I posted here before about going to Carouge. Our only adventure in Switzerland. (If you are not counting speeding tickets and batons kirsch which all happened on our return drive to the Zurich airport.)
Carouge is nearly Geneva but not quite Geneva. I can't really tell you what Geneva is like.
And the guidebooks we consulted did not seem interested to either. So we googled: "best things to do in Geneva or..............", "best neighborhoods in Geneva" or...."chocolatiers in Geneva"........
We found the chocolates. (See my first Carouge post.) And a miniature version of the (Golden Pass) train we (sadly, boohoo) did not ride. The Swiss cows we did not get to know.......
(Did I mention that it has a fabled Saturday flea market?) It was a happy find, Carouge. Because I like places with arty little shops. Colorful buildings.
Friendly intimate weddings.
Quiet uncrowded restaurants on tranquil corners serving interesting food.
But not so much the eye-bleeding prices. No we did not enjoy a meal in Carouge. Good thing for you (if you're going to Switzerland, or anyone else who might be), that the Swiss Franc has been de-valued since the New Year.)
I did take about a million pictures of this place. And managed to snap it's proprietor. (Methinks.)
Because these are the kind of places I especially like to come upon and look at. Because of their casual insouciance about what "a proper shop" should look like. Because I like people who keep such sorts of shops. Because I think they are performing a service.
Because I'm convinced that there are treasures lurking in this casual sort of jumble.
Like that coffeepot, that I fancied quite a lot. Whose surroundingss, which the sun being against me at that hour, made very difficult for me to capture. But it was not just about jumbles and strays, and treasures....and casualness.
But about a serious kind of work. That not EVERYbody can do. See what I mean about providing a service? It's a place that every town needs. Don't you think? ("Restoration of Old Furniture".)
I like to imagine the old furniture came out of a house such as this.
And spent some of its life sitting under a painting such as this.
And might, further to restoration, end up in a place like this.
Where it can spend the rest of its days serenely.
Surrounded by sounds no more disturbing than those of bees in an olive tree.
While it's cousins languish wonderingly on city sidewalks: futures uncertains.
We Paradis had to have little drink to savor those thoughts.
Because we are all too aware that the world of furniture is changing. As is all else around us.
Have I done o.k. making a silly story about a simple walk about a lovely little town?
Will that do?