Sundays in Geneva

I yawned and smiled contentedly. The warmth of the sun was a pleasant weight on my eyelids.

“My god! Check that out!” H.P exclaimed sotto voce.

I peeked an eye open and glanced across the park. Eaux Vive is in and of itself comment worthy: an expanse of green lawn extends from a restored mansion, sweeps down a gentle hill, reaches the absurdly blue waters of Lac de Geneve. Perfectly arranged tulips, daffodils and assorted fauna are crisply maintained in beds throughout the park. Vibrant cherry blossoms are silhouetted by the azure sky.

Sorry to wax all poetic. Geneva has been swathed in the same shade of gray for the last five months, so all the color has made me slightly more delirious than usual.
Apparently, I was not the only one.

Was H.P commenting on the vigorous games of bad minton occurring throughout the park? I haven’t seen a set since the 1980’s but apparently it’s undergoing a revival. Even without nets. No, that was not a likely cause of the amused note of alarm in H.P’s voice.

Maybe the two girls sunning themselves directly below us caught her attention? They were slathering themselves in tanning oil. As I watched, one nonchalantly reached into her off the shoulder top, pulled out one breast, copiously oiled it, then its twin, before returning them (mostly) to her blouse. Her friend had set up a foil reflector to capitalize on the sun’s rays. I was momentarily distracted by the fact that they were lying with their heads at the bottom of the incline.

“That has to be uncomfortable,” I muttered.
H.P followed the direction of my gaze and agreed, “Yeah, and it’s going to be a heck of a burn. But no, check out three o’clock.”

Oh dear god. A mountain of a man, as pallid as the snow capped Alps, was spread eagled on the lawn, with nothing more than a very small, nude colored Speedo. At least that is what I told myself before hastily averting my eyes. Nude colored Speedo. Definitely. Very small, nude colored Speedo.

“I think I can smell the melanoma from here!” I remarked.
“I just don’t understand the European fondness for Speedos,” my friend remarked as she slathered a piece of baguette with cheese. She gazed at it for a moment, before remarking wistfully: “I miss bagels.”

“You’d think we could find them somewhere,” I mused. “I wonder if we could make them?”

“By my apartment in New York, we have the best bagel shop. All my favorite flavors, made fresh daily…”

I interrupted with a giggle. “Once upon a time in a far away land…”

HP obligingly continued. “There was a magical kingdom! Full of stores, people, and restaurants, most of which were even open on Sunday!”

With mock disbelief, I interjected, “No, surely the stores weren’t open on Sunday! Next thing you’ll be telling me this magical kingdom’s grocery stores stayed open past 6 p.m!”

Laughingly, HP continued. “Oh yes, my child. Stores were open late every night, and restaurants were full of diverse and delicious foods, including bagels!”

Trying for a note of childlike wonderment, “Bagels?! Really? Was this only on a special day of the year?”

“Oh no. Bagels could be bought any day of the week!”

“But how could that possibly be?! Wouldn’t people need an assigned time to eat bagels? Just like with laundry? Otherwise it would be complete chaos! People would eat bagels whenever they liked!” My voice resonated with mock horror.

HP snorted. “Oh no my dear, they ate bagels AND did laundry whenever they pleased!”

Aghast, I retorted, “Good lord! The sheer insanity! No weekly assigned times rotating on a fixed schedule to designate appropriate times to use the washing machine! Next thing you’ll be telling me they could take showers after 11 p.m!”

“Yes, yes they could! In this magical kingdom, the hot water was available 24 hours a day! Even on Sundays…”

It’s been about eight months now, and of the many things to get used to in Geneva, the hardest has been trying to figure out, and make sense of, the many rules. Regulations are legion here. I’ve tried to give up the quest for logic in many of the decrees; it’s simply not to be found. The stores will close before most of us get off of work, laundry can be done only at the assigned time, and if you try to take a shower after 11 pm or 5 am, be prepared: it’s going to be icy cold.

The biggest adjustment was Sundays. I can’t remember any weekends from this fall, they passed in a nauseating blur of studying for the oral board exam. By the time I resurfaced after my fateful day in Dallas, it was winter, and Geneva resembled a ghost town on the weekends. Buried in damp, monochromatic grey, anyone who wasn’t skiing was taking advantage of plane tickets to almost anywhere else. In retrospect, the fact that the highlights of Geneva were mentioned as the incredibly tacky flower clock, the underwhelming Jet d’eau, and its proximity to other European destinations, should have prepared me for the weekend wastelands.

Sundays were simply strange. Nothing is possible on a Sunday. Stores are closed. Recycling is forbidden. Laundry hours are nonexistent. Use of washing machines, be they for clothes or dishes, curtailed. Electricity was at least still available, and public transport would make a half hearted appearance, but everything else? Nope.

I vacillated in my response to this. At first, I tried to think how nice this was, that EVERYONE had the day off on Sunday, and that pretty much everything except for religious services and couch surfing was forbidden. Then I got kind of annoyed and abandoned my brief attempt at Pollyanna-hood. There are only so many hours in the weeks to get assorted errands taken care of, none of which the Swiss make simple, be it laundry, bill paying, grocery shopping, or gawd forbid, a hair cut. I learned that women only got the vote in the 1970s in Switzerland, and that most policies are passed assuming a hausfrau is available at home to run the dishwasher on alternating Mondays between 9 and 11 a.m.

It’s enough to raise your blood pressure, especially if you think you can accomplish anything, be it a quick trip to the bank or grocery store in an efficient fashion.

After 8 months though, I’ve begun to embrace laziness myself. Eight hours of sleep a night, 40 hour work weeks, and 2 days off a week? I can’t remember the last time I had this schedule, and it’s phenomenal the change it makes in my outlook. The sun shining is another excuse to put it off till next week.

As long as the sun keeps shining, you’ll find me smiling, slathered in SPF 50, lying in the park, ignoring all of the many things I should be doing instead. When in Geneva after all...