Geneva I

A wise man once said ‘you can always judge a city by the standard of its red light district’.* Having inadvertently moved to Geneva’s so-called red light district it seems like I’m in a darn good position to judge it. Upon arrival it was not obviously a red light district, possibly exposing my sheltered Cheshire upbringing or alternatively showing that Geneva’s pimps like to keep things fairly low key (much like Cheshire’s pimps do). The area is called Paqais, a name which you can’t say without sound a little racist, not that the minaret-banning Swiss mind a bit of political incorrectness of course, and is supposed to be one of livelier areas of a city. 'Lively' in Geneva does not mean 'lively' in a traditional sense however. Any attempt to purchase alcohol in a place other than the hideously expensive bars (£7 Carlsberg, £6.50 Boddingtons. Yes, that’s right, Boddingtons) after 9pm will be met by one of those infuriating Gallic shrugs and some sort of excuse that alcohol is not to be sold after 9pm. Brixton it is not. 

Liquor-based complaints aside, Geneva has the regulation old town that all European cities seem to have barring those that suffered an unfortunate dose of 1940’s town-planning. What is a bit odd is that unlike other European cities there are no statues of national heroes in parks or in the numerous squares dotted around the place. Contrast that to the obsession the British seem to have with bronzing up every bloke with a double-barrelled name and shot at an African and you feel like either the Swiss are missing something or we have an unnatural obsession of old, queerly dressed men on plinths. Instead there is slightly an unnerving series of statutes involving naked children and horses dotted around the place (couldn’t decide whether or not to make a BBC 1970’s DJs gag here so feel free to make your own). I would take a picture to prove their existence and strangeness, but I felt self-conscious, so didn’t. Maybe I'll do it under cover of darkness. That would be more discreet.

The influence

of Geneva was exposed after 'Cavier' replaced
 Pluto as the Solar System's ninth planet

Of course, it is the Lake which is central to what Geneva is about. The Lake by which Mary Shelley first conceived of her most famous novel Frankenstien, and by which her dear friend Lord Byron had an affair with her sister and got her pregnant in the next room.**

I was originally disappointed at the miniature size of the yachts moored on the lake, some of which seemed more Abserywth than Abu Dhabi. Though that it is only a lake, the eastern super-villain (Blofeld, Abramovic) type yachts are more likely to be moored where Geneva’s river, the Rhone, comes out into the Mediterranean near Monaco. Lakes are fine, they are big ponds or little seas depend on whether you are a glass half empty or half full sort of person. Someone in Geneva clearly shared my apathy towards lakes and slapped the world’s largest fountain, Jet d’Eau in Geneva’s bay just to make sure that this was the best damn pond you’d ever seen. 500 litres of water a second are thrown into the air to an altitude of 140 metres, the spray then falls away from the jet, which when its sunny causes a mini-rainbow. In a very un-Swiss health and safety oversight, visitors can walk right out underneath the jet spray on precarious-looking jetty, which, given the proximity of Geneva’s bars seems like it’s just crying out for a drunken race across the jetty to see who can put their head in the 120mph jet.

The filters on todays cameras means anyone
can be a terrible photographer.

It’s strange to think that Geneva is a town with a population smaller than Milton Keynes, and yet it has reached the status of a world-renowned city, synonymous with finance, diplomacy, politics and probably some other stuff too. Though not, it would seem well known for its red light district, don’t know about Milton Keynes. Answers on a postcard (please no pictures).

I’ll do something about the United Nations and its all-encompassing presence here another time, the level of things to do with that institution are too long to list here. But, to whet your respective appetites for all things diplomatic and untransparent, here’s a wee anecdote to finish off with:

As you might have heard the latest round of Syrian name calling was due to take place in Geneva last week, and yet for the first couple of days the conference was held in the smaller town of Montreux on the other side of the lake.  At first I assumed it was Assad who insisted on this, having a soft spot for small Swiss villages, scenic countryside, nice castles etc, kinda what Syria was like before he bombed it all, but I was wrong. The dates of Geneva II clashed with a trade fair for international luxury watchmakers, and the city simply did not have enough hotel beds for the watchmakers and war criminals (although would have been lolz to make them share rooms). So Ban Ki-Moon and his merry band of miscreants were sent across the lake to twiddle their thumbs whilst the watchmakers got giddy over casio and cogs. Only when they had finished, were the UN allowed back to their adopted city to twiddle their thumbs there instead.  Moral of the story; Geneva may be the UN’s home from home, with their diplomatic number plates (diplomats don’t need an MOT apparently, bizarre) and duty-free shopping (litre of gin for a tenner, terrible combination with the aforementioned MOT situation), but the international bureaucracy must also share the city with the great Swiss institutions of banking and watchmaking and chocolate-something, and play nicely with all the sheiks and oligarchs and other monied stereotypes. (Love stereotypes).  

*Peter Ford, February 2014

** There is no historical proof that it was in the next room. I just have a gut feeling.

The Swiss and their Swissness

The Swiss. Phwoar.

What makes them tick? What makes them hot under the collar? What makes them bang their steiners and yodel across the beerhall? Why is it, that every time we hear of 'The Swiss' women swoon, men wolf-whistle and we all know we are in for a ruddy good time?

These are the questions that no one has asked, ever.* But they are the questions I intend to ask with all the misguided persistence of a News of the World  journalist over the course of my six month stay here in Geneva, in order to give the Swiss the credit they deserve (or don't deserve, doesn't really matter does it?).

For too long have the Swiss been the estranged sibling within the West European family. For too long have they been overshadowed by neighbours (siblings, if you'll persist with the allegory), who, for better or for worse have well-defined characteristics and stereotypes  (in which I exclusively operate), and as a result conjure nothing by way of instant feelings, positive or negative for the Swiss in our minds. 

To the north, the Germans. Practical, indomitable Germans. The undoubted older brother who has given us so much over the years; Volkswagen, Boris Becker and cheaper Greek holidays to name but three.

To the west, La France. Considered work-shy to some, inspirational to others. Loves include; berets, trade unions and the Common Agricultural Policy, hates include; the 37 hour working week and English-made champagne. The sibling who chooses to study philosophy then doesn't turn up to lectures citing the cramping of intellectual prowess.

And finally, to the south, the flamboyant sibling, the one who wears leather trousers to a funeral and puts a fiat badge on a ferrari, the one who makes all others looking boring, dry, corduroy. Italia.     

The Swiss sit like an awkward middle child between these three powerhouses of national stereotypes.Within Switzerland there is a French region, a German region and an Italian region, all speaking their respective languages and culturally more attuned to their linguistic cousins across the border then a fellow Swiss across the mountains.** So what is it to be Swiss? They drink wine and eat cheese in unhealthy quantities like the French, have the work-ethic and tight public transport system of the Germans, and from what I have seen so far in Geneva, have a lot of flashy jewelry and clothes shops like the Italians (Unlike the Italians however, the Swiss can afford to buy it). 

Are they the perfect European? The perfect country? Combining positive aspects from the French and Germans, and the least negative aspects of the Italians. 

A typical Swiss dining situation.

Working out of Geneva for the next six months, I will smash the stereotype that the Swiss have no stereotype. No cultural exploration is complete without a look at the food, sport, history of the place, and will probably also make various libelous comments about Swiss baking, Nazi gold and UN's tax regimes. 

Some facts to finish off on (adopt an Alan Partridge voice for these): Women only got the vote in Switzerland in 1971, every citizen is required by law to have a bomb shelter or  have access to on, and Switzerland has the fourth highest gun ownership rate in the world, with a shopping 3.4m pieces in a population of below 8m. This triumvirate of facts*** cast doubt on the only Swiss stereotype in existence, their neutrality. 

Classic Swiss.   

* One question we have all been asking about the Swiss is how they managed to secure top seeding for this summer’s World Cup. Answers to this question may arise during a later piece on Swiss banking and the original job-for-lifer-regardless-of-how-shit-you-are Sepp Blatter. 

** Romansh is the fourth national language of Switzerland, but I get the feeling it is their equivalent of Welsh, or Cornish.

*** Facts probably true(ish), but would not use in a legal context