A Few Hours in Geneva

Heaven is never quite on our side when we’re going sightseeing. The cathedrals with the most imposing spires (like Bern’s Münster, or Strasbourg’s Eglise St Thomas) are shrouded in unsightly scaffolding. In Bern, we discovered that the famous bear pits no longer housed any bears. And this in a city named after the bear.

In Geneva, therefore, we were no terribly surprised to find that its most famous attraction—the Jet d’Eau (which throws 500 litres of water every second into the air, to a height of 140 metres at the rate of 200kmph)—wasn’t working. The weather wasn’t right for it, we were told. Huh? There wasn’t a cloud in sight. We were later told, by my cousin, that it’s wind that’s the culprit: in a stiff breeze (which was blowing like a gale off Lac Leman the day we were in Geneva), the Jet d’Eau’s water will go all over the place, so they turn it off. Ho hum.

But never say die, says I, so we grinned weakly at each other, and decided to see the other sights of Geneva—which, unless you’re terribly keen on seeing buildings associated with the United Nations, CERN, the Red Cross/Red Crescent and similar organisations—are few and far between. But Lac Leman, also known as Lac de Genève (Lake Geneva) is pretty enough to merit a leisurely stroll along its shore. From the railway station, we’d walked over to the nearby tourist information centre (on Rue de Mont Blanc) and picked up a map of Geneva, from which we figured out that the best way to proceed was straight on: down Rue du Mont Blanc and over Pont du Mont Blanc, the bridge which would take us over to the Old Town. This is at the southern tip of Lac Leman—a few bridges to the south, and the body of water you’re crossing is no longer the lake, but the River Rhône.

We, however, were quite definitely crossing Lac Leman, its banks dotted with lovely old white paddle steamers that chug their way along the shores of the lake. There were lots of private boats too, nearly all covered with tarps: this was a weekday, so everybody was probably hard at work. Also hard at work—preening, poking about for worms and posing for tourists—were pristine swans and ducks. Lac Leman has a lot of these pretty birds swimming along the shores, from Geneva to Chillon and beyond, and they’re perfect models!

Past the flapping flags that line the Pont du Mont Blanc, we arrived at the Jardin Anglais (literally, the English Garden), a long and picturesque stretch of lawns, trees, flowerbeds, fountains and statues. The Jardin Anglais has its own two landmarks: the first we arrived at was the Monument Nationale. With a name like that—I associate monuments with being nothing smaller than the Taj Mahal—I’d expected something grander, but this is really just two statues of armed women, both slightly larger than life, draped in flowing robes and wearing crowns. These were erected in 1914 to mark the centenary of Geneva’s joining the Swiss Confederation (as a result of the Congress of Vienna in 1814). Interesting enough, but not as much of a draw as the garden’s other big attraction, the Horloge Fleurie (the Flower Clock)a symbol of the Swiss watchmaking industry.

We’d seen flower clocks elsewhere—one in Lausanne (Ouchy), but Geneva’s Flower Clock is in a different league. This one was set up in 1955 and consists of 6,500 flowering plants, of which the species (I assume) are changed every now and then. When we visited, the flowers were mainly cream and white, with a smattering of deep mauve; photos in our guidebook and on the Net reveal a dazzling range of colours, with vivid yellows, reds, deep purples and blues. Rather stylishly, the numbers on the clock face are scattered across the area—the 12, 1 and 5 were on the dial, but the other numbers were picked out in silvery-green foliage on circles of flowering plants a couple of feet away from the dial. Cool!

We’d wasted a little time at the Horloge Fleurie; it’s very popular, so there was almost a queue of people who wanted friends and family to photograph them against the backdrop of the clock. Having finally gotten to it and taken our photograph, we wandered on a bit more through the Jardin Anglais, admiring the view of Lac Leman, before we turned right and headed off towards the Old Town.

Geneva’s Old Town sits on a hill. The fringes, with broad roads, Starbucks, offices and boutiques, resembles other modern Western European cities; the small and compact core, with its narrow cobbled streets, old buildings and pretty cafés, is a more medieval area. The streets get gradually narrower and steeper, so that by the time we began the climb up to the Cathédrale St Pierre, we were happy to stop at the first fountain labelled `eau potable’ and have a drink to cool off.

Having seen the cathedral (admittedly impressive, though it doesn’t look like a church), we stopped off for lunch at Geneva’s oldest restaurant, Taverne de la Madeleine. Just round the corner from the cathedral—we didn’t see this till after lunch—is another restaurant, Les Armures, probably best known because Bill Clinton dined there.

In the same area, within a few metres of the cathedral, stand two other historical monuments. One is what used to originally be the granary and later became the Arsenal. This is today a sort of open hall which appeared to be in use as a parking lot for a couple of bicycles. Don’t be deterred, though: one of the walls is decorated with striking mosaics depicting warriors, dragons, women with plunging necklines and other interesting details—I wish there’d been some explanation of the art. The arsenal is also, appropriately, home to two cannons. These, luckily for us, had an explanatory plaque on the wall: these were part of the artillery requisitioned by the Austrians and carted off to Vienna in 1814. The Lieutenant of Geneva, Joseph Pinon, began a crusade to retrieve the cannons and they were returned to Geneva the following year, in 1815.

Just a few steps down the lane, in fact almost diagonally opposite the arsenal, is the Hotel de Ville. Just about every Swiss city we visited had a Hotel de Ville, but Geneva’s is especially important. Here, in the Alabama Room, was where the first Geneva Convention was signed. The Hotel de Ville now consists of government offices and you can’t wander about at will within the precincts, but you can look in through the gate. Step into the courtyard, and the wooden door in the opposite wall leads to the Alabama Room.

Also near the Hotel de Ville, the Arsenal, et al, is the Maison Tavel, Geneva’s oldest house. The earliest records pertaining to the Maison Tavel go back to 1303, but following a fire in 1334, much of the house was rebuilt. Much restoration and renovation appears to have been done ever since, and on the outside at least there’s little to reveal its antiquity. The Maison Tavel has now been converted into a museum, the Musée des Vieux Genève, which showcases life in Geneva between the 14th and 19th centuries.

But, since we had just a couple of hours more to spend in Geneva before we caught our train back to Lausanne, we decided to skip the Musée des Vieux Genève and make our way instead to Musée d’art et d’histoire. This museum, with its excellent collection of fine art, is outside of the Old Town, in a quiet stretch of leafy parks and sedate old houses. Also in close proximity is the unusual Eglise Russe, the Russian Orthodox Church with its gleaming gilded onion domes.

A quick tour of the church, a longer (but not long enough to be satisfying!) tour of the museum, and it was time to head back to the railway station. We hadn’t managed to see the Jet d’Eau, but we didn’t mind: even a few hours in Geneva had been interesting enough. This isn’t one of Switzerland’s must-see cities (unless you’re devoted to clocks or the UN), but if you have the time to spare, it can be rewarding enough.

Churches rank right up there with museums on our lists of must-sees, so Geneva’s Cathédrale St Pierre was priority on our itinerary for the city. On this particular jaunt through Europe, we’d already visited churches in Lausanne, Bern, Fribourg, Strasbourg and Colmar, so we were (also keeping in mind experiences from other European cities we’ve been to) expecting something imposing—the sort of building you can see from streets away.

The Cathedral of St Peter, Cathédrale St Pierre, is impressive, there’s no doubt about that. But it’s so tucked away amidst the other buildings that, unless you’re keeping an eye out for it, you can actually miss it. Well, we did at any rate, and ended up meandering around the surrounding lanes and bylanes before we found it. Then, of course, it seemed so silly to have missed something so large. The point is to climb up steadily past Rue de la Madeleine, up the steep incline, till you come to a building with a pillared façade, standing at the end of a paved courtyard. This, though at first glance it resembles a town hall or a courthouse or something equally mundane, is the cathedral, believe it or not. We craned our necks a bit to eventually see an intricate green spire (topped by a crucifix) snaking its way up amidst the blocks of stone, and satisfied that this was the Cathédrale St Pierre, we entered.

The cathedral’s a mishmash of architectural styles, mainly Gothic and Romanesque, built between 1160 and 1230, when it started off being a highly opulent and eye-catching structure. This, during the Reformation, caught the eye of a bunch of zealots who decided all that opulence was definitely unchristian. Except for a bit of carving and some stained glass, nearly all the decoration in the church was put to the axe or the bonfire or whatever, so what you see today is a highly toned down version of what the cathedral originally was.

It may not be very fancy, but in our brief ramble through the cathedral, we found sufficient to interest us. The stained glass windows are lovely, and some of the old carving can be seen on the stone capitals of the pillars: dragons, snakes, and other animals abound. Other than that, the choir stalls—carved with the figures of the saints, each lightly gilded and labelled—are worth a look. So, too, is the chair from which John Calvin, outspoken proponent of the Reformation, preached some sermons. For us, there was yet another attraction: the mausoleum of one of the Prince Bishops of Strasbourg, Henri Rohan. Since we’d just returned from a trip to Strasbourg, where we’d seen the Palais Rohan and learnt a bit about the Rohans, seeing this tomb was like meeting an old friend. A life-size statue of Henri Rohan, carved from white marble, forms the centrepiece of the mausoleum.

Overall, the cathedral, though very austere, is worth a look. Entry is free, but a small fee is charged if you want to climb up to the tower.

Give Tarun and me a map of a European city, and the first thing we look for is museums. We’re nuts about collections of art, history, nature, and wacky stuff like sewing machines, chocolate, wine and the like—as long as it isn’t disgusting or boring. So, having collected a map of Geneva (and realised we didn’t have the time to see the Patek Philippe Museum of Clocks and Watches), we set off for the Museum of Art and History, the Musée d’art et d’histoire on Rue Charles Galland. Entry to the museum is free (except for the special exhibitions, which we were anyway not interested in). The museum itself is large—not the type you can skip through in half an hour and still have something to tell the folks back home. This covers five floors: Applied Arts and Temporary Exhibitions on the ground floor, more of Applied Arts on the first floor, Fine Arts on the second floor, and Archaeology on the two floors below ground level.

Archaeology is fine with us, but never draws a resounding cheer (whereas art does), so we took the elevator up to the second floor and decided we’d work our way down. On the second floor is the Beaux Arts—Fine Arts—section, with the displays arranged chronologically. It began, therefore, with lots of 15th and 16th century religious paintings, but soon progressed to more secular art: vast landscapes, inspirations from Greek mythology (satyrs and nymphs and Gods up to no good), scenes of everyday life, and portraits of the rich and famous. This gallery reads like a who’s who of European art: Romney, Rodin, Veronese, Hogarth, and all my favourite Impressionists—Corot, Monet, Pissarro, et al. Having already seen some of the extremely impressive work of the Swiss painter Ferdinand Hodler at Bern’s Kunstmusuem, we were especially delighted to find more of his work here, even though most of it was just self-portraits.

Having gaped in wonder at a stunningly erotic and tasteful life-size marble statue of Venus and Adonis, we made our way down to the next gallery, Arts Decoratifs—the Decorative (Applied) Arts. This is distributed across two floors, the upper (the first floor) containing displays of musical instruments, silverware, pewter and some restored rooms of the Castle of Zizers. The ground floor has exhibitions of arms and armour, furniture, and some more restored rooms.

By the time we arrived at the Applied Arts section, Tarun had discovered a blister on his sole and opted out. He sat down on one of the numerous benches and chairs around (there’s even a café at the museum, though we didn’t visit it), while I went on to the first floor, with its musical instruments, many of them of Italian origin, all beautifully inlaid and carved. Beyond these were gleaming displays of silverware, massive soup tureens, bowls, plate, vases, cutlery and whatnot, all so brilliantly polished that I could see my dishevelled reflection in them. Past the sections on pewter and ivory, I arrived at the restored rooms of the Castle of Zizers, which have some grand furniture, particularly cupboards and cabinets covered with carving and marquetry. These galleries were, to my surprise, completely deserted: except for the occasional docent, there was nobody around. It got especially weird after one of the docents—a tall, middle-aged woman—began trailing me through the rooms. This looked suspicious (or was she suspicious of me?), so after bestowing a dazzling smile on her (and getting a slightly bemused one in return), I scurried off to the Applied Arts section on the ground floor.

A large section of the Applied Arts gallery on the ground floor is devoted to weaponry and armour: fancy guns inlaid with ivory, spiffy powder horns and pistols, huge helmets and polished armour. Also on this floor were more restored state rooms, this time more cheerful, with a couple of other visitors, so the docents weren’t quite so obviously on the prowl. The state rooms, with their carved wooden ceilings, their walls hung with paintings and tapestries, and their gorgeously carved furniture, are, in my opinion, the best part of this section.

By this time, Tarun—whom I could see by peeking over a stone railing—was looking bored and impatient, so I took a quick tour through the section on applied arts in other parts of Europe. This has, for example, some beautifully painted urns and other pottery from Greece and Rome. I just about managed to get a peek at these before rushing back to Tarun, who had by now decided he was better off sitting in the park opposite the museum (it is pretty, by the way—in fact, a good spot for a picnic lunch if you plan to spend a leisurely day at the museum).

The Archaeology section, according to our free English-language map of the museum, contains sections on prehistory, Egypt, Kerma (a Nubian state), Greece, Etruria and Rome. I wish we’d had more time so we could’ve seen these galleries too; if they’re anything like the rest of the museum, it would be worth it. No photography is allowed inside the museum, by the way—so you can pack that camera away.

We’d just emerged from the Cathédrale St Pierre and were looking about for a place to eat when we came across the Taverne de la Madeleine. While in Switzerland and Alsace, we’d got out of the habit of going inside a restaurant; we’d simply sit outside at one of the tables. At Taverne de la Madeleine too we dumped all our stuff—bag, guidebook, camera, jacket, etc—and sat down gratefully at a table under one of the pretty creamy-white beach umbrellas. A waiter soon came along to hand over the menus, and as he was moving off with our drinks order (Orangina for Tarun, Coke for me), he grinned shyly and asked us, "Are you from India?" When we said we were, he told that he was Indian too (we’d guessed it)—from the state of Kerala.

The Taverne de la Madeleine prides itself on being Geneva’s oldest restaurant. It’s also—and here’s a warning for those of you out there who just can’t do without a drink—a restaurant that does not serve any alcohol. Just in case you miss the huge Restaurant Sans Alcool sign painted on the side of the building, it’s repeated on the menu, along with a brief (and in English, badly written) history of the tavern. This began as an eatery called Auberge de la Mule, dating back to 1430; during World War I, it was converted into a soup kitchen named Le Coin du Feu, established by local ladies who appear to have been members of some sort of temperance league; at any rate, they didn’t serve any alcohol. The soup kitchen was officially converted into a restaurant, the Taverne de la Madeleine, in 1920.

Despite its abstinence, the tavern seems to do brisk business: just about all the tables outside were occupied. It probably has something to do with the entire ambience of the place: the terrace outside, the white-painted shutters on the first floor, with red geraniums in the window boxes; and a general air of relaxed, teetotalling benevolence.

The Taverne menu’s a mix of Italian and French: pizzas, pasta, salads and entrées, with mainly French main courses. Both Tarun and I settled for the same dish: a crumb-fried scallop of chicken. This may sound rather frugal, but turned out to be a filling meal. Our waiter—by now chatting with us about the recent elections in India—placed a basket of thickly sliced baguettes on our table, along with our drinks. He followed it up with a plate of salad each: mixed leaves drizzled over with a tart and creamy dressing. Then came the scallop itself, a steak of chicken beaten as thin as a weiner schnitzel, crumbed, fried crisp and served piping hot with a large portion of fries. We’d initially thought we’d have dessert as well, but by the time we finished our meal, both Tarun and I were too full for any more. So we skipped dessert and paid up CHF53, including a tip for our waiter (who was a sweet guy and hadn’t fawned on us simply because we happened to be compatriots—that would’ve put me off!).

Good place, even though it’s a little more expensive than the average café. And the history, if you don’t miss alcohol, is intriguing enough. Note that it’s open from 8.30 AM to 4.30 PM Mondays to Fridays and from 10 AM to 4 PM on Saturdays; it’s closed on Sundays and public holidays.

I’m a Christian, so am usually pretty much at ease in churches—I know the ropes, so to say Tarun, though not a Christian, has been married to me long enough to also have an idea of what’s done and what’s not. That said, we were still pretty much out of our depth at the Eglise Russe, also known as the Cathedrale Orthodox Russe, the Russian Orthodox Church. Read on to see why!

In a city that’s in any case short on major sights to see, the Eglise Russe has the added disadvantage of being tucked away in a forgotten corner, far from the hectic busyness of the Old Town. We’d read that the most distinctive feature of the church was its set of gilded onion domes, and sure enough: walking past the Musée d’art et d’histoire, we suddenly caught a glimpse of loads of gilt, and there it was, off to our left.

With those onion domes (one large one surrounded by half a dozen or so smaller ones) gleaming like a beacon, we were hardly likely to lose our way, and a brisk walk brought us to the church a few minutes later. And here we came to a standstill. Not just because the church, all sloping roofs, arches, ornate façade and golden domes is eye-catching, but because the list of do’s and don’ts outside the church was so formidable. We’d barely scrunched our way up the neatly gravelled driveway, past a row of flowering bushes, when there it was: a large sign forbidding us from bringing pets and eatables into the church; forbidding photography or noise; forbidding shorts; forbidding tank tops; etc. By the time we’d gone through the list and given ourselves a once-over to check that we passed muster, we were really nervous.

Back in the late 19th century, when Geneva was the ‘playground of Europe’ (and what a lot of playing they did!), this city was home to the Grand Duchess Anna Feodorovna. Though a German (her given name and title was Princess Juliane Henriette Ulrike of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld—an aunt of Queen Victoria’s, by the way), Anna was married at the age of fifteen to Grand Duke Constantine of Russia. Their marriage was by all accounts a disaster, further proven by the fact that she left him after only three years, and ended up in Switzerland, giving birth to two illegitimate children and generally creating a bit of a scandal.

Considering Anna Feodorovna’s somewhat free thinking, it seems a little incongruous that this straitlaced and very orthodox church in Geneva was funded by her. She provided the finances for its construction, which was completed in 1869, nine years after Anna’s death. Geneva’s large population of resident Russians obviously appreciated the idea, and more than hundred years later, it’s still very much in use.

We visited on a weekday afternoon, so found ourselves pretty much alone except for a hawk-eyed caretaker kneeling in one corner. Too timid to do any wandering about the church, we sat down and tried to see what we could from our seats. It’s not difficult to do this, because the church is fairly small. It’s built on the pattern of a Greek cross (with all four arms of equal length) and the interior is therefore just a largish square room, the walls and ceiling covered over with extensive religious paintings and the floor tiled in intricate patterns of dull blues, red, black and yellow. The inside is dim, all the colours dark and gloomy—in sharp contrast with the bright and almost gaudy exterior.

We emerged from the church after about five minutes; even a quick prayer didn’t help me get over my fear of the caretaker, who looked like she’d pounce on us and boot us out for breathing inside the church!

But seriously, this is a lovely little place, and if you’re visiting the museum, do take ten minutes to come here too. And make sure you’re well clad, aren’t eating or drinking anything, and are not accompanied by pets! There is no charge for visiting the Eglise Russe, though you may of course leave a donation.