Tonight, as I sit all warm and cozy in my house in a Hawaiian rainforest, with the mist doing a hula past my windows, I'm reminded of the icy afternoons I spent two winters ago on a little 3rd floor terrace in Geneva, where the wind mixed with the whoosh of the passing train below.
A week from today I arrive in Geneva again and will revisit that terrace. I can't wait. Of course I can't wait to join my sweetheart (proprietor of said terrace) and truly begin our life together, but also to greet again a city it took me awhile to learn to love.
Geneva is not like Paris. Paris is instant abandon and love -- and if you think otherwise, you probably ought to go hole up in Peoria and hope for a quick bland death. Geneva wears a cloak of Calvinism. Geneva does not quickly embrace you (excepting the hookers in Paquis)
Or maybe I'm wrong about all this. I only lived there for 3 months the end of 2008, and it wasn't until the last few weeks that I realized I'd developed affection for the city. That's what I'm feeling tonight half a world away, and I can't wait to stand on that terrace again, breathing in the coming spring and the sweet aroma of my chérie.