Once upon a time, a Commute

A speeding train skims the banks of lake Leman, the cormorants spread their wings saluting the rising sun as the train pushes forward to its destination. Like a red arrow the train pierces a wall of fog as it reaches the Geneva belt, the city of Calvin looks as gloomy as ever on a fresh Autumn day.

The buzz of the Geneva train station is occasionally interrupted by dystopian announcements of changing platforms and delayed trains. Silent pianos placed in the corners invite some curious visitors for a courageous key stroke, or, perhaps, a melody; but the Gare is playing its own morning rush hour tune and everybody is tuned in.

I stand waiting for my connecting bus, with the familiar site of fellow riders. A mosaic of people, getting off at their stops, each to their own, a day may have started for some but that day has certainly finished for others. My bus crosses the bridge over the Rhone racing the commuting cyclists in a straight dash, the driver throttles, that’s the closest thing to an adrenaline rush he’s opting for the day.

I descend at my stop, steam escapes my mouth as I greet my anonymous fellow passengers and driver thank you and goodbye. Gazing at a glass citadel, I slowly make my way to the bastion of the corporate world, the place where people, ideas and energy merge, the office.