It’s the little things, really. The pillow brought from home, the meal you remember eating at the family table, the familiar smell of urine that steams up through the street grates on a New York summer’s day in August. These things make you feel at home, at peace with new surroundings, and offer a bit of courage when it seems like you’ll never quite make it in an unfamiliar city. And for an American arriving in Geneva, Switzerland in July, the Holy Grail of welcome mats was waiting for me – the 4th of July party and fireworks.
My memories of the 4th of July always took place at the family cabin on the border of Wisconsin and the upper peninsula of Michigan. Normally a child can conjure up memories of days filled with barbecuing and near-nakedness, frolicking in some kiddie pool or gently warmed body of water – the night sky star-filled and muggy, fireworks and damp foreheads from a day full of tag and Frisbee. Fourth of July’s for the Van Driest’s went somewhat differently. We often woke up to our breath freezing mid-air and the instant atrophy of muscles hitting the climate on the other side of our thermal sleeping bags. Showering was an event in itself – the cabin had 2 bathrooms, both of which could have been used for meat storage, and the brief respite of a warm shower was often interrupted by your cousin deciding now was a good time flush the toilet. Breakfast consisted of whatever berries we had been able to collect the day before, minus the large percentage I had mindlessly consumed while picking them.
After a chaotic morning, everyone under the age of 15 optimistically put on their swimsuits underneath four layers of fleece and ventured outside into the warm, 40 degree July summer air. The rest of the day was spent moving as much as possible, since not doing so meant certain death. We’d jump in the lake – crystal clear and just the perfect temperature to render all of our male cousins sterile – spend 10 minutes pretending we were having fun, and the next 30 screaming as our various body parts tried to thaw. It was heaven.
These wonderful memories were at the forefront of my brain as I arrived in Geneva – two days later would be the 4th, and my husband had told me heart-warming tales of the festivities in store for the day. I had bragged to everyone back home about the title the Swiss-French city held for having the largest 4th of July celebration outside of the U.S. It was ideal. What better welcome could I hope for than an idyllic American event intended to flip the bird at the idea of assimilation? And then blow things up to boot?
I was determined to show my spirit – my “American-ness,” my unwillingness to let melancholy get the better of me in a new city far away from family and friends. I would wear the Red, White and Blue, eat hotdogs and drink beer with the best of them. I had arrived.
Or at least we thought we had. The bus had taken us in the direction of “Bout du Monde,” which ironically means “The End of the World” - an indication we should have abandoned ship right then and there, but instead of a park teeming with displaced Rednecks, Yanks and Texans, it was empty save a few cars gathered for something on the level of a PTA meeting. No music, no sparklers, no loud drunk Americans proudly representing their country. Where was the patriotic pride? The kiddies running around with dangerous exploding objects, the people who operate carnival rides with no teeth, the barnyard animals? None of it was to be found, and in fact, besides a motley crew of Japanese tourists and a Portuguese family consisting of one woman, her child, and 14 men under the age of 40, we were the party.
Confused, we started looking for signs, information, some clue as to why this legendary party wasn’t where it was supposed to be. And here began my true welcome to Geneva. First lesson: public announcements and advertising simply do not exist. I’ve developed a theory that they are seen as temptations drawing us away from the comforts of privacy and anonymity Genevans are so fond of. This is also the reason so many stars and legendary unnamed individuals flee to Switzerland. What better place to disappear to than a land where chocolate is king, money is plentiful and the sense of privacy is so strong you can make some people very uncomfortable simply by asking them whether cheese gives them gas. What? You know it does…
With no signs, no information, and no ideas, we hung around long enough to realize there must be someone taking aerial photos to post online later in an article about “making the foreigners look stupid,” and caught the next bus away from the End of the World. And thus my second lesson in Geneva lifestyle: After 7PM on Saturday and all day Sunday, foraging for food is an exercise in defeat. Unless you can subsist on Diet Coke and ice cream, Geneva firmly stands it’s ground that Sunday is a day reserved for God. Or the TV, depending on your religious commitment. It follows, therefore, that Saturday morning grocery shopping is a little like stocking up for a winter storm – toilet paper, batteries, milk, eggs, cheese, paté and maybe a bottle of 1947 Cheval Blanc – the bare necessities.
The End of the World had come at precisely 7PM on a Saturday night. And we had not a bottle of Cheval Blanc in sight, much less some ice cream. But this was the 4th of July, and there would be celebrating, gosh-darnit... and so, in true American style, we went frontier-man like, in search of some bright beacon of hospitality to fill our empty bellies and hopefully partake of a frosty beverage. Which is how we found ourselves next door to the golden arches eating Switzerland’s answer to Burger King – SwissMeal. Sure, there was a Mickey Dee’s right next door, but still wearing my blue t-shirt, white skirt and red dangly earrings, I was keenly aware of being a walking cliché. Next door, however, munching on 30CHF worth of day-glo yellow fries, a #2 and a frosty shake, I was still an American celebrating my country’s birthday the best way I knew how.
