Brokedown palace

Embarrassment is paralyzing. When you live in a country where you only understand one word in twenty--on a good day--shame is omnipresent. Nearly half of Geneva is from a country besides Switzerland. On the tram this morning, I was surrounded by a cacophony of French, English, Italian, German, Russian, and god knows what else. It’s a well-educated bunch, and after the standard cheek kissing--three, not two kisses--the next ritual is to identify a common language. God bless the Europeans, they are usually good for a language or four. The sad assumption is that US citizens only speak ‘Merican with the eloquence of a Dan Quayle. Unfortunately this is usually right. Defensively, I usually feel obliged to mention my fluency in Spanish. Latent patriotism? Quizás.

Despite the prevalence of English speakers here, it’s an unusual English dialect. Exaggerated gestures, staccato speech and monosyllabic words predominate. Incoherency is our national currency.

Tragically, what goes unsaid can be far from benign. Exhibit A: Halloween night, 2010. Marilyn Monroe costume donned, I set out with a friend for a party in town. I happily met him at the train station, Gare Cornavin, and we sallied forth.



After a half-mile or so, I began to regret my insistence on costume authenticity. Sure, the diamonds may have been fake, but my Marilyn wasn’t going to wear cheap shoes. Sacre bleu! Only my finest, ruby red, 4-inch heels would do. Over cobblestone streets we flew; witty banter ensued. Orthopedic injury did not.

The Friend had the decidedly attractive attributes of being possessed with a sense of direction and speaking French.

Blah, blah, blah. Hours passed. Merrily.

Sacre bleu otra vez! The last train was going to leave Geneva alarmingly soon. This was more important for suburban-dwelling Friend than moi, but like Cinderella we hurriedly scampered forth from the Ball.

Or, to be precise, I hobbled forth on blister-laden feet. Friend, damn him, was clad in practical footwear. With every step, my feet cried for an epidural. Piercing, agonizing lightening bolts of pain radiated from my Louboutins to my spleen. My respect for runway models increased exponentially as we ran through the dimly lit, uneven streets.

Three blocks from Gare Cornavin, where the last train for the suburbs soon departed, and a tram awaited moi, Friend abruptly departed. It would be a race to the finish for him to catch his train.

I was alarmed. The train station was not in sight. Beer, pain, and a congenital lack of orientation were conspiring against me.

Three minutes later, I was hopelessly lost, feet throbbing in agony. There is one bad neighborhood in Geneva; it’s called Pâquis. I found it. There amidst the drug deals, prostitution and general chaos, I paused. I couldn’t walk any further; it was physically impossible. As it began to rain, I had a quintessential “Come to Jesus” moment.

Marilyn was highly bedraggled at this point, but still attracting slews of unwanted attention from male passersby. I blamed the blonde curls--it’s a red cape in front of matador perverts here.




I triaged the situation. Lost. Rain. Marilyn Monroe. 3 AM. Pâquis. Surveying the unfamiliar terrain, I swiftly calculated the probability of exotic parasites, discarded needles and broken glass, then contrasted these with the certain pain of continued walking in the high heeled, stylish torture devices. With surgical decision-making the heels were off and, barefoot, I set forth.

Scanning the heavens, I noted the location of Orion, and calculating the hypotenuse to the Big Dipper, I plotted my course.

FINE. I saw a sign for the mall that was by the train station and set my course by that instead. Hopefully headed in the direction of Gare Cornavin, holding my adorable shoes, I was overcome by a horde of zombies. Spirited attempts at conversation ensued, despite the fact that our only common language was Mime.

After years of international travel, and a generally surly disposition, I fancied I had the “leave me the eff alone” façade down, in any language. Allors, no. Apparently Gallic optimism perseveres where Indonesian panhandlers demur.

Les zombies followed me to the train station, onto le tram and to le stop. During this time I ran the spectrum of casually ignoring them to outright hostility. To no avail.

When one of the undead actually grabbed Marilyn’s arm to persuade her to go to le disco, or manger or drink un biere, an understanding was finally reached.

With a loud “Oh, hell no” and a derisive roll of Marilyn’s eyes, les zombies finally slunk away. Head held high, wet hair plastered against my skull, and adorable shoes tucked under my arm, I limped home. Where anger fails, contempt succeeds. Some things translate universally.