncomfortable at being noticed again for my non-Europeanness, as he hands me a menu in English and moves away from the table to check on other diners.

Soon Roberto arrives, and then Simone right after. We exchange introductions, get comfortable, and order food. During dinner I become aware of my gradually increasing fatigue – my lack of sleep catching up with me – though I’m anxious to not let this fatigue affect my conversation. I’m aware of the intellectual pedigree of the table and I’m eager to make a good showing for myself.

But as it turns out, my eagerness to match the level of conversation at the table is largely unnecessary. I find Simone and Roberto both to be unassuming and easy to talk to. Given that I’m at a table with three Italians, occasionally they do switch to speaking in Italian and I’m left to idly eat (I’ve ordered a vegetarian platter), deliberately making sure not to eat too quickly or finish my food before everyone else, which would close the possibly of further resorting to this stalling tactic – eating while they speak Italian that is – should it be necessary in the future. But fortunately, the conversation mainly flows in English, which all three of the Italians are of course very fluent in, given that it’s the language they use most of the time for their day-to-day professional work. Roberto and Simone talk briefly about formula one. They ask me if I watch and I admit that don’t. They tell me that it’s beginning to gain ground in the U.S., but of course faces competition from established traditions there, like NASCAR and the Indy 500. I nod politely. “That makes sense.”

We talk briefly about NBA basketball as well, which Simone follows. Simone seems to have a sort of endearing nerdy energy. He’s a little pudgy, with a cherubic, young face and thick curly hair. Although he’s a nuclear physicist, he’s also very interested in history. He says he’s recently bought a new card game in which players take turns turning over cards that describe historical events. They are required to then decide whether the historical event they are holding in their hand came before or after the historical event played by the player before them, and so on. It sounds genuinely fun. I’d play it, I think. Simone then goes on to make a statement which is new to me and seems counterintuitive…He says that major, impactful historical events are becoming less frequent, not more frequent like most people think. The group then debates this topic for the next 15-20 minutes.

Roberto also gives me a good impression. He’s from Sicily, in the south of Italy, and his mannerisms and and behavior remind me quite a lot of a certain Persian cousin of mine. He has messy dark hair and careless week-old stubble, in keeping with what seems to be the general aesthetic of unkemptness that the men (at least the ones I’ve meet so far) follow here.

I like Italians, I think to myself. None of my self-consciousness about being a U.S. American turns out to be relevant at this dinner. I feel the Italians are just interacting with me in a friendly, interested, neutral manner, which is nice. It occurs to me that perhaps my guardedness and national sensitivity are unwarranted.

At one point in the dinner Roberto brings up the war in Ukraine. We talk vaguely about the geopolitical implications. I mention that while I was in Spain I saw a lot of feel-good pieces on the news about families taking in refugees, and other sorts of fundraisers and efforts to support Ukrainian refugees. I ask if the war, and taking in Ukrainian refugees, was a similarly big, salient thing here in Switzerland. The trio unanimously replies “No.”

“Switzerland isn’t part of Europe.” – Roberto boldly declares. “I mean yeah, it is geographically, but politically it’s basically not.”

Simona adds to Robertos statement – “yeah, it maybe sounds a little bit ugly…orrr – not so nice – to say it, but here it seems that the government doesn’t seem to care so much about the war, and just wants to keep doing its own thing.”

Later, we ask for the bill and the waiter steps away to retrieve it, during which time Roberto leans in to the table and says he thinks the waiter is a little bit out of touch with the level of fanciness of the restaurant.

“He thinks he’s at some five-star, fancy place.”
“Yeah! I was thinking the same thing” I reply with delight.

as we step out on the street Simone turns to me – “I hear you speak Spanish.”
“Yeah.”

My show of casual confidence belies my worry that his fourth-best language might be better than my second-best.

“Hablamos en español entonces.”
“Hagamoslo!”

Simone and I talk for a bit, and I’m relieved to discover that my Spanish is much better than Simone’s. He gives up after a couple minutes, satisfied with his little foray, and we switch back to English. He says his dad owned a hotel in Nicaragua for a while and he went to live there for 4 weeks one summer during his early 20s. He’d like to go back one day.

We all continue walking together for a bit along near-deserted streets, then Roberto and Simone bid us farewell, and Simona and I amble the remaining distance back to her apartment. My first day in Geneva has come to a close. I am very tired.

Part 2

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The next morning, much refreshed, I meet Simona’s other two roommates. Renard, 31, tall and thin like Vinçent but with a mane of fro-like hair, seems to be the exception of those I’ve met so far in that he is purely Swiss, from a town whose name he tells me and I immediately forget. He says the town is about 2 hours away to the Northeast. It turns out that Renard plays in the electro-funk band with Vinçent. Roommates and bandmates, right on, I think. For work, Renard remotely supervises and troubleshoots a robot used for medical procedures – “mostly knee replacements”, he says – which work he apparently does from his laptop at home. Then there is Maria, 25, the youngest of the group, who is Italian from a small town in the North of Italy – the unfamiliar name of which similarly slips right by me – and is currently a PhD student in biochem, like Vinçent currently is, and Simona used to be.

Renard is sarcastic but in friendly, good-hearted sort of way. Maria, short and plain-featured, is somewhat bashful and seems a little uncomfortable with the social situation my arrival has occasioned.

We are lounging in the living room before breakfast and I use the chance to talk a bit more with Maria. She tells me that she’s gay, and that she’s in a long-distance thing with an Italian girl who lives in Milan. It’s her first real relationship, she says, and it’s been going on for about a year. We talk about relationships for a while and then begin to talk about travel. She lights up when she hears I’ve been in Spain for the past two months. She says she loves Spain and has travelled extensively there with Spanish friends. She thinks the Spanish language is beautiful.

I ask her if, living in Geneva, she speaks French. She says she speaks a little, the minimum necessary (her professional studies are mainly in English). “I don’t actually like the French language that much,” she admits. I ask her why.

“I don’t know, it just sounds kind of ugly to me.”

Soon after, Simona and I leave the apartment. She’s planning to show me a bit of the city, but first we stop at a cafe for coffee and sandwiches. Reassured by Simona’s presence and her fluent French, I’m beginning to feel slightly less uncomfortable in situations that require me to interact with Genevan strangers. I venture “bonjour” to the man behind the cafe bar, who smiles and replies in kind. Soon I am experimenting little by little with basics like “bonjour”, “merci” or “au revoir” – each time with a secret thrill of accomplishment.

After breakfast, Simona and I take the train to visit CERN, which lies to the about 25 minutes to the Northwest of Geneva, very close to the French border. Across from the train line, as we get off, I see a building in the shape of a large bronze ball. We decide to enter, and once inside we find interactive displays and futuristic pods where one can sit and learn CERN’s history, along with prerecorded audio teaching tidbits about physics, in four languages. I sit in a pod and press play on an Italian narration just for fun. I couldn’t care less about physics right now. I’m drunk on cosmopolitanism!

Simona and I continue to mosey around for about fifteen minutes while we wait for our tour, which is set to begin in a decidedly more conventional building across the street. But surprise surprise, the building is not so conventional, it turns out, as it sits above and connects with part of the actual large hadron collider workstation. We collect our name tags from the efficient-looking woman behind the front desk, then huddle around in the lobby area with the rest of the crowd while we wait for the tour to start.

Right on time, our tour guide materializes and begins to assess the room confidently. He’s middle-aged and balding, with close cropped hair, but possesses an athletic build and pleasant, symmetrical features. He shepherds us in a semi-circle around him and begins the proceedings. He tells us his name – Mohammad something – and informs us that he is Palestinian. He jokes about being sorry if he messes up today’s tour. It’s Ramadan, you see, and he’s fasting and not as sharp as usual.

“You are familiar with Ramadan of course? There are about 10 days left.”

A few in our crowd nod their heads knowingly. Mohammad begins to take a fragmented roll call, stopping every few heads to ask the person where they’re from. We hear quick, clipped responses as his finger moves along the crowd.

“Denmark”
“Mexico”
“Germany”
“Japan”
“Romania”

Mohammad makes a little approving sound after each response. I briefly consider saying Iran if he calls on me.

“And you?” He points at me over Simona’s head. I feel a host of eyes turn my way.

“I’m… I’m from the United States.”

A brief pause as Mohammad and the crowd register my declaration. He then continues without comment.

Fuck. Why didn’t I just say U.S.? U.S. – those are the only two letters that had to leave my mouth. Instead I’d panicked and announced my country like a slave bolding announcing he’s Spartacus to the Romans…Jesus. They must all think I’m super nationalistic now.

Mohammad has meanwhile finished his sample roll call and noticed one of the tourists, previously self-identified as Japanese, filming the tour.

“You should have asked permission you know.” He says, signaling the Japanese tourist. The tourist looks up mildly from his camera lens. We all turn to look. I’m secretly glad I’m not the only one living up to stereotypes.

Mohammad continues to playfully give the Japanese guy a hard time – “We didn’t give consent to be filmed. I mean it’s ok with me. You can film me. But you should ask the group. They could sue, you know…where’s the American?”

I look down, holding my forehead in my hand. Simona laughs. The Japanese man let’s out an almost imperceptibly soft – “Oh.”

Introductions out of the way, the tour sets off. We learn about the history of CERN and discoveries that have been made here. I become progressively more bored as the tour goes on, and I’m glad when it ends.

After the tour, we wait again in the lobby for Simone to come meet us. The plan, according to Simona, is for Simone to escort us back to the employee-only area of the campus, “if they let us.” After about fifteen minutes Simone wanders up casually. He’s wearing an old beige T-shirt with a frayed and loose collar. I see he doesn’t have any chest hair, congruent with his smooth, stubble-less chin. I also notice again, this time from the front, how his symmetrical crown of tight curls satisfyingly frames his cherubic face.

Simone is also doubtful if Simona and I will be allowed into the compound proper with him. We walk over to the employee gate, and Simone tries to explain to a guard that he wants to let his two friends in just for a moment to show them his office. It seems he isn’t making much progress, when suddenly Simona steps in. She speaks with the guard in her winning, friendly way, and in a decidedly more fluent French than Simone was able to muster. Her efforts seem to soften the guard up, and he soon lets us through without a problem.

We arrive at a little coffee room within the employee complex. Simone asks if we would like some coffee. I politely decline and Simona accepts. Simone steps away to get himself and Simona some coffee, and at the same time an attractive woman with straight brown hair and round-framed glasses enters the room. Simona enthusiastically calls out to her – Mariana!

Mariana walks up and she and I are introduced. Another Italian, as it turns out. She greets me warmly. Simone returns with the coffee, and he and Mariana begin to talk about an apparently very competitive and prestigious physics position back in Rome that they’ve both applied for. They’re both a little homesick and would like to return to Italy if they can – said motherland being pronounced by the both of them as “EE-tali.” Mariana complains teasingly that Simone will probably get it.

“You’re so smart, you don’t have anything to worry about,” She says. Simone tactfully deflects this compliment by bringing up a question he has about the exam portion of the interview.

Before I’ve had to time to fully assimilate Mariana’s presence yet another Italian joins us – Francesca (yes, really). She bounds happily into the room and joins her compatriots. True to the association of her name in my mind, she is also attractive. She has bushy auburn hair is wearing red lipstick. I’m introduced to her as well, and we make some pleasant small talk. I can’t help but inwardly spaz a little bit – I can’t believe I’m hanging out CERN with these people! I’m become more and more intoxicated by the company of all of these Italians.

Francesca and I turn to join the group’s general conversation. Francesca asks the group when the last time they visited home was. The conversation then continues around the theme of family. I stand by, listening, and for the second time in as many days I think – I like Italians.

We are all congregated around an 8-foot-tall coffee machine, the likes of which I’ve never previously seen. Simone, Mariana, and Simona all drink coffee out of tiny paper cups, smaller than the smallest U.S. paper cup size one would typically find. No doubt the coffee is potent – probably espresso. Other people mill around us, coming and going from the space, occasionally excusing themselves around us so that they too can get at the cherished, potent coffee. I glance around at the people coming and going, trying to get a beat on the average CERN scientist. Most of the people I see are young, seeming to be in their twenties and thirties.

After 10 minutes or so, the little coffee-cooler recess comes to an end. Mariana and Francesca say their goodbyes and go back to work, and Simone begins to walk Simona and I back to the general public part of the CERN campus. As we exit the gate, he and Simona begin to talk about potential weekend plans. (Unfortunately, I’ll be in the Netherlands by then).

“Maybe we can meet up and play that history game this weekend.”
A sheepish smile spreads across Simona’s face: “I’ll be in Paris visiting a friend this weekend.” (She already has the reputation [which she enjoys] of being someone who’s always traveling).
“Oh, ok. Well, we’ll be in touch.” Simone sounds disappointed. “We should do something sometime soon, anyway.”
“Yeah! I’ll let you know when I’m back in Geneva,” Simona responds reassuringly.

Simone turns to me. “Take care”
I hug him – typical U.S. American – hehe.
“See you man. It was a pleasure,” I say.

Simona and I board the train and make our way back to Geneva. But rather than going to her apartment, we detour to a grassy picnic area next to the river, which Simona says is a well-known hangout place. I spontaneously decide I’m going to jump in the water, a bit of a polar plunge.

Simona considers it but decides not to. I strip down to my briefs. I notice there’s a girl whose age I’d estimate to be somewhere between 7-9 – obviously pre-pubescent but not a toddler – running around topless. Definitely wouldn’t see a girl that old without a top in the U.S., I think.There are other young, attractive people in bikinis and swim suits sunbathing around the bank of the river. We make our way to an area a little further down the river where there is a staircase down to the water and I can get in with some more ease. I notice a couple of middle-aged ladies swimming around. Simona and I pile our stuff in a heap and make our way to the staircase’s landing, arriving just as the middle-aged ladies are exiting the water. They ask us something in French.

“Sorry?”
“Oh, English? Have you done this before? Look, take your time when you get in, and do you have anything for your hands and feet? It’s really better to keep those extremities warm.”

One of the women says all of this to me in a hurried, motherly way. Her English is perfect, an almost flawless American or Canadian accent. The best I’ve heard since I’ve been in Europe. I briefly think that she must have lived in North America for a while, or perhaps she just immigrated here recently and French is her second language.

I tell them the last “polar plunge type thing” I’d done was a few years ago and that no, unfortunately I don’t have anything for my extremities.
“Here, you can borrow my gloves.” She peels off her thick, wet-suit material gloves and hands them to me.
“Thanks! I’ll make sure to get these back to you.” I put on the gloves and make my way down the staircase. My feet enter the water and its cooooold.

I suddenly jump in all at once, against the advice of the ladies, and I hear Simona’s yelp of surprise before I go under. I quickly surface. My breath is ragged and uneven from the initial shock. I make an effort to begin breathing more smoothly. I’ve done half a dozen polar plunges before, but somehow this is feeling more painful than any I can remember. I begin to breaststroke away from the bank, keeping my head above water, until I’m about ten meters out. I inhale and go under again, holding my breath for a few seconds before resurfacing. I swim back and tread water near the staircase for a couple minutes. Soon I’m near the limit of my tolerance and I get out. It never really got less painful.

“Wow, good job!” Simona exclaims. I smile, shivering, and thank her, laughing euphorically.

We walk back to where we left our things near the bank, where it seems that Simona has somehow – true to character – found the time to meet someone new.

My initial impression is that this new acquaintance looks like he could have come directly from the set of a Dos Equis commercial. He has sandy-blonde, windswept hair and some wrinkles around his eyes that only add to his debonair, world-wise look. I estimate his age to be around 40. He’s dressed in sporty, hiking type clothes and has his pants rolled up to mid-calf, the better to lounge and sunbathe. I experience an immediate pang of jealousy, and in so doing I feel viscerally for the first time that maybe I don’t see Simona as merely a friend.

Our new acquaintance tells us he’s a documentary filmmaker and a journalist. He’s half-British, half-Swiss. His English is of course perfectly fluent but also uniquely accented, an upshot of his dual mother tongues – the bastard. He tells us that he lives in a small village close by, near the Alps. He shows us a sample of his work on his Instagram page, and we watch a brief clip in which our new acquaintance seems to be focused on looking handsome and intense while riding in a jeep and having his hair blown around by the wind. From the clip I can’t make out what the actual subject of the documentary is meant to be.

Simona has apparently had time to tell this man that I’m half-Iranian. He recounts to me how he was once smuggled into Iran through the Southern border as part of an investigative piece regarding the opium trade. He was in the country for 48 hours and then quickly got out again.

“It was dangerous. especially with me being British. You probably know. The Iranian government really doesn’t like Britain or the U.S.”
“Yeah. Or Israel,” I add drily. “That’s probably their number one country non grata.”
“Oh yeeeeah, of course.” His eyes widen as he remembers this tidbit.

We continue chatting about travel for a few minutes. I mention that Simona and I met in Mexico. Our journalist replies that he’s planning to go there soon. As we part ways he exchanges numbers with Simona. “Maybe we can get a coffee sometime.” She smiles and responds noncommittally.

That night, back at the apartment, all three of the roommates are home, and the five of us have dinner and wine around the kitchen table together. The roommates by now seem more comfortable than ever around me and I’m feeling like I’m among friends. Renard and Vinçent, with their playful sarcasm, tease Maria a bit, and although she seems a little touchy, she does appear at least willing to participate and tease back some. Maria is curious about the U.S. and asks me some questions about it. We talk a little about politics and make some societal comparisons. The topic of guns arises. She’s aghast when I casually mention episodes of people having been shot at fast food drive-thrus in my hometown.

Simona, after her second glass of wine, rolls some loose leaf tobacco into a cigarette and goes out on the balcony to smoke. The guys migrate to the TV where they turn on Super Smash Bros and start playing. Renard comes back to the kitchen every once and a while to poor himself shots of liquor. The boys are smack talking each other as they play. The conversation is flowing between me and the girls and it begins to feel like a party atmosphere. I feel good. After a bit I accept the guys’ invitation and join them at Super Smash Bros. It’s competitive, and I manage to win a couple of games. Like riding a bike, I think. (I got my 10,000 hours of Smash Bros and then some during my undergraduate years.) In fact, this scene and the whole vibe is now beginning to remind me very much of college indeed. Simona gets caught up in the moment and starts to do a little dance out of excitement. But, appearing to notice that she’s maybe a bit more excited (or more drunk) than the rest of us, she soon desists and goes back to talking with Maria. Eventually things gradually peter out and everyone drifts off to their respective rooms one by one. Once the lights are out I quickly fall asleep on the couch. My second day in Geneva has reached it’s end.

Part 3

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Upon awakening the next morning, I am sadly aware that it’s my last full day in Geneva with Simona. My time here, and Simona’s hospitality, has really surpassed all expectations. Tomorrow morning I’ll be taking the train up through Switzerland and Germany into Amsterdam. I’ll be leaving almost exactly 72 hours after I arrived. I make an effort to snap out of my anticipatory melancholy, however, and remind myself to focus on being present today. I’m also slightly hung over.

Today’s plan, devised by Simona, is for the two of us to take the train up around the northern edge of Lac Lémon (Lake Geneva). We’ll disembark slightly past Montreux, and will then go for a nice day-hike in the alps before returning home by the same train in the evening. We’ve purchased full-day train passes in preparation for the occasion. We get dressed and head out around 7, heading first to a local supermarket to buy provisions for our day’s adventures. I decide on a hearty-looking sandwich, some fiber cookies, and a bag of dried fruit. Simona selects her own snacks. We each also buy a coffee.

On the train, we’re able to find window seats facing each other on the side of the aisle facing the lake. We get comfortable, I open the package of fiber cookies on the little table between us to share, and we begin sipping our coffees. I feel my morning languor beginning to lift. The train sets off, and I’m soon transfixed by the the scenery. Yes, THIS is the Swiss riviera I’ve read about. I try to imagine what the lives of the people whose lakeside houses we pass must be like. My imagination is entirely captured by the scene and paints all of the locals’ imagined lives glamorously. As we pass Montreux I think of Nobokov, who lived the last decades of his life just here. I think also of Hesse, who lived out his later years at another lakeside Swiss town, though not this lake.

We disembark as planned at our port of call. A valley carpeted with yellow flowers extends away from the small outdoor train station towards the nearby snowcapped mountains. On our other side lies the lake we’ve just skirted. I take a few pictures of the scenery. Everywhere we turn, it seems, there is a beautiful postcard vista waiting to be admired or captured. We walk along a little ways and enter a small village. We decide to stop and have another snack at a cafe (this time a warm one) before beginning our hike. While I sit, dreamily watching the village and the passers-by, our server has a brief conversation in French with Simona. Afterwards, as we are leaving, I ask:
“What did that guy say?”
“Hah. He asked what we were doing, and when I told him he wished us luck on our hike because it is quite steep.”
“Ahhh. Gotcha.”

Before arriving at the trailhead there is apparently a shuttle we must take. We wait at the designated stop, and soon a little, grey 20-seater bus pulls by, driven by a cheery middle-aged woman. I like her immediately. She has kind features and strawberry blond hair, which is short in the back and longer in the front, arcing toward her chin. She says something – a casual and friendly village hello, I imagine – but noticing my near-nonexistent French she decides to smile warmly at me by way of greeting instead. We are the first passengers on board. Our driver makes period stops as we begin to make our way up the mountain slope, and at each stop a handful of schoolchildren with backpacks climb aboard. They all appear to be grade school age, and soon begin clambering and shouting in childish excitement as new friends climb inside the bus. Hmm, I guess this mountain shuttle doubles as the school bus in this village, I think.

The shuttle is soon full. Aside from Simona and I, there is one other adult passenger – a man sitting in the very front loaded with backpacking and ski gear. The steady chatter of French from the children is punctuated by periodic youthful shrieks. I notice our driver is keeping a sharp eye on the children through her rear-view mirror. Occasionally she calls back to restore order. From the look on her face I can tell she’s fond of the children, and she seems to know them all by name. The quaintness of it all is completed by the magnificent backdrop of the Swiss Alps and yellow-green valley shrinking steadily below us. I am almost overwhelmed by it all, and tears well momentarily in my eyes before I’m able to get ahold of myself. I consider that to the driver and children this might just be another day, but I feel grateful that I’m here to share it with them. I beam momentarily at Simona, and she smiles back, unsure of what to make of my emotional gaze.

We continue to climb, the view becoming grander all the while. Eventually Simona signals the driver and we disembark. The driver gives us a cheery goodbye.

At Simona’s request we enter a nearby lodge so she can use the restroom. I decide to use the opportunity to buy more water at the counter. We come upon three middle-aged women chatting as we enter, and one stands to greet us. She appears to be the proprietress. Simona asks her if there is a bathroom, and begins heading toward it after getting pointed in the right direction.
“Want me to get you a bottle of water too?” I call out quickly (and shamelessly – I knew exactly what I was doing) in Spanish.
“Yes please” she responds as she slips out of sight.

I buy the waters from the proprietress, who surprisingly appears to have very limited English – I guess there isn’t as much need for it in this mountain village as there is in Geneva – but who I had already observed, from her exchange with Simona and her conversation with her two friends, speaks Swiss German and French fluently. I discover to my chagrin that the cost of the water is eight Swiss Francs per 12-ounce bottle! Jesus, the prices sure seem in keeping with Geneva.

When Simona returns the proprietress asks her, in French, if Simona speaks German too. Simona admits she doesn’t, but proudly lists off the languages she does speak: Italian, French, English, and Spanish, in that order of fluency. The proprietress clucks her approval.

Outside again, we finally set off and begin the hike. The incline is indeed steep, and it only takes me 15 minutes to begin panting slightly while I lope slowly up the slope. Simona appears to be in better shape than me. She is small, only about 5’2″, but her lithe, athletic body easily keeps up with my long, loping stride, and I don’t hear any labored breathing from her part. After about 30 to 40 minutes, by which time I am more than slightly panting, we reach a plateau. We stop to rest and take in the views for a bit, then continue on our way.

A bit further on we pass by a log house. I tell her this scene reminds me of the film Heidi, a fond memory from my childhood (my mother brought an old VHS of the movie with us to Iran, which we would watch often there with many of my cousins). We begin tennis-balling back and forth to each other who we think might live inside the log house, and what they’re like. Simona points out that getting groceries out here must be a huge pain in the ass. I laugh and agree.

Further still, the trail narrows and I fall in behind Simona as we shift into single file. I can’t help but admire her figure, although I try not to. The trail is bordered by evergreens, and beams of light shine alternately through the branches as we walk on, illuminating each time her olive-toned skin.

Eventually, after about three hours of hiking, we reach the far point of our hiking loop. The trail deposits us at nothing less than the edge of a turquoise mountain lake. The lake is watched over by a craggy snow-dappled peak, with evergreens circling around the left and right banks. Across the lake we spy a small grassy plain, and on it, huddled around in a circle, a complex of four to five log buildings. The largest building is two stories and stands in the center of the complex. The complex of buildings appears to be deserted. Simona supposes out loud that it’s probably a lakeside retreat center, and the two-story lodge might be where the guests of the complex sleep.

We sit on a large bench, basking in the afternoon sun, as we eat our sandwiches and enjoy the idyllic scene. I feel the familiar weary contentment, and the familiar little shared space of quiet and peace that sometimes comes – if I’m fortunate – at the apex of a challenging hike, before the party, recovered, is able to slowly stir itself and begin the return trek.

After eating, We take some photos of the lake and then some photos together. A sporty couple passes by and agrees to take a photo of the two of us. We then make our way around the right bank towards the lodge complex.

On the other side, we notice that what looked like a deserted lodge complex is actually populated by various people and couples, invisible from the other shore, milling around and enjoying the day. We find a small cafe and enjoy a citrus beer each. I wonder if I should say something flirtatious to Simona, but decide against it. Then we start back.

After about six hours roundtrip, we arrive back where the shuttle dropped us off. The sun’s light is now much lower in the sky, and it casts a warm glow across the valley. We idle and enjoy the view while we wait for the shuttle to swing back by. In the yard of a nearby house, a puffy-furred cat winds its away under the legs of a recliner, upon which lays a woman, reading in the sun. A few houses away, three construction workers labor methodically on the outside wall of a public building, making steady clinking noises. I sit and watch. Simona is standing and doing something on her phone. I’m amazed by her stamina. Soon the shuttle arrives and our cherished, amicable driver picks us back up. We get off at the village and hurry over to the train stop to catch the train just in time, as it makes its way back to Geneva. I am thoroughly beat.

I feel ready to take a shower and maybe go to bed early tonight. Today was a nice finale to my time here, I think. But Simona, as it turns out, has other plans. She’s going to leave me the key to the apartment, she says, and will sidetrack off to her weekly dance class.

“The instructor is really pregnant, and this could be the last time I see her for a long time. I have to go!”
“How do you have this much energy!?”
She laughs, pleased with herself, and shrugs innocently.

I am able to let myself into the apartment without issues. I take my shower and lay down on the couch to read and wait for Simona to get home. It doesn’t seem that any of the other roommates are home. The time passes slowly. The clock strikes ten. Simona should be back any minute now. After she returns we’ll probably have dinner and then go to bed. Another quarter hour passes, and I begin to worry at Simona’s delay. That’s when my phone rings.

“Hola hola, que onda?” I say forced-playfully.
“Zach. something happened.”
Oh shit.
“What’s wrong?”

She explains that she fell and hit her nose at the end of her dance class, and now she’s in a cab with her instructor headed to urgent care.

“I’ll come right away.”
“You don’t have to. You must be tired after the hiking today.”
“Are you kidding me? You had an entire dance class after our hike, you must be more tired. ..Do you want me to bring you any food when I come?”
“No, I’m ok. I’ll send you my location just in case, so you can find the right entrance.”
“Ok, I’ll see you there.”

I decide to bring some food with me anyway, in case Simona changes her mind about wanting to eat. I open some cupboard drawers. I worry about taking something that belongs to one of the other roommates. I decide on a couple of bananas, a granola bar, and a bottle of water.

I step out into the brisk Geneva night and make my way to the urgent care. It’s only about five minutes away, on the other side of the hospital. I enter and meet a helpful receptionist. She gives me directions to the area where Simona will be, but there is a certain word that she is having trouble translating from French to English. I Google translate the word (which I no longer remember) and it gives me a strange translation that seems out of place for the vocabulary of a hospital. In any case, thinking I’ll be able to find my way well enough, I thank the lady and head off down the corridor to the right. Essentially I’m just meant to follow the blue arrows.

I pass one or two patients in stretchers, surrounded by medical personnel who stand by and seem to be waiting for something. The hallway takes me past some open rooms as well, in which I glimpse other patients sitting quietly. Soon I reach the end of the hallway. The arrows have led me directly to a wall. The only way to go is right. The blue arrows don’t continue in that direction, but I try to continue anyway. Immediately my progress is halted, though, as there is an automatic door with imbedded opaque glass panels. But it doesn’t slide open for me and appears to be locked when I try to to slide it open manually. Stumped, I turn around and retrace my steps, thinking I may have missed a turn somewhere. I walk back quickly, peering around all the turns and angles more attentively than before, until I’m back at the reception desk. Well, this isn’t it.

Rather than bothering the receptionist again (or out of diffidence, or stubbornness, or both), I double back and continue again down the hallway, rehearsing the directions the woman gave me. There was that strange word that I didn’t understand, some sort of a garden hedge or something. Hmm. Now I’m back at that wall where the blue arrows disappear. I step forward, closer to the wall than before, and lo and behold the wall slides open! It turns out that it wasn’t a wall at all, but some sort of giant, floor-to-ceiling sliding door. This was what she meant.

From here, I recognize where I am in relation to the receptionist’s remaining directions. I take the stairs up to the second floor, turn left, and finally enter the urgent care hallway. At the end of the hallway I see Simona, a thick piece of gauze taped on her nose, blood on her shirt, standing and looking dolefully my way.

We walk toward each other. I’m smiling gently and she is too, but as we reach each other her eyes well and she seems on the point of tears. She looks so vulnerable. Something in me stirs. We hug.

“Oh Simona. How unlucky. I try to smile reassuringly and continue rubbing her shoulders.
We stare into each other’s eyes for a long moment. Finally…

“So tell me – what happened?”

She seems to come back from some internal precipice. Her expression relaxes. She sighs. She shows me back into a waiting room where we sit down together, and she tells me what happened.

“Zach, it was the very end of class. I mean, actually the class was already over! I can’t believe it. It was so stupid.”

At this point the tape holding the gauze up begins to fail, and she has to hold the gauze in place with her right hand as she speaks. She gesticulates with her hands in excitement as she talks and keeps having to remember to save the gauze before it falls.

“Our instructor had taught us a new move, and I wanted to see it one more time. So I asked her, and then I tried to do it myself. It was like this. You start where you are sort of sitting with your legs in L shapes, and then you spin around on your knees 180 degrees. So I try to do it, and the entire class is done and just watching me, like, in a circle. And I do the twist…but..I don’t know what happened, I just lost control for a second…and…and I slammed my face against the ground!”

I am tempted to laugh. But restrain myself and make a big, surprised, incredulous face at her. I really do feel for her in this moment, but I’m relieved to hear that the injury isn’t as grave as I thought it might be, and things now feel more normal and under control. The relief and her funny telling of the story have cheered me up.

“Oh my god, Zach, what’s going to happen to my nose?”

Now I actually laugh.

“It’s not funny! Zach, what if my nose is ruined now? I’m going to be hideous.”
“Don’t say that, if your nose is bent out of shape I’m sure they can move it back into place, and besides you’re beautiful already, a slight change in your nose won’t change that.”

She stops for a second. This is the first time I’ve called her beautiful.

“By the way, I brought you some snacks.”

She looks down, noticing them for the first time.
“Oh thank youuuu.” She peels and eats one of the bananas.

We end up waiting for hours. Simona periodically offers for me to got back to the apartment. I tell her if we haven’t been called back by 2AM then I’ll leave.

At 2:08 a nurse calls Simona’s name we’re shepherded into a large room with screened-off divisions. It appears to be a busy night. A man wails horrendously behind one of the partitions as hospital staff attempt to attend to him. Simona eavesdrops on the ruckus and tells me she gathers the man has cut off several of his fingers while drunk, and the staff want him to hold still to inject local anesthesia. “I guess I’m not the most important person here,” she adds charitably.

A harried-looking doctor (wearing the tell-tale long white coat) finally comes by to attend Simona. He asks her questions and she describes what happened. I understand nothing of course. He removes her gauze, revealing a gnarly-looking gash and a swollen nose with a slight bump that may not have been there before. He decides he needs to stitch it up and explains this to Simona, who explains it to me. Another doctor promptly joins us – a small Asian woman. It appears she is the attending, and the initial doctor is an intern or resident. The first doctor explains the situation and his plan to his attending. I watch on, thoroughly delighted, and ignorantly fascinated by this Asian, French-speaking, Swiss woman doctor. She asks some more questions, appears to hear satisfactory responses from both her protege and Simona, and leaves the room. The young doctor gets to work, and soon the work is done. Simona is given an appointment to come back in five days to have the stitches removed.

We walk home, and on the way Simona complains that she might have to postpone her Paris visit this weekend. She wonders if she can find a way to get her stitches removed there. “And I want to get an X-ray too. I think my nose might be broken.” I wonder to myself whether an X-ray can show a broken nose.

Once home, we immediately go to bed. My eventful third day in Geneva is, at length, over.

The next morning, I bid farewell to the roommates and Simona accompanies me to the train station. We hug and part ways on the street and I board the platform. I turn and we wave to each other once more, and then Simona turns and begins walking back to her apartment and I go to find an empty seat. We’ve promised to stay in touch. So far we’ve shared time in Mexico, Spain, and now Switzerland. I suggest that we might see each other in Turkey next. Who knows.

Endnote:
It’s been approximately one year since the episode narrated above. Simona and I have not seen each other since. We had talked about her coming to visit me when I was in Iran or Turkey, but it ultimately didn’t work out. I look back on my time in Switzerland (and Europe in general) as a precious opportunity that enabled me to get a taste of a feeling of glamour and cosmopolitanism. But now, after having tasted it and seen a little past the glamour to the mundane, down-to-Earth side of some of the people there, I feel I can be more content with my own place in the world. I feel I am now a little more ready to live in the U.S. without having to experience a burning international FOMO. As far as Simona goes, despite having our moments when we might have thought about it, ultimately romance didn’t come between us naturally, and it shouldn’t be forced. But it was great to have a warm-hearted, generous, and hospitable friend during my travels, and I will happily repay the favor should the opportunity arise in the future.