A journey through Geneva

Tonight I reconnected with an old friend, now living in Geneva, and she took a group of us Frankliners out to Le Chat Noir, an amazingly fun dance club. The club played jazzy renditions of popular songs and remixed versions of classics & oldies. It felt good to dance.

Youth peered out of Geneva’s nightlife like light through an old floorboard. The city is old and rich – the fourth richest in the world – a cultural center and business hub. It is strewed with museums of philosophy, art, literature, and it serves as both a scientific center and business center to much of the world. Yet the streets speak of a different world. Graffiti graces the walls, some with tags that mark territory, others with art as a means of expression. I came across many messages, surprisingly written in English; “smile,” “peace,” “love,” “I feel empty,” “the city is alive.”



The city has a heartbeat, and tonight it pumped out of the speakers of Le Chat Noir.

When the sun is out, the city has a different feel. Geneva is arguably the most apt Swiss city for wandering; every street leads somewhere unexpected. Down one such street, we landed upon the Voltaire Museum! Its rooms were filled with visually compelling statues and paintings (which was the extent of what I could appreciate, since all their corresponding explanations and background stories were written in French). The greatest part of the museum was the open public library – hundreds of books, by Voltaire, about Voltaire, on philosophical subjects related to Voltaire… I flipped through the same novels as great thinkers of the past. I read pages of a book from the eighteenth century. I held history in my hands.

Along another Genevan street, I saw an old man walking; a walker aided his steps, but he didn’t once look at his feet. His eyes were crystal blue and dreamy, his feet moved slowly, and his body looked completely engaged with its surrounding environment. He was in the present moment. A middle-aged woman coming from the same direction walked right past him, obviously annoyed for the few seconds that her quick pace got halted by his slow one. Her eyes were stressed, elsewhere; they were focused on her destination and not her journey.

Over the course of this travel, I am learning that my destination is key to keep in mind, but my journey is what creates the real adventure. The few days we’ve spent journeying through Geneva have given me mountains of adventure stories.