The Adventure Continues...

What a peculiar place. For a start, no one REALLY lives there. Everyone’s on some form of temporary contract with a UN-type agency. Even the waiting staff are diplomats (in the same way that Los Angeles waiting staff are actors). The only people who speak fewer than three languages are the British (of course) because even the American’s have done their bit by learning Spanish and speaking a bit of French. Of course, American accented French is a bit hard to follow…and painful on the ear even to me…but they’re still putting us Union Jack wavers to shame.

Just as well I can all of a sudden change allegiance and become a Kiwi again then, huh?

The lights in the old town were just insane. I’ve never seen any like them. And even more disappointingly, I never saw a single one that didn’t have a backdrop of tram lines or buildings (mainly because they’re street lights for dwarves…I could have touched them): which meant no clear shot for my wall of lights.

And you KNOW, without any shadow of a doubt, that to stand somewhere inappropriate to take a shot would have had me in jail sooner than you could have said “I was only jaywalking!”. It may be illegal in some places, but this is the first city I’ve ever been in where it FELT illegal. Everyone waits patiently (not in the same “Oh god, we’re waiting again” way as the Czechs, but more a “these are the rules we’ve agreed to abide by, so abide by them we shall” approach) on their side of the road until the little man goes green, even if it’s the middle of the night, on a street closed for roadworks!

But then, since it’s also illegal to flush your toilet after 10pm if you live in an apartment…I guess the Genevites (Genevieves?) somewhat accustomed to rules and regulations governing their lives.

It was nice to be in amongst a foreign language that was comprehensible again. I mean, I know my Czech has come a long way (it would be impossible for it not to have), but I can actually listen to French and understand a modicum of it. Occasionally I’ll even store up sufficient bravery to stammer a few words. Which is exactly what I did when I sat down at a small café in a square on top of a hill in the old town part of Geneva. The waiter approached and said Bonjour. I did the same and then followed with a “eeeh…je voudrais chocolat chaud du maison, s’il vous plait.” Where the ‘eeeh’ at the beginning was merely an affectation, and not because I was thinking how to phrase my request. It was all but automatic.

This bodes poorly for a return to the CR, whereupon I shall no doubt start my sentences in French. WHY?!? Because my poor, underdeveloped language cortex has smidgens of two languages, and it can’t quite separate the two just yet. It’ll get there. I’m told.

There are three things the Swiss appear to be famous for: knives (Swiss army – remember?), watches (clocks are EVERYWHERE in Geneva – there’d be no excuse for ever being late!) and chocolate. Which means that should you ever stab someone with the ‘removing a stone from a horse’s hoof’ accessory of your Victorianox for attempting to steal your bonbon (and they’re expensive, the attack AND defence are understandable) then you’d be able to quickly check the time and develop an alibi. This is when the ‘private banking’ system comes into play: you can always say you were with your private banker, discussing confidential matters and he’s obliged to agree. Perfect.

Then you’d be on the bus that heads for “United Nations”. And I swear, if I ever thought my 5^th Form Geography class was like the Security Council (one Chinese person, NEVER went along with the rest of us) then these bus journey’s are even worse. In any given fraction of a second, you can see all races of the world represented (there may have been a paucity of Eskimo’s, but I’m sure I saw one!) and nearly all languages spoken (except the supposedly unifying Esperanto, of course).

But when you get to the UN offices, do be careful where you sit your arse. While mine spread due to consumption of the most delicious baguette in the world (hot, ‘baguette avec multicereales’ upon which brie had been liberally sliced, topped off with fresh vine-ripened tomatoes and Serrano ham), I watched the world go by over the top edge of my “The Times” (oh god, I miss newspapers). One incident I saw had me slackjawed. So we all know that I live in dodge central, well, there I was, sunning myself by Lac Leman, when a gentleman approached. Mid-30’s, tanned, self-assured, cords and shirt combination with sensible walking shoes. Could’ve been anyone. Went to sit down and checked the seat before sitting (gay?) – apparently for bird poo (!!?). Reached down (I assumed to ‘brush solid shit off the seat’ and retrieved (betwixt index finger and thumb) an uncapped hypodermic.

In Geneva.

By the UN!!!

Colour me horrified.

But by the time I’d gotten over returning to the WHO building (oh so geeky to be so impressed, but I can’t help myself, I never went on school field trips to anywhere like that!) which has a lobby that would rival any shopping mall (bedecked in marble, resplendent with shops, and a small sign that indicates ‘get your visa’s for foreign places here’. The only thing that separates it from being a mall is that the last minute travel agency can organise trips to Darfur/Gaza/Kabul/Beirut instead of the more usual Tunis/Cairo/Athens/Istanbul options! Oh – and everyone dresses superbly too, suits/tights/briefcases – until you get down to the Response group who are in moleskins/jeans, checked shirts/t-shirts and sturdy shoes and who go nowhere without their backpacks), in order to go out and buy more French wine to have with our raclette, I’d almost forgotten the incident with the ‘eepohdearghmeek’.

Yeah – bilingual, I am