I went into Geneva yesterday! I’ve added an exclamation mark to the end of that statement because such a rare venture merits a gasp. Not that I live hours away from town; on a GTD (Good Traffic Day), my pretty little village is a mere twenty minutes from Geneva’s central Parking du Mont-Blanc. Hop on the train and you’re there in ten. Personally, however, if I’m going to hop places, I’d rather hop there in my car. I know the train is more ecologically correct, but you know what, I love my car.

In my ecological defense, please believe me when I tell you that I use Ecover household cleaning products most of the time, and have recently discovered the virtues of white vinegar and baking soda. I grow my own vegetables when the climate cooperates, and always turn off the water when I’m brushing my teeth. According to the results of a Swiss questionnaire, my carbon footprint doesn’t match my clodhopping shoe size.

Besides, as I said, I rarely go into Geneva.

So it was with a slight fizzle of excitement that I headed down there yesterday, leaving my house mid-morning to ensure easy parking under the lake. It was a lovely sunny day, albeit blowing a demented, arctic gale. At that point, however, I wasn’t concerned about the weather; I was in my car, the seat-heat turned high, the radio blaring. Traffic was smooth, and within minutes I cruised to the tail end of the eternal queue at the traffic lights in front of the World Trade Organization. This is north-eastern gateway to Geneva, the place where drivers sit for as long as it takes, drumming their steering wheels and evaluating their co-queue-ers. This is an affluent area, and people heading into town – particularly mid-morning – tend to do so in style. Take a sideways glance and chances are you’ll see a spick-and-span businessman behind the wheel of a spotless sedan, or an elegant lady in over-sized sunglasses snooting her way towards Rue du Rhône in a shiny, high-perched 4x4.

“Oh puh-lease! You wear oversized glasses! I’ve even seen photos of you wearing them on Facebook!” I hear you snigger.

Okay. Yes I do. But I’ve had those a while, dropped them once too often, so they’re horribly scratched.

“And don’t you also drive a 4x4?” you add, cocking a quizzical eyebrow.

Well, err, yes, you may have a point. But mine is mud-speckled, littered with straw, gravel, dirt, dead leaves, random wrappers, assorted shopping bags, saddle-blankets, loose CDs, dirty towels (for drying wet dogs) and mountains of dog hair. This in itself kind of cramps my style, but bare with me for the big picture. If you pull up alongside me in a traffic jam and notice that my nostrils are pinched, I’m not being snooty. I’m just enduring the inevitable fragrance of “Pooh de Pooch”, or its lighter, everyday version, “Pooch Humide” that has permeated my X3s long-suffering seats.

Anyway, there I was, singing along to Lady Gaga, gliding into town in my smelly, mud-speckled car. The WTO traffic jam was a piece of cake, and I arrived for my massage fifteen minutes early.

“What?! A massage?!”, you squeal, curling your lip. I can see your eyes rolling away down the street, lumping me with the shiny elegant, mid-morning ladies.

Please!  Wait! Listen! Let me finish! This was NOT a tinkly music, swooningly pleasant, spa-style massage. This was a grit-your-teeth-and-hang-on-for-grim-death-while-your-knots-explode, sixty-minute ordeal. My massage man doesn’t faff about with chakra-coordinated organic oils; he’s a tough cookie who slaps on some lotion and gets down to the nitty-gritty that lies below. I’ve been to him for treatment a couple of times and, until yesterday, had always come out feeling like I’d been run over by a steam-roller. However, the long term effects of his expert manhandling have obliterated my back problems, so I’ve decided to endure him once a month.

Having been prodded and mashed for an hour, I sat up gingerly, tested my balance, and realized that, this time, I didn’t feel utterly done in. Sure, I was a little out of it, but after a nice cup of herbal tea and a short chat with my torturer, I felt pleasantly energized. Consequently, I decided to make the most of my urban excursion and have a quick walk around the shops.

It was now almost lunch time, and central Geneva was buzzing with Blackberried banker businessmen and impeccably groomed fashionistas in high heels, all somehow managing to look fetchingly tousled in a blow-your-head-off meteorological bedlam. Among them there was me, squinting into the wind as my mascara ran down the pavement, sporting a massage-lotion-soiled, straggly ponytail. “Think yourself chic,” I urged myself, pulling my shoulders down my back as I scurried towards Globus department store, feeling more wind-ravaged by the second.

It was more than just a feeling. Catching my reflection in a mirror at one of the shop’s cosmetic counters, I gasped. My hair was a mess, my eyes were running, my glasses were steamed up and my ill-timed runny nose uncontrollably insistent on blowing bubbles. I certainly didn’t fit in with all the dignified ladies slinking up the up escalator, shopping for cashmere.

“Oh, well,” I told myself, cheerily. “Instead of going up to ladies fashions, I’ll just nip downstairs to the food department. Yes, that’s what I’ll do! I’ll go and grab something nice for diner!” This was exciting; I’d heard great things about the food hall at Globus, but never yet seen it for myself.

Blimey! It was like being in Harrods, albeit on a smaller scale. I could have spent hours in there, looking at all the amazing, beautifully packaged, shockingly expensive products. I picked up two dinky pots of rocket pesto, a packet of very special spaghetti (apparently hand-rolled under an Italian prince’s armpits), some San Daniele prosciutto, a very small, perfectly formed leg of lamb, a packet of potatoes, two blocks of Belgian chocolate and a packet of tissues made from Egyptian cotton. My trolley was virtually empty, but compared to my elegant fellow-shoppers, I appeared to be planning a major pig-out!

It was when the cashier announced how much my bill came to that I realized why those ladies were making do with a packet of designer salad, an organic lemon and a slither of salmon. They were saving their pennies for cashmere, killer heels, wind-proof hair, and daily trips to the car wash.

But to each their own, right?

I flashed my credit card, blew my nose in the Egyptian cotton tissues, tossed my straggly ponytail, picked up my shopping bag, retrieved my mud-speckled, dog-scented car, slapped on my scratched sunglasses and escaped to the country.

Lots of love,

Francesca

PS: For the record, last night’s dinner was delicious. Dressed in track pants and an old (cashmere!) sweater, my feet happily spread-eagled in my Ugg slippers, I served the perfectly formed leg of lamb with roast potatoes and fresh carrots. Tonight we’ll be sampling the Italian prince’s special spaghetti, slicked with rocket pesto and freshly grated Parmesan. How about you?