Berne, Switzerland is a very appealing city. I could almost live there. But the train back to Paris put me in Lausanne for a few hours yesterday afternoon. I walked down to the shore of Lake Geneva and took a ferry to Evian-les-Bains. The idea of literally weeping from boredom had never entered my head until I visited this little morgue of a town. Give me those eight spindly trees in front of Rockefeller Center any day. In my mind there is nothing so loathsome and soul-stifling as strolling around picturesque little towns like Evian at the pace of a 75 year-old, snapping photos and lolling around cafes. I would rather be dodging bullets in Syria — seriously.
Breakfast room inside Berne’s Hotel National.
Found on ivy-covered wall adjacent to steps in Evian-les-Bains.
Lake Geneva from Evian-les-Bains.
