Geneve

Right now I'm sitting on a park bench on Quai Gustave Ador. Got into Geneva yesterday on an Aer Lingus flight, and I have to hand it to the Irish; half of their national airline's in-flight magazine was dedicated to bar reviews from cities around the globe, and during 9 am breakfast in Dublin I noticed I was the only person not drinking from the help-yourself Guinness fountains (a problem I quickly remedied due to my cultural sensitivity).

So far in Geneva I've found that I vastly overestimated the amount of English speakers. Everyone here speaks French along with fluent Italian and German but God help you if you ask someone which train brings you to the City Center in English. And it's amazingly embarrassing to run around to different stores looking for shower gel asking "gel douche?" "gel douche?"

After an hour-and-a-half on public buses that brought my to the wrong side of the river (the city's split in half by the Rhone) I finally found where I'd be spending the night. Did I make reservations at:
a) Beau Rivage, favorite haunt of the Czars and billionaires,
b) Hotel President Wilson, where rooms start at 800 a night and suites can be had for 8000, or
c) the city hostel that costs less per night than I pay for lunch?
I'll let y'all figure that mindbender out on your own.

After checking in I ordered some food by grunting and pointing and then passed out. Today I'm walking around the city to get my bearings and brush up on my pitiful French. I leave you now for the pleasure of reading a lunch menu and mangling my pronunciation of the food, though as long as I don't end up with au pied de cochon I think I'll survive.