[In “Going to a Swiss International School, Part 4,” I start with some of the things we did when we were set free in downtown Geneva. Included in this is a description of a holiday that’s unique to Geneva—a major celebration that’s only observed by Genevese.
[As I’ve been doing all along with “Swiss International School,” I recommend reading Parts 1 through 3 before embarking on Part 4. Aside from the elements of the memoir itself that precede the events of the section below, I explain many things along the way that help clarify some of what I relate. Readers will find these useful, if not indispensable, so go back to 29 April and then move on to 2 and 5 May before reading this next installment.]
Aside from the same extra-curricular life at Ecolint that I described at CDL, we went into Geneva much more often than we went to Versoix from CDL. When in town, we also did many more different things than we could in Versiox—shopping, widow-shopping, a little sightseeing, going to the movies, eating in restaurants, discovering the city.
We also met a bunch of Mormon young men as the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had a large missionary headquarters in Geneva. This is where all the LDS missionaries assigned to Western Europe would come for orientation and assignment, so there were always a large number of American boys aged 18 to 26 in the city.
After we encountered some of them in a park in town where they were playing touch football, we started to meet them there on Saturday afternoons to join the game. Of course, this had no effect on the advancement of my French language ability since, clearly, we spoke nothing but English. The Mormons, I guess, didn’t learn Franglais.
Those of us who went into town so freely were mostly seniors and juniors. We were allowed to go on Friday evenings and Saturdays, and we either went as small bunches, sometimes to split up when we got downtown, later to meet up at the Mövenpick before going back to the campus. We were free to do whatever we liked, and we really got to know Geneva pretty well.
On one occasion when I was downtown in Geneva on my own one afternoon, I found myself in front of the American Express offices (no longer extant, I gather) where an obviously American couple seemed to be lost. I asked if I could help them, and I gave them directions to their destination.
Because I seemed to know this foreign city so well, this couple figured I was a native; they wouldn’t believe I was American when I told them why I spoke such good English. I chuckled to myself as they walked away . . . but I was also quite proud of myself. I was an honest-to-God expat!
I had also learned some of the sights of the city. Outside the Hotel Beau-Rivage on the Quai du Mont-Blanc, there’s an elaborate monument. It turns out to be an actual tomb and I learned a story of its history:
The man buried in the mausoleum, a wealthy man or maybe even an aristo, left his fortune to the city, with one proviso: that the city build him a tomb. He included detailed instructions for the design and location of the tomb.
The city followed the man’s directions and built the tomb. When they had finished the structure, they discovered that the construction had used up the man’s entire estate and there wouldn’t be any money left for the city.
One of the man’s demands was that a statue of him be a central part of the design and the it must face down the street, which was a steep incline, so that he’d be looking at Lake Geneva below. As payback for not ending up with any money for the city, the architect of the tomb placed the statue facing up the hill, its back toward the lake.
The problem with this knowledge is . . . that it’s mostly wrong. I don’t remember where I learned this story, though I certainly didn’t invent it myself—but the main details are false.
The mausoleum is known as the Brunswick Monument and it’s the burial site of Charles II, Duke of Brunswick (1804-73), a historical German state. The general outline of the history is all right, but important facts as I heard them are untrue.
The duke’s estate was 24 million francs, but only two million, not the whole fortune, were spent on the tomb. This was the whole rationale for the (apparently apocryphal) story.
Several significant public buildings were built with the money from the estate after the tomb was built; there’s no evidence that the city was angry at the duke and wanted to play a joke on him as punishment. (He wasn’t exactly a beloved figure, but the city was grateful for his bequest. The city got 22 million francs for its coffers.)
None of the accounts of the Brunswick Monument that I found recently say anything about the duke demanding that his statue face the lake.
The equestrian statue of the duke that was on the top of the mausoleum isn’t on the tomb anymore (it was removed because of earthquake damage), so there’s no easy way to prove it was ever facing the wrong way. (I don't know what direction the recumbent statue on the grave itself is pointing, though, of course, it’s looking up at the ceiling of the monument.)
So, that’s one on me!
Shopping was a little different here than I’d ever done it before. There were two reasons for this. First, stores in Geneva weren’t really self-service the way we know it. Even if you picked up your goods from a table or a rack like in a U.S. store, you took it to a counter where the clerk would ring it up and you’d pay for it. That seems normal enough, right?
But then the clerk would put the items in a basket or box behind the counter and, if you had more shopping to do in that store, you’d go through the same procedure each time you made a purchase.
At the end of your errand there, you go to the main cashier, present your receipt, and receive your purchases. In some stores, you wouldn’t pay each time along the way, but when you finished and the clerks would just wrap up and stash the items for final payment at the end.
It didn’t matter if you were in a clothing store or a record store, or a book store, it was all the same. (Not all stores operated this way, though most of the larger ones did.) Even Mövenpick worked like that.
Payment was different, too—but that was due to the school, not the stores. We could, of course, pay up in cash, and for small purchases, we did—cigarettes, a drink, a single paperback, a newspaper, and such. But larger purchases, or multiple ones that added up—well, that was different.
(By the way, this was long before the establishment of the Euro; the European Union was still years away. So I used Swiss francs in Versoix and Geneva, French francs in France, German marks in Koblenz and Bonn, and dollars in the American PX’s, BX’s, and commissaries when we could get to them. When I traveled to another country, like that trip to Austria [see Part 3], there’d be another currency to handle, in that case, Austrian schillings.
(Keeping all the exchange rates straight in my head—French francs were 20¢, marks were a quarter, Swiss francs were somewhere in between, and schillings were 4¢--was hard enough. Incidentally, the schilling—not to be confused with the British shilling, which was still around in those days—was divided into 100 groschen, which literally means ‘little bigs’; I thought that was absurdly funny. But keeping the money separate was more troublesome. I actually used to carry around little change purses, one for each of the currencies I was using all the time!)
As to the payment issue for shopping: the Ecolint students got an allowance for spending money from our parents, but we didn’t get cash from home or checks. (Cashing a check from a foreign bank in another country’s currency was exceedingly hard in those pre-credit card, pre-ATM days. It was easier in, say Geneva and Zürich than in Koblenz or Versoix, but it was still hard.) So the school kept accounts for each of us and when we needed spending money of more than a couple of francs, the school issued us bons d’achat.
A bon d’achat (literally ‘coupon for purchase’) was a voucher, collectible by the store from the school, which charged it off to our individual accounts. We made our purchases as I described and the store would process the payment from our bon, and we’d go on our way with our goods. I guess it was safer than letting a bunch of adolescents run around the city with hundreds of francs in cash in our pockets.
I’m sure other schools used this system—the stores in Geneva were all familiar with the process, so it was obvious their staffs were all used to it—but I never encountered it again. CDL didn’t use the system as far as I recall—though there wasn’t much to buy in Versoix and we didn’t go to Geneva on our own much.
Another thing we did in our jaunts into Geneva was go to the movies on Friday evening. It was the custom in Geneva—and in Zürich, I know, and I imagine in other large cities with big international contingents like Bern and Basel—to run the undubbed version of foreign movies, labeled “V.O.” (for Version Originale) in the ads and theater posters, at 6 p.m. on weekdays.
So, we could come into town early on a Friday, have dinner somewhere, and catch the 6 o’clock showing of an American or British film, and then catch the tram back to Ecolint. I saw the 1963 Bond flick From Russia with Love that way (and later, 1962’s Lawrence of Arabia in Zürich, where it hadn’t opened until 1963 and was still running when my parents and I made a short visit there).
One of the places I liked to go for dinner on those evenings was the Café de Paris on the Rue du Mont-Blanc. Dad first took me there—though I don’t remember why we were alone together without Mom—after my folks had discovered it when they were staying over in Geneva while my brother was sick [see Part 3]. It was an unprepossessing café, very plain with no décor, just on the north side of the lake in downtown Geneva.
Its gimmick is (it’s still around and pretty much the same as far as I can tell) that it does but one meal, but does it spectacularly well: entrecôte, which is French steak, in an herb-and-butter sauce with golden fries (pommes frites) and a salad.
When you walk in, the waiter asks only, “Rare, medium, or well-done” (saignant – ‘beeding’; à point – ‘just so’; bien cuit – ‘well-cooked’; bleu, or ‘blue,’ is exceedingly rare, or as one of my college roommates would say, “Say hello and goodbye to the flame”). You can order wine or beer, but those are the only choices you get. (Desert, if you want it, was only ice cream or flan.)
The waiter then seats you at a table laid with a white butcher-paper covering and plain stainless flatware (plus a steak knife). The meal is served—quite fast for a French eatery, but that’s because there’s only one thing being cooked in the kitchen so it’s like short-order cooking. When you’ve eaten, the waiter comes to the table and tallies up the bill on the paper table covering; you pay and leave. And it was delicious!
Ecolint held many extracurricular events, some traditional and others rising out of current events; some were even student-suggested. One of the latter was about the U.S. election coming up on 3 November 1964 between Democrats Lyndon B. Johnson and Hubert H. Humphrey (1911-78), and Republicans Barry Goldwater (1909-98) and William E. Miller (1914-83).
I don’t remember whose idea it was to have a mock U.S. election at Ecolint—it might have been my roommate Mark Dyen’s; Mark played President Johnson. We’d stage a campaign, with posters on the schools walls and campaign volunteers handing out flyers, culminating with campaign speeches in the dining hall, followed by a vote by the whole student body, including Americans and non-Americans, English side and French side.
I believe everyone agreed that only American students would play the candidates. I don’t remember if the “election” was held on the 3rd like the actual one stateside, but I’d like to think that we scheduled it that way. In any case, it was close to that date.
The real nominees were set by 16 July for the Republicans after the close of their convention and 26 August for the Democrats. I’m pretty sure we didn’t start that early for our campaign at Ecolint; I doubt our attention span would have lasted that long. I think we started sometime in the fall, probably several weeks before 3 November.
I don’t remember who played Goldwater, the ultra-conservative Arizona Senator, and Miller, an obscure congressman from New York—it might have been Dan Ardrey and our friend from the quéquette-couilles lessons (who, despite being a cut-up, was a very smart guy); I played Minnesota Senator Hubert Humphrey (which turned out to be somewhat prophetic because in 1968, when Humphrey ran for president against Richard Nixon, my father worked on the Humphrey campaign).
Among the posters—just handmade by the student-candidates and our friends—the only one I recall was from the Goldwater-Miller campaign: “AuH2O 4 64”—Au, the chemical symbol for ‘gold’ + H2O, the molecular formula for ‘water’ = Goldwater; 4, ‘for’; 64, 1964: “Goldwater for ’64.” It was inspired by, if not cribbed from, the actual campaign back home.
I don’t think the Goldwater and Miller stand-ins did much research beyond their candidates’ policy positions, but Mark and I tried to emulate our candidates’ speaking styles—or, at least their speech-writing styles. (We didn’t have access to recordings or videos—which weren’t available in 1964—to do their voices or delivery styles.)
On “election day,” LBJ and HHH won handily (in real life, it was a Democratic landslide), but with all those non-Americans voting, I think the outcome was more based on their views of the actual candidates from their home press than Mark’s and my oratorical persuasiveness.
I know from my dad’s reports from his interactions with the Germans he worked with that Barry Goldwater scared most Europeans and foreigners from other regions. This was, after all, the campaign in which candidate Johnson aired the famous—or infamous—“Daisy” commercial that raised the specter of nuclear war.
(Later, when my friends and I got to meet David’s Russian pen-pal [see Part 2], she and her university-aged friends also expressed relief that Senator Goldwater hadn’t been elected. They didn’t quite understand how that could happen—a politician who was an official candidate but didn’t win—but that’s a different issue.)
In December, before Christmas break, there’s a local holiday in Geneva, La Fête de l’Escalade. (Escalade is a French word which we’ve borrowed for military usage, mostly applicable to siege warfare, that means ‘scaling walls or fortifications.’) In celebration, which occurs on 12 December or the nearest weekend, Escalade is like a combination of the 4th of July and Halloween.
Most readers will know that Switzerland’s a neutral country and has been since the early 19th century. Even though, for instance, Geneva was the home of the League of Nations and many United Nations agencies are based there, Switzerland didn’t join the U.N. until 2002. The country is neither a member of the European Union nor the Euro Zone; the Swiss franc is still it’s only official currency.
But before 1815, Switzerland was as bellicose as any other European state of the day. It was also Protestant from 1536, five years before John Calvin arrived there and established the Republic of Geneva. (The full official name for the canton is the Republic and Canton of Geneva.) Geneva is only a few miles from the border with France, a Catholic country.
Charles Emmanuel I (1562-1630), sovereign of the Duchy of Savoy (reigned 1580-1630), wanted to annex Geneva to his domain. Sitting right on its border, Geneva was wealthy—as well as independent, republican, and Protestant. The duke sent his troops to make a surprise attack on Geneva during the night of 11-12 December 1602. They were repulsed by the bravery and determination of the Genovese. Residents of Geneva celebrate the victory annually with—for the Swiss—raucous festivity.
In 1964, Escalade was celebrated on Saturday, 12 December. Someone connected to Ecolint had invited the interns (or maybe just the upperclassmen) to a party at their home in Geneva; I don’t remember who our host was, possibly a member of the faculty or staff or a parent of a fellow student, but we were delighted to go. We took the tram into town as usual, and walked to the party.
Escalade is celebrated by dressing in costume and reveling through the night. Swiss law prohibited adults from appearing in costume or mask in public (that is, outdoors), so they had to bring their costumes to any party they’re attending and change there. Children, however, and we still qualified, could walk around the city dressed as whatever they liked, just like trick-or-treating in the States at Halloween. We went sans fancy dress, however.
All over town, as we walked to the party, there were revelers celebrating in the streets. The kids were dressed up, of course, but the adults were just a little tiddly. Public drinking was also prohibited—but that never stopped anyone from having a few before the go out. (The Swiss may have converted to Protestantism before Calvin got a hold on them, but he had plenty of influence after 1641, and the evidence is still visible. Dancing, for instance, is forbidden on New Year’s Eve in Switzerland because it’s a religious holiday—the Feast of Saint Sylvester.)
The revelry includes singing—usually at the top of the lungs—one of the two traditional songs of the day: “Ah! La Belle Escalade.” (The other song is “Cé queè lainô,” composed in 1602; it’s in Old French and the title means “The one who is on top.” “La Belle Escalade” has the advantage of being in modern French. Some of the celebrants might have been singing “Cé queè lainô,” which is considered a sort Genovese anthem, but I wouldn’t have recognized it.)
Just as at Halloween here, the Genovese kids go door to door to neighbors’ homes—but instead of shouting “Trick or treat!” they sing one of the Escalade songs to receive candies or coins. The teens—not us, of course—tend to behave as if it were Mischief Night. At the party, there was a sort of ritual that I didn’t understand until someone explained it to me. (I didn’t know the history behind Escalade, aside from the fact of the foiled invasion, until later.)
Apparently this is a family tradition, but I witnessed it at the party—I presume it’s pretty much the same, though perhaps a little more boisterous at a party. The oldest person in the gathering and the youngest one together smash a little chocolate cauldron called a marmite (sort of like a chocolate piñata), while reciting, Ainsi périrent les ennemis de la République! (“Thus perish the enemies of the Republic!”). The exclamation refers to the legend in which a Genovese woman poured boiling vegetable soup onto the invading Savoyards climbing the city walls.
The marmite is stuffed with marzipan “vegetables” and other candies. Everything is decorated in the Genovese colors of red and gold. Other traditions include drinking Glühwein and a large serving of soup.
The soup plays a big role in Escalade celebrations: I learned much later that at home, children make a pot of vegetable soup which they serve that night to their parents and other guests at the home. I knew nothing of this in 1964, of course.
At Christmas break in December 1964, my family and I took our first ski vacation in Zermatt in the Canton of Valais—known in German as Wallis. (Those cute little cabins all over the alpine areas of Switzerland, chalets—they’re called Walliserhütten in German.) Zermatt, as most readers will know, is the site of the Matterhorn; you can ski down it into Italy—but I never did.
Zermatt’s on the side of a mountain and climbs up the slope toward the ski areas. There are no cars in the town; you arrive by a special, small-gauge rail line. (One stop up the mountain is a village called St. Niklaus. Of course, we called it “Santa Claus Town.”) There are only electric carts and three-wheelers in the streets of Zermatt, used by the businesses for deliveries and the hotels for carrying luggage to and from the station.
There are some horse-drawn sleighs, but they’re for romantic interludes and children’s entertainment more than actual transportation. Skiers and other visitors get around on foot or on skis. You’d probably walk up the hill with your skis on your shoulder, but it wasn’t unusual to come off your last run of the morning or afternoon and just keep on going down the road to your lodgings.
At night, when the chalets and hotels lit up as they ascended the slope, the town looked like a giant Christmas tree! It’s such a charming and delightful place that we returned there several times during our life in Germany, both at Christmas and other times, and often with another family.
[Coming up in “Going to
a Swiss International School, Part 5,” to be posted on 11 May, will be a
big—and ultimately consequential—trip I took with Ecolint over spring
vacation. I trust you’ll find it
interesting, so please return to Rick On Theater to read about this
extraordinary experience.]
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