Carless
in Geneva
Living in Geneva ~ by
Aimée Skidmore
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| “Forget
the damned motor car and build the cities for lovers and friends.” –Lewis
Mumford, 1895–1990, American social philosopher
The invitation
for the monthly Parent Student Association coffee was crumpled up in Isabel’s
back pack when I found it on Wednesday morning. I sat in the kitchen,
looking at the paper and trying to decide whether I should go or not.
My eyes settled on the address of this month’s get-together: Centre Chavannes,
Chavannes de Bogis. I didn’t know where that was and so decided immediately
to attend. I didn’t really care for the last meeting, but the mission
to travel without a car was irresistible. If it was anything like
the last meeting, I would most definitely have an adventure trying to get
there in one piece and on time.
After a tedious
search of train timetables and bus schedules, the challenge of how to get
to this mega shopping center presented itself in the form of a train ride,
a bus ride, and a short foray on foot. With the page-long itinerary
printed out from the CFF website, neatly folded in my pocket, I set out
early Thursday morning. I arrived at the station with plenty of time
to waste buying a ticket and finding the correct quai. After standing
in line for a rail ticket, the attendant informed me I had to buy a ticket
from the bus ticket vending machine. The train ride was familiar
to me as I had traveled this line to Isabel’s school many times.
A young man listening to German rap music rolled a joint in the seat next
to me. Then, feeling my eyes studying him, he moved to a seat further
down the car to light up. |
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I stepped
off the train and followed the groups of older women carrying grocery bags.
Surely, they would lead me to the bus, which was leaving in two minutes.
Not seeing the bus stop as I emerged from the tunnel, I asked one of the
ladies. She told me the bus stop was on the other side, and I better
hurry up. I jogged to other side of the station just in time to see
the plume of smoke bellowing mockingly from the rear end of the departing
bus.
A quick check
of the faded bus timetable posted, informed me that I would have to wait
an hour for the next bus and another hour for the train home. My
heart sank. Could I walk it? I had no map and the bus ride
was twenty minutes. I didn’t think I could make it in time.
My attempt to foil the PSA’s plan to cater to the car-possessed rich ladies
had failed. My desire to assert myself as a can-do member of the
car-less proletariat was not to be. There was a reason why the “ladies
who lunch” all had cars. I was foolish to think I could thumb my
nose at the ladies who were chatting and gulping down café at this
very moment in the warmth of the shopping mall food hall.
“Bonjour, c’est
Aimee. Ca va?” I chirped meekly into the cell phone. Simona,
the president of the PSA, a down-to-earth woman who likes an occasional
clandestine smoke, greeted me warmly. I asked her if she could pick
me up at the Coppet station, and explained my situation. I could
feel the red hot embarrassment rising up my neck. No shame.
I am a car-less adventurer. I must have no shame. Who cares.
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Simona
and I arrived at the PSA coffee a little late, but I felt safe now that
I was in a shopping mall where there was activity and people. If
there was one thing I knew from having lived in the U.S., it was how to
“survive” in a mall. I knew I would not go hungry, or get depressed.
I could even have a heel replaced, or buy a new bra. The shopping mall
was the quintessential American cure-all. Over cups of coffee, I
cheerfully told and retold my morning adventure. The other ladies
gasped in horror at my explanation that, no, my car was not in the shop.
I didn’t have one. I tried to change to subject back to school and
which teacher was the best, and who would like to join me in volunteering
for the read-a-thon, but to no avail. I was bombarded with comments
about how I needed a car, you know, for shopping in France. It was
much nicer to end a day of skiing by tumbling, exhausted into a car, rather
than having to walk from the train station. Oh yes, the insurance
was expensive, and the gas (about 3 times U.S. prices), and the car, and
the parking tickets, but I really needed to have one, I was told.
I reiterated. I live in the city. I don’t need one. I
come from D.C. where I spent too many hours in the car. I can go
anywhere by train or bus, except for when I miss the only bus from the
station for an hour. |
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After a pleasant
experience of meeting new friends, sipping coffee, and checking my watch
every quarter hour, I bid everyone goodbye and left to catch the bus back
to the station. I stepped out into the sunny cold to search for the
bus stop. I was a survivor and would hunt down the bus stop and make
it to the station on my own and without wheels. Not finding it, I
slumped back inside and in keeping to the laws of my gender, asked for
directions. I sprinted down the stairs, out the door just in time
to see the bus pulling away, two minutes early by my watch. “C’est
le bus?!” I exclaimed disbelievingly to an elderly lady. She toddled
into the mall, leaving me behind to check the schedule. The next
bus departed in two hours. Two hours?! What kind of backwater
hell of a town was I trapped in? This would never happen in Geneva.
I had to get back to the transportation safe zone of Geneva. What
to do? I couldn’t wait as I had to pick up Celeste from school.
I called Rob, who cheerfully offered the unthinkable suggestion of taking
a cab. I was not going to pay three times the amount of train fare
to take a cab.
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went back into the mall, which had now become a trap of commercialism from
which I could not escape. One of the mothers was passing by, frantically
pushing a shopping cart filled with purchases. She averted her eyes
when she saw me, probably remembering my earlier story, and no wanting
to be associated with a woman who did not “need” a car. Luckily,
another woman came by and I explained my situation. She offered to
drive me back to the nearest station.
Needless to
say, I arrived home safely, albeit late. I gave Rob a hug and whined
that I was not going to leave the city again without a Plan C. “C”
for car. The next week as I was cleaning out Isabel’s back pack,
I found a crumpled up invitation to a birthday party. Hmmm.
I looked at the address: Chemin de Vuaracaux, Founex. Sounds like
a mission to me.
“Whither goest
thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?” –Jack Kerouac
To contact
Aimée Click Here
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