For a few days, my full focus will be to breathe this pure Alpine air. And to watch the swans float about the Lake Geneva. And to share tea and gossip and frustration at the world with a dear friend. And to visit CERN and the UN and tell you all about it.
“and just like you, we breathe the same air of this orphan world”
(Pagliacci by Leoncavallo)
(Geneva, Switzerland; November 2014)
“We could learn a lot from crayons; some are sharp, some are pretty, some are dull, while others bright, some have weird names, but they all have learned to live together in the same box.”
(Robert Fulghum)
(the Caran d’Ache Shop, Geneva, Switzerland; December 2013)
His name is long vanished, but his bones still defy time. He was a chief and buried by his villagers high atop a hill. He was mourned, remembered, and worshipped. Temples were built and rebuilt over his body while his identity and story faded. Maybe he was a great man; or maybe he was a feared man? Perchance he was a wise man, or simply a human with kind, compassionate eyes?
Today his burial site is still worshipped, in an unbroken lineage going back two thousand years. Today he lies underneath the Cathedral of Geneva, right under the altar area.
Chance, perhaps; or perhaps not?
(Geneva, Switzerland; December 2013)
It was cold, frosty cold, and as we ran from the tram to the lake the rain chilled us to the bone. We stumbled down on the pier in pitch-blackness, holding on to the handrail and hurried towards the old spa in the middle of the lake. We dove inside and were instantly surrounded by chatter, heat from huge coal fires, and the lovely scent of fondue au Crémant, a Swiss fondue made with sparkling wine. Fingers and cheeks thawing we swirled our bread in the cheese, blissfully forgetting the chill outside.
Nothing better on a frosty night than fondue at Bains des Paquis, at the prettiest corner of the Lake Léman. If you stroll down at daytime you may even discover a little secret: the beach sand is not sand at all, but crumbled little sea shells. A little secret of this world, just like splashing sparkling wine into a fondue.
(Geneva, Switzerland; December 2013)
Blinded by the rare December sunlight sparkling on the lake we slipped into Hotel d’Angleterre for an afternoon treat. There were silk napkins and silver teapots and a single blue flower in a glass. There were towers of sandwiches and cakelets and creamy fluff. The sun rays danced around the tables as we sipped our steaming hot darjeeling from rosy bone china.
And I felt an overwhelming gratitude for being allowed to call this extraordinary person my friend, in a world never too big for an occasional cup of tea together on a Sunday.
(Geneva, Switzerland; December 2013)
This blue marble 