Day 14: Chamonix to Geneva

It's hot!

After Gaby went out early to buy some breakfast pastries, which we ate on the balcony, we bought some postcards and headed to the post office for stamps.

After checking out of the apartment we popped back to find the letterbox. "There it is," said Gaby. "No, that's the bin. It's just over there."
To be fair, the actual letterbox looked remarkably like a rubbish bin. It even had a notice on it saying "Not a trash can", which suggests this may not be an uncommon mistake. Perhaps that's why we have bright red letterboxes in the UK.

So, if you're one of the lucky five readers of this blog, there is a postcard currently winging its way towards you.

We were sad to leave Chamonix. Despite the hot weather, we had grown rather fond of the clean air, mountains and forests. In many ways it felt a bit like home, just without the inconvenience of having to go to work. More importantly, it marked the end of the holiday, at least for Gaby, who would soon be heading home while I continued on towards the Pyrenees.

The FlixBus journey from Chamonix to Geneva was uneventful. Geneva, on first impressions, appeared to be a large, hot and congested city. I like mountains. Cities and I generally maintain a polite but distant relationship.

The walk from the bus station to our hotel felt longer than it actually was. Every minute spent carrying our rucksacks seemed to add another degree to the temperature. By the time we arrived, we were thoroughly cooked.

After checking in, we sat in the hotel room contemplating our options. After about 30 minutes of discussion, we concluded that it was simply too hot to do anything sensible. The temperature peaked at around 35°C.
Then I opened a cupboard and discovered a fan.
That settled the matter. The day's plans were immediately revised. We spent most of the afternoon stretched out on the bed, enjoying the slightly refreshing breeze and congratulating ourselves on making what was clearly the correct decision. Sightseeing is overrated.

When hunger set in, we walked the half block to the air-conditioned Manor centre and went upstairs to the food court. It was noticeably cooler inside, which made the decision-making process unnecessarily complicated for about thirty seconds.

We ended up on the terrace anyway, even though it was about the same temperature as everything else, but at least had a view.

From there we could see and hear central Geneva laid out below: the Jet d’Eau throwing up its familiar column, the Ferris wheel turning slowly in the distance, and the general hum of a city doing its best to function in high temperatures. We briefly debated going further into town, then mostly agreed that any movement beyond this point would be purely symbolic.

We did still brave a few sweltering blocks down to Lake Geneva, took the obligatory photos, stood there for a suitable amount of time to justify the effort, then retreated back again.

The hotel room, fan and all, was already calling the shots.