Sunday in Geneva
Like a ghost town, there is no one on the streets. Manequins in shop windows in their underwear with no spectators. Stickers advertising the "Red Light District" with no working girls in sight. Chairs stacked up against café tables. The trams and busses running every 20 minutes instead of every 5. The man playing the music box with his fat cat must stay inside and sleep with the rest of Geneva. Even the beggars must go home, because there is no trace of them either.
People do not show their faces before noon when they emerge with sunglasses on to hide the sins they committed the night before, trying to add an equilibrium to the long work-week hours at the bank or UN. They make their way to one of the very few Sunday brunch-havens. And the concentration of those "crazy" souls that dare to go out before noon on Sunday can be found at the outside market, buying groceries.
It is a good thing that there is a Sunday market, as even the supermarkets and malls are closed.
People do not show their faces before noon when they emerge with sunglasses on to hide the sins they committed the night before, trying to add an equilibrium to the long work-week hours at the bank or UN. They make their way to one of the very few Sunday brunch-havens. And the concentration of those "crazy" souls that dare to go out before noon on Sunday can be found at the outside market, buying groceries.
It is a good thing that there is a Sunday market, as even the supermarkets and malls are closed.