My gaze has become attuned to the life that takes place in quiet places
When I first moved to Geneva, I complained to friends it was sterile. My partner and I had moved here for work, one of tens of thousands of foreigners who arrive each year for interludes working for or in the orbit of its international institutions. I knew, in a diffuse way, that it was considered a boring place, but I was unprepared for the specifics.
It seemed that the only exciting thing to do in town was to rev a fancy car outside our plug’n play temporary apartment late at night, by which I mean at around 9pm: everything had already closed by then, and I might well have already been in bed. The apartment had been furnished so it would be inoffensive to whichever temporary Geneva sojourner passed through. Everything was beige or grey, coated in glass or soft furnishing. It’s so convenient, I told everyone, just really, extremely convenient.
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