Geneva is a great place to live, and I find so many things here for which to be thankful. One aspect rises to the top, though, as the aspect that I will miss the most when we have to move (which I’m trying not to think about). It is not the pastries and chocolate, which are excellent, but hardly life-changing. It is not the mountains, which I love much more than realized I would, but I can survive without (I'm almost sure). It’s definitely not the coffee, which is high-priced and not very good. The true alteration on our lifestyle comes on wheels about every 6 minutes. I am deeply in love with the Number 14 Tram.
My enthusiasm for public transportation was born the first time we drove a car in Geneva. Equipped with sneaky speed cameras, traffic lights timed to coordinate never, roads that begin, end, change name, and turn with no warning, and laws and customs favoring pedestrians, bikes, and motorcycles, Geneva is a driver’s nightmare. I have a friend from London who says she’d take London traffic over Geneva’s any day. She spends close to two hours a day picking up her daughter from school and taking her home – a round-trip distance of perhaps 10 miles. After a few trips through the city, we concluded that we would do almost anything rather than drive around here, up to and including never going anywhere (Migros and Coop both have delightful grocery delivery services, so where do we really have to go?).
Nonetheless, I’m not really a stay-at-home type. My first forays into getting myself around sans car included biking and walking, both of which I love. They are great exercise, I can learn the names of the streets at low speed, and, as I said before, Geneva loves walkers and bikers. On the other hand, while one certainly can – as I have – bike and/or hike in a skirt and/or heels, it’s far more comfortable to travel in casual garb. Living in a European city, however, means that there are a limited number of places one can appear in casual garb. In addition, the items one can carry on foot or bike are also limited. I can lug a six-pack of liter water bottles home from the Lancy Center (about 400 meters away), but I wouldn’t want to carry them much farther. And unless I invest in a bike basket or a trailer (not a bad idea, actually), carrying stuff while steering a bike is even more difficult. Finally, with the advent of winter, the days became short, cold, and often foggy or rainy, making outdoor travel much less appealing. So it was around the end of October that buses and trams began to take on a rose-colored glow for me.
You know what people say about water – the more you drink it, the more you crave it? That is what is happening with me and public transport. I not only take the tram to French class, which is in the highly congested Plainpalais neighborhood, but I’ve even been taking the bus on Thursday mornings to my Bible study at church, which is in France, not even a bad drive on the motorway. It takes twice as long to get there on the bus, but I can read, do my French homework, look out the window, and relax, without worrying that the cameras on Pont Butin are snapping 100 chf pictures of my license plate as it speeds by at 3 kilometers over the limit. Last night, Eric and I went to a play and took the 21 bus right to the door of the theater. The kids ride the bus to school, to the mall, and to friends’ houses. Drew takes the train when he babysits. They love the freedom, and I love not having to spend all afternoon and evening carting them hither and yon.
Nothing is perfect this side of heaven. Sometimes we have to stand on the bus because it’s so crowded. This happens particularly in the mornings when students and commuters pack the main routes through town. I can’t carry a week’s worth of groceries on the tram, or my fellow riders would give me nasty looks. Yesterday, I missed the bus to Bible study, which meant I also missed my connection and ended up riding a strange pink and purple bus and arriving 30 minutes late. Occasionally people on the bus smell funny, though (since we are in Switzerland) they are hardly ever loud or obnoxious. Some people might consider the accordion player who frequently boards the 15 tram and passes his coin purse while playing Alpen tunes to be a drawback, but I actually love the music (and I admire the fact that he is doing something to earn money, rather than just begging), so I always give him francs. We saw a huge group of Swiss Army soldiers on the tram last week. One gave Lucas a Swiss Army chocolate bar. Where else would that have happened? I find out about plays, concerts, and new cures for colds on the placards and screens in the bus. I can enjoy the scenery without having to worry about running into a curb or missing my turn.
My mom tells me that in his final years in Sweden, my Grandpa Martin would spend all day riding the trolleys around town, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. It was his entertainment, transportation, and contact with the outside world, all rolled into one. So if I one day decide, just for kicks, to take the 12 Tram from Palettes on the west side of town all the way to Molesuillaz on the east, I will be not only fulfilling a dream of mine (okay, I know it’s a strange one), but also following in the family tradition.
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