Bonjour et bienvenue à Bonneville

Finalement, je suis arrivée! I flew into Geneva, where my luggage was not lost and where I was admitted to the EU by an incredibly hot border guard, who grossly inflated my sense of how good my French is with his charming compliments. I choose to ignore the fact that I was only being complemented as an American who could manage to get by in a language other than English. I took a train (which, Dad, did leave the station at precisely 3:13 because it’s Switzer(watch)land) to downtown Geneva. I was told the bus station with trains to France was several blocks down from the train station, towards the lake. Schlepping my Longchamp, backpack, and two massive suitcases, I made it out of the train station and made my first Genevois friend by asking for directions, which were very patiently given as he helped me with my bags. I had to wait for the bus for several hours and unfortunately couldn’t walk around Geneva with 125 pounds of luggage, but I did make my first call from a pay phone! The experience was not glamorous. My turtle of a self couldn’t fit into the booth with my backpack on so I basically did the splits in the booth and left all my luggage sitting outside and out of view, which in retrospect was a poor decision given I had no energy to chase anyone but this was Switzerland and everyone in my 2 hours formed opinion was so nice they would have probably called to report lost luggage. I had to use the pay phone to call my teacher so she could collect me from the train station. The train ride was beautiful as the Alpes are remarkably imposing. The sheer height of them in contrast to the lows of the valleys is breathtaking, or was breathtaking when I woke up from my nap at 5:30pm amidst a bus full of normal, commuting French people. The bus to Geneva is quite a good deal – very comfortable, only 8 euros, and 45 minutes. I got off the bus with all my luggage and found myself in the middle of a parking lot. The bus driver and a local woman noticed my confusion and the kindest woman offered to drive me into town after I explained what had happened and that I had no cell phone. She called my teacher’s phone and drove me to her. I thanked her profusely because without her I would have literally been stranded at a U-turn in the middle of the country with no phone. I then said I would love to get coffee with her sometime and continue chatting – she had been telling me about her job in Geneva – when I realized the way I had phrased my casual coffee was the way you phrase asking someone on a date in French. But continuing with her gracious French-ness, she was so sweet and I had made my first French friend! My teacher and her son were at the former bus stop to greet me and they, too, demonstrated that French graciousness as I accidentally kissed left to right hellos and almost kissed them both smack dab on the lips. After that, they drove me to the school where we will be staying and dropped off my suitcases. Then we went to her house, where she lives with her partner who is also one of my teachers, for a delicious dinner whipped up in ten minutes. I hadn’t been in a French house for a while and loved observing all the differences between French and American homes. French homes are cozy – space is used economically but never to the point of clutter. Pieces of furniture and patterns don’t necessarily match the way the Ethan Allen American style mandates it must, but everything somehow goes together. After two glasses of wine, the husband kindly walked me home. I made my bed with the square French pillows and collapsed.