Ex-Pat

I dressed up as Lance Armstrong on my first night out in Geneva.  Full spandex, U.S. Postal Service jersey, bike helmet—the whole kit.  I even wore a sign in case anybody missed the reference: “Je suis Lance.”  While the outfit would have definitely fetched sideways glances at the ritzy lakeside bars, the tights were a hit at the local college parties.  After all, it was la Fête de l’Escalade, a night that feels like Halloween, Bastille Day, and New Years all rolled into one.  In most European cities, my broken French, patriotic garb, and nervous smile would make me a tourist.  But in Geneva, land of Rolexes and ex-pats, I was a star.

For weeks leading up to the weekend of l’Escalade, chocolate cauldrons overflowing with marzipan vegetables sit patiently in shop windows.  The pots symbolize the mighty Swiss weapon that once defeated the Duke of Savoy’s mercenaries in 1602: vegetable soup.  Late in the cold night of December 12, French troops scaled the walls of the still independent city-state of Geneva.  According to legend, a mother of 14 children heard the sneak attack and poured a boiling vat of soup onto the intruders, killing one and alerting the town.  The Genevois prevailed ushering in centuries of peace and prosperity.  Today, the townspeople celebrate the event by dressing in costume and breaking the chocolate pots letting the marzipan scatter across the floor for the children.  Much mulled wine-drinking and folk song-singing is involved.

Some time between the evening parade and the dance party, I met the locals over paper cups of vegetable soup provided by the city.  Paulo, a compact teenager with an Italian posture, chatted casually about Middle Eastern politics in perfect English.  Thanks to his father, a career diplomat from Rome, this kid had lived in half of the countries he mentioned and settled in Geneva just in time for high school.  Smoking a cigarette with her free hand, Rachel joined the conversation as we walked along the Rhône towards a commotion at the university.  Daughter of an English businessman, she wore trademark plaids and drank Merlot from the bottle as she listened with one eyebrow raised.  As if on cue, a burly, blonde-haired fellow came jogging up to the group from behind, muttering something in French with a strong German accent.  I later learned that his parents, biotech moguls from Munich, travel constantly leaving their villa in the vineyards outside of Geneva empty on most weekends.  Seeing my new face (and nametag), he turned to me.

 “Salut Lance!  My name is Heiko,” he said smiling. “You look like you fit in—are coming my place, too then?”

Not knowing the best response, I shouted, “That’d be great.  But what do you mean by that.”

 “I just meant you look like you’re far from home.  Welcome to Geneva.”