A Slice of Heaven in Geneva: There are moments in life that feel like a gift—un cadeau—unscripted, fleeting, and so rich you want to bottle them up and carry them forever. One of those moments found me in Geneva, perched at a table in a restaurant whose name escapes me, but whose memory lingers like a chanson d’amour. The pizza before me wasn’t just food—it was magnifique, dough kissed by a wood-fired oven, toppings that danced between simple et divin. But the real magic? The view. Lake Geneva—Lac Léman—stretched out like a mirror of blue, catching the late afternoon light, framed by mountains that whispered paix.
I’d wandered into this place by chance, a journalist’s curiosity tugging me off the cobblestone path. The air smelled of basilic frais and possibility, and the hum of voices—français, English, a melody of accents—wrapped around me like a warm étreinte. My table sat by a window, parfaitement placé, where every bite came with a side of wonder. The pizza was exquis—crisp edges, a smear of sauce that tasted like l’été, and cheese that pulled just right. But it was more than that. It was the way the lake shimmered, the way the world slowed down, the way I felt God’s grâce in the quiet beauty of it all.
As a writer, I couldn’t help but think of Mary Shelley, who penned Frankenstein just a stone’s throw from here, on the shores of this very lake. Her words were born of storm and solitude, yet here I sat, basking in light and warmth, my own story unfolding over a pizza. I wonder what she’d have made of this moment—would she have scribbled it down, too? Sitting there, I wished I could speak French better—je veux améliorer mon français. The waiters flowed with such ease, their “bon appétit” like poetry, and I wanted to join in, to taste the language as much as the meal. I managed a shy “merci” and a smile, but oh, how I’d love to weave through conversations here, to let the words flow like ink.
Faith tells me there’s grace in the small stuff—l’amour in a shared meal, beauty in the way light hits water. As a writer, I wanted to capture it, to pin it to the page like a papillon, a little nod to Shelley’s legacy of creation. As a creator, I wanted to share it, to say, “Regarde, this is what life can be.” I don’t recall the restaurant’s name, and maybe that’s okay. Some things don’t need a label to stay sacré. I just remember sitting there, fork in hand (yes, I’m that person sometimes), letting the moment sink in.
Geneva gave me that afternoon, a slice of something éternel. The pizza’s long gone, the addition paid, the table cleared. But the feeling? That’s mine to keep. And if I could go back—just for a battement de cœur—I’d be there again, staring out at the lake, practicing my “s’il vous plaît”, channeling Mary Shelley’s spirit, letting the world be still, letting love and authenticity win. Because that’s what Geneva does: it reminds you to taste the good, to see the saint, to live the doux.
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