Last week I was sitting at my desk at my internship at the Geneva Centre for Security Policy, highlighting an article called "Terrors of Transatlantia," when my colleague Yann poked his head into the office.
"Hey guys," he started, "you're all invited to a party Friday night. It's going to be great." He pushed into my hand a small blue postcard with a dancing figure and the title "Vote-in-Party." I stared at the card for several moments. So I knew my French wasn't that hot, but was my English failing me now too?
"Yann, what does 'Vote-in-Party' mean?" I finally asked. He looked at me amusedly. "It's in English! You know, it's for young voters. We sponsor a dance party where they can get into the club for free with their ballot. You should come too, just bring your passport. We're really trying to support EU integration. The wine's free."
Thus last Friday night I, along with four of my American friends, descended from bus number three at the sign for Cit?©, the University of Geneva dormitories. Passports firmly in hand, we walked down the block to the club, thoughts buzzing through our fully sober heads. A Rock the Vote party in Switzerland! What was this business with EU integration? Free wine!
After presenting our passports at a dismally empty entrance, we headed out back to the terrace, following the promise of free alcohol in a country where a pint costs about five dollars. It was still early and the small array of pot-smoking party organizers, attired in the typically Genevois 80s-style jeans and cotton T-shirts, hardly gave our gelled and deodorized gaggle a second look. We settled in with nervous smiles to the velvet couches in the corner. This was Geneva, right? Five American college students were hardly an abnormality in a city of 40 percent foreigners.
Four hours and two bottles of Swiss red wine later, it dawned on me that perhaps this was not quite the pinnacle of international cosmopolitanism. When we stood up from our posts to attend to the dancing inside (a strange Brazilian pop/European techno mix had begun emanating from the front room), four eligible-looking bachelors asked if we spoke English.
A slightly drunk Jessica replied, "Yes" and their leader gave a mischievous smile. "Go home, Americans," he slurred with a smirk. "Go home." Michelle started muttering in French about weird guys and we strolled away towards the bar, following a stream of slightly odiferous Swiss guys towards the DJ table.
Once inside, this strange cultural puzzle started coming together even more. From the corners around the bar sulked a few of the famed beautiful Genevoise women, while on the dance floor seemingly every weird guy at the party was gyrating to a mysterious beat not coming from the DJ's speakers.
I'd heard that Europeans liked their music funky and their dancing awkward, but somehow I couldn't get it all through my head. What had happened to those sophisticated Europeans I was supposed to be jealous of, in my artless American way? Where was the fashion, the perfume, and the Evian? How in tarnation did I come over 4,000 miles and find myself at a politically-correct, pro-EU dance party where I was a part of the hottest group of girls at the party?
That said, there was a lot to learn at this party: about the Swiss voting system, about special interest groups, about Switzerland continually thumbing its nose at the EU. And, as I happily reflected as we staggered home from the Noctabus, the night had all been free. But through my fuzzy haze of fermented grapes, I was still deeply bothered by this interesting exposure to European culture.
While there had been a lot of wine, cigarettes, and loud talk in French, I wasn't sure they'd been having those intellectual conversations I'd dreamed of experiencing while at home in parochial Boston. For the most part, these Europeans seemed like any other group of young people posing around a bar at two o'clock on a Saturday morning.
The girls were perhaps slightly more bra-less and the guys slightly less shaven, but through the wall of H&M belts and muscle shirts I had failed to detect a rich and vibrant culture distinctly unique from my own. Except for our brush with some anti-Americanism, the party seemed disappointingly run-of-the-mill, its music loud, its bar busy, and its patrons sweaty.
It should be noted that an event with a name like "Vote-in-Party," located in the dormitory village, was probably the wrong venue to discover centuries-old European traditions of intellectual discourse and artistic debate. But the next morning, nursing a hangover and shopping for baguettes across the border in France, I realized that all was not lost. The French cheesemonger was singing to me in French about the freshness of youth, and I still have seven months to go in this country.
Week one of the cultural obstacle course may have been slightly odd, but the cathedrals of Rome and the halls of Mozart are still waiting to be discovered. Last week, Vote-in-Party. This week, who knows? Hand me my deodorant and wine, because I'm ready.
