Go see

 

Be the bold ones, we're told--

Be the first leaves to turn in autumn

And then again the first to shake off snow. 

Live with full eyes and fuller stomachs,

Never quenched but never pining.

Drive as long as there are things to be seen

And you've the eyes to see them.

Go see.

Bern and Interlaken

 
One of my greatest aspirations is to never lose that awe, { that AHHHH }, that jaw drop in the face of beauty, giddiness at the simple existence of the spectacular. Interlaken is truly one of the most stunning places I've ever been.

{ This is Switzerland }

After spending the day in Interlaken a few of us went back to Bern for the night. At a cultural festival (Geneva would be shocked at the spectacle -- OUTDOOR noise, you say? And FREE? Preposterous!) on the city plaza we ran into a 59-year-old Peruvian man named César Miranda, and our night took a sharp turn. César spoke no English (French, German, Italian, Spanish, so I'll forgive him), so the next three hours were conducted exclusively in Spanish and muddled French. I feel incredibly guilty now for thinking César was trying to hustle us -- he just wanted to show us around one of the cities he calls his own. We talked about politics -- Swiss, international, American, pan-American -- haltingly, of course. I have no idea how he managed such patience at our understanding. 

Two Swiss-Germans came and sat at the table next to ours. Speaking no Spanish (and César no English), they and César began a battle for our ideologies. "We're the real Switzerland," both sides insisted. Above all César was proud of his multiple citizenships -- Swiss, Peruvian and Italian. The Germans plead with us not to allow this "migrant" to color our interpretation of their country: "He is not the real Switzerland. It's truly a beautiful country." In turn, César begged us to ignore them entirely: "But for the racism, Switzerland is a beautiful country." 

Switzerland, the boilerplate.

Silent duel

{ Dachshund crossing }

The bike was obviously abandoned--leaned against a bench on the waterfront, tires distended and warped from months in an attic or basement or locked outside an apartment building after all best intentions had drained away, handle wraps frayed not from frequent use but disrepair. An hour before I had noticed it on my way to the park, made a note to pass back the same way to make sure no one had rightly claimed it. I could see vast potential: ten speed, chain in decent shape, all indications to free trips around Geneva, across the border, around the lake. 

Out of the corner of my eye, a challenger. One bench over, eying me eying the bike. 

Five minutes on, it's clear our intents are at odds. Ten minutes, it's unmistakable. Fifteen, open war. His female companion (I'd hazard to guess wife, but would guess sister as a reserve) is impatient, I'm sure he'll be the first to cave. Twenty, thirty minutes. There are only so many empty gazes at the lake or into the distance at a fabricated acquaintance that surely isn't coming that we can manage. I flip through every file on my camera, he fiddles with keys. Wife/sister taps her foot.

Forty-five. I'm sketched out, I've lost. I stand up to leave. Barely had I crossed the street before the pair move bench and take the prize. Match.

Detente

That'll do, Jet. That'll do just fine.

Geneva's daylong nap

First overcast day so far--apparently fall is full of them here, so a taste of climes to come. The Jet d'Eau turns off, and if this city has any bustle to speak of it disappears entirely at the hint of rain. It's not a sullen or mopey feeling, just sleepy.

France for an hour

This morning the program paid for a boat from Geneva to Yvoire, France, about an hour and a half trip each way after a couple of stops along the Swiss side of the lake. The switch from one country to the next can be anticlimactic here--there was no customs agent or border station (which I realize can be difficult to construct in the middle of so large a pond as Lac Léman), and my passport remained in my bag, unstamped or examined. It's great: the most successful experiment in open borders that I know of, flawless except for the need to change currencies. Lose the franc, Switzerland, your exchange rate is killing all of us.

It begins

It's been three weeks since I've been in an English-majority country, and an odd silence has settled about my perception, to the point that I'm incredibly attuned to either English or Spanish or the five French phrases I've managed to get down so far. Our brains pick up the familiar. English is still spoken quite a bit here but a French immersion won't be difficult if I seek it out. It's serene--virtually all speech on the street fades into unintelligible background prattle and I speak so much less when in public than I do in native circumstances, just because I'm listening and deciphering that much more. Any communication is deliberate and self-conscious, language-as-tool rather than automatic.

With any luck, I'll pick up French quickly and be better able to move around the city without gestures or muffled Spanish (which works surprisingly well).