Belonging
by Susan Weber
I’m legally Swiss, but in the French speaking region I always feel like a poseur. My roots are in the German section of the country where I know the language. Here in Geneva, if a passport were required, I might show the American one—to give my imposter syndrome a rest.
It’s late morning when I exit Cornavin, the city’s main train station. Having stowed my luggage and secured a ticket to Zürich, what now? Explore Geneva, find some lunch, and work on feeling a bit more Swiss.
It is, of course, still hot. I take out the small map I picked up at the station and head past banks and jewelry stores. A hotel porter fixes me with a look that says I best not step beneath the gold trimmed burgundy awning. I walk on by, tipping my chin to the azure sky, loudly swigging water and wiping a salty mustache with the back of my hand. The footbridge across the Rhone River provides a stunning view of the water jet that spectacularly dwarfs downtown. My map says it was moved here in 1891 for the 600th anniversary of the Old Swiss Confederacy. Switzerland, I’m reminded, is old!
Across the bridge, the Rue du Rhône district is luxury on steroids. The map says I’ll need at least half a day to do justice to this bevy of temptations. I pass by gleaming boutique windows filled with hyper-branded finery and missing price tags. Sorry Louis Vuitton, not so tempted after all. I’ll just take a hike through these tilted streets loaded with old world charm. In other words, historic Geneva.
Outside Temple de la Madeleine I refill my water at a stone well the Swiss have nicely labeled potable. I’d like to pick up a fresh lunch to eat in one of these cobblestone squares anchored by a sturdy church. Place du Bourg-de-Four, celebrated square for shopping and dining, doesn’t seem too far. When I get there I’m greeted by white tablecloths, red wine, and classy diners munching on the haute cuisine. Not a take out joint in sight. The fountain splashes lazily; even the shoppers who scuff about in flip flops radiate a kind of posh-hipster-swank. Down the narrow Rue Etienne-Dumont, another street drenched in history, I enter a café called Pouly. An artful salad takes shape. I’m back on the square staking out a low stone wall where another woman is having lunch.
It’s pleasant underneath the sprawling sycamores. Sultry air permeates the midday calm. Dignified sepia facades look down as conversations drift across the square. Do I feel Swiss yet? For the love of my European friends, I’ve been learning French and Italian. Both happen to be official languages of Switzerland. Am I instinctively rounding out my heritage?
My phone beeps. A train departs for Zürich in thirty minutes. There’s another train an hour after that, but I’m done here, right? I’ll come another time to this city of history and entitlement, diplomacy and—I wonder what else. Today I’d like more time in Zürich to sort out the hotel. I’m racing down smooth stone walkways to the river—no photography, no gawking at the water jet, no peering at the map—I know the way! Only of course, I do not.
I’m winded, un-crumpling my map, when I hear the well dressed pedestrian with British English say into his phone that he’s heading to the station. I catch up to ask directions and he laughs—he was about to look that up. We walk as he consults his app. As soon as I see the station I mumble my thanks and charge on ahead. What kind of person uses a gallant stranger as her GPS? My moment of departure is at hand—no time to self-reflect.
The locker clicks open, releasing my bag with good Swiss precision. I don’t knock anyone over as I weave and dodge, marking the concourse with my sweat. To hope my train will be late would be like hoping Swiss cows will stop wearing bells, or Lindt will stop making chocolate. Odds are very slim.
The big board is somewhere—there! My platform’s over—here! The digital sign is—blank! But the train hasn’t left. I crush inside as the door glides shut. Are we heading for Zürich, I ask a couple with a baby stroller. In a language I don’t understand, they seem to say we are.
Face flushed, I wheel my bag down the aisle. A young woman with a headscarf, seated by the window, makes room for me to join her. When I step to the seat across from her, she says no, you have a better view facing forward. I sit beside her as she leans into her phone.
The train rolls comfortably, gathering momentum. I almost laugh out loud. Where is the person who showed up hours early for her train out of Paris? She’s here, feeling fortunate and wired. Sitting so close to my seat mate in her pale blue tailored suit that matches her hijab, I’m suddenly aware I’m prickling with sweat. Maybe I should move, spare the gentle woman my athletic fumes. Too late. Passengers have filled every seat. I turn to the pristine window where my thoughts come together in one elongated hush.
Hillsides lush with homes and fields slope toward a shimmering lake. From the mist beyond arise the crown jewels of Switzerland. They are endless. Ethereal. Mysterious. Still. For centuries these peaks and valleys have held the middle ground in a country of multiple characters and cultures. They are couplers on a train. Gears of a clock. Knuckled hands clasped in solidarity. I know they are my mountains. I know, too, that I am theirs.
Photo Susan Weber CC BY-SA 4.0