It was the fact that the Swiss HR person had made Daughter anglaise (and she sort of is, half) that influenced me. The first thing we saw as we exited Geneva railway station (after a free – yes – train ride from the airport, on a journey that was almost shorter than the three language announcement for passengers) was a red double decker bus parked across the road. The old style kind, which makes me think of London, which made me say ‘look, an English bus!’
The anglaise Offspring has better eyesight, so she laughed and pointed out that it wasn’t. ‘Can’t you see what the sign says?’ So, this was a double decker – once – bound for Falkirk. Via Kilsyth.
Once we’d turned in the right direction, we found our hotel, a little bit too uphill for tired and hot witches, but fine when we got there. The (probably Ukrainian) receptionist spoke Swedish, as well as English and French. Naturally. At breakfast the waiters switched effortlessly into English, as did the cleaner. The taxi driver, who was clearly some kind of foreign, immediately rescued us non-French speakers with perfect English. Swiss enough to give another driver the finger, but otherwise most polite.
The places we had our meals in all served us in English (didn’t think to try Swedish). I know, we should have tried harder, and I will, once I know the French for cone. The elderly lady on the short train journey bid us adieu, whereas the chap in Migros said au revoir, and maybe he will, one day.
While Daughter sorted out her anglaise-ness with HR, I walked around town, only resting twice in the English church; once out and once on the way back. I rested some more in the English park, with nice views of the lake.
Don’t misunderstand me; I maintain my love for the UK, for the people, the weather and the food. I don’t mind if the British don’t daily switch between five languages. But I mind going to London hotels and being served by people who don’t actually understand English.
It’s just unfortunate that ten years ago I asked Daughter’s school to excuse her from learning French. It was the right request to make at the time, but now it would have been convenient with some basic French knowledge.
I like the orderliness of every balcony in a block of flats having the same colour and pattern awnings. And I might just advise Daughter against the flats for rent in the red light district. The area had seemed ideal, until we walked round and found rather more than we had bargained for.
We’ll see how it goes. The talking, the flat-hunting, and all that. But at least at Migros they have self-checkouts where you don’t suffer from unexpected items in bagging area. It worked so fast and efficiently that even I might try it one day. If it’s au revoir.