Geneva Conventions

Geneva’s a significant international business hub—the UN and the International Red Cross Society are headquartered here—but this medieval city, two kilometres from the French border, has the soul of gay Paree.

Canopied roadside cafes display blackboards with the day’s specials chalked in French, shopkeepers scoff if you attempt a conversation in German (Switzerland’s other neighbour), and the most celebrated movie hall in town is named Pathe. Young girls even pop across to shop for their fashion accessories. And on a clear day, one can spot the red, white and blue flag fluttering on the other side of Lake Geneva.

It’s a bipolar city: While the skyline is a mess of hotel spires, the old town is a picturesque clutter of fading two-storeyed houses with wrought iron verandahs and smoking chimneys. The psychosis is also evident in the time warp that envelopes its residents. Though the sun sets only at eight, all stores down their shutters by four in the evening. At the unearthly hour of 6 pm, the only stall open is a Chinese-run refreshment stand.

The owner comprehends neither English nor French. When I enquire about a vegetable sandwich, his porcelain forehead creases for a minute. He disappears into the kitchen, emerging five minutes later with a platter of chopped assorted veggies to indicate what he could offer. Needless to say, he bagged his customer.

Later, strolling along the pier, I’m a sitting duck for careening skaters and cyclists on their evening run. Swan-gazing seems to be the preferred pastime for aged couples, as they sip on steaming coffee and bite into bagels.

One word every foodie recognises is fondue. Most eateries offer the cheesy delight, but I single out one that claims to specialise in Swiss delicacies. The warmth of the kitchen hearth sucks the frost from my bones as I snuggle into a wooden corner. But judging by the stunned look on the waitress’s face, I committed a gastronomical faux pas by refusing the accompanying wine.

But if I had a bone to pick, it would be with the bakers. For a neutral country, Swiss loaves are lethal weapons, hard enough to crack a noggin. The explanation? It’s catered to the French procilivity for crunching on the crust.

The country inspires you to be impulsive. So it’s midnight and I find myself back on the German side in Luzern, without a hotel reservation. The night air smells of rain and the fragrance of green apples fills the air as a grocer takes inventory. The quarters of the port city, fondly nicknamed Little Venice, are connected by shadowy pedestrian streets, which circle around an assortment of dimly lit Gothic and Baroque buildings.

Mr Zum of the Weissen Kreuz inn speaks only German, but after 15 minutes of gesticulation-only bargaining, Mumbai Fashion Street style, I’ve got myself a great deal—a 75-franc room at a B&B on the banks of the Rhone, overlooking the Alps and the 34 metre tall water tower. Initially built in 1300 to fortify the city, it now serves as everyone’s favourite point-and-shoot backdrop.

The following morning, my 6 am wake up call is a shower of profanities being hurled by an inebriated man on the road. Minutes later, he’s emptied a bucket of water on a veiled woman in the pebbled by-lane, who promptly chips in for a duet.

A balcony view of snowy peaks beckons the tourist in me. I steal a few last winks dreaming of my first feel of white crystal flakes, before embarking on the two-hour journey to Mount Titlis. How I wish it were Christmas.