The worst pies in Geneva

I’ve never been in a city that reminded me so much of Sweeney Todd.

My dad has been over here in Lausanne, visiting me and touring around for the past couple weeks. It’s been a welcome change to have a bit of familiarity amid all the new experiences. Having my dad around helped quell the homesickness a little bit.

He had to fly out of Geneva to go back home this morning, so we spent the weekend there. Who’d have thought the city that Jean-Jacques Rousseau and John Calvin called home would be so… drab?

It was drab in a tough, nostalgic kind of way though. I felt like there should be orphan boys running around in the street and newspaper vendors strolling about. There was something so grey about the old downtown that made it look like it belonged in 19th-century London.

To be fair, it was a late Sunday afternoon when my dad and I went walking around the downtown and there were basically no shops open. The streets were pretty dead, which added to the subdued atmosphere.

A few smokestacks and horse-drawn carts would have made it the perfect place to open a questionable barber shop.

Sam Nabi