For my last day in Geneva, I decided to take it relatively easy, mostly lounging around the quayside and hitting just a few more sites. First to go was Voltaire's house, a large peach mansion in the old part of town. It was here that he wrote most of Candide, entertained royalty, and was generally awesome.
Back at the hostel, I met my Portuguese bunkmate, a man who had just gotten a job with the Red Cross; he was going to enjoy the beaches back home before getting shipped off to AIDS-ville, South Africa. He was also very familiar with New Orleans, though not because of natural disasters or festivals or anything like that - no, he was a huge fan of COPS, and it turns out that most of the COPS episodes screened in Portugal feature NOPD gang-tackling drunken revelers and the occasional crack dealer. It can be said that he had a very set point of view of the city.
I packed my things and got ready for the train to Paris. The next day, however, I went through the joyous panic of realizing that my train to Paris, involving a transfer in Lyon, was cancelled due to a Lyonnaise rail strike. I was directed with broken English by train workers onto a direct line to Paris; still clutching the wrong ticket, I somehow pulled out of Geneva on the way to Gare du Lyon, Paris.
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