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Ever since a blissful, teenage summer spent at Lake Yellowstone and a month-long sojourn on Lake Como, I romanticize the notion of a lakeside life. But Geneva is special. I have the happiest memories of arriving with my skis and boots, setting off for the deeper Alps and pure, fresh snow. Or early summer picnics on nearby Mont Salève with my infant son. Or lying on the grass field in the Jura with my first boyfriend, Jonathan, listening to an outdoor jazz concert somewhere not so far away.
Geneva conjures the notion of romantic serenity, of an expansive novel where the heroine recovers from a crise de nerfs in a quiet lakeside retreat. Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain; Anita Brookner’s Hotel du Lac; D.M. Thomas’s The White Hotel.
It had been some time since I was last there, but my cousin, Gioia, and I planned to meet in late July for a four-day family reunion. Gioia likes luxury; she loves cocktails, spas, and lying in the sun (she works as a hedge fund manager, so when she relaxes, she relaxes). She booked us into the Four Seasons Hotel des Bergues, the oldest hotel in the city. It’s a beautiful spot, overlooking the lake.
I live in Paris, so the voyage is easy: First, a drink at Le Train Bleu, the Belle Epoque restaurant inside the Gare de Lyon station, designed for the Exposition Universelle in 1900—each room painted by a different artist. Then, the swiftness of the high-speed TGV, the green fields of Southeastern France speeding by outside my window, and an enforced digital detox—no phone, no internet.
Geneva lies on the most southernmost tip of Lac Léman—the crescent-shaped lake dividing France and Switzerland, and the largest lake in Europe. It is the official city of peace and the home of the Palais des Nations, the United Nations in Geneva. The thousands and thousands of diplomats who live in Geneva tend to adapt their lives around the lake—my friend Jivan, the Permanent Representative to the U.N. from Macedonia, cycles everywhere. You can take a boat to your office (if you are lucky enough to have a boat). You can windsurf, canoe, paddle board, or sail after work from Genève Plage.
Luxury would be a vast understatement for the Four Seasons Hotel des Bergues. On arrival, the doorman took my bags and handed me a cold bottle of mineral water along with an Evian atomizer for my skin. From our room on the sixth floor, I could see the lake stretched out in front of me, like a sheet of crystal; the Jet d’Eau fountain at the end of the Eaux Vivres pier; the strategic point where the Rhone River meets Léman.
Gioia and I went for a swim in the rooftop pool, then had dinner outside at Izumi, their outdoor Japanese restaurant with views over the city. The next day was Spa Day. Gioia had a facial and I had a pummeling massage by an osteopathic masseuse. I saw the look of horror on her face when she touched my shoulders, but she set to work calmly using a combination of Reiki and Shiatsu techniques. After, she led me to the grey marble Hammam, handed me a glass of fresh watermelon juice and a pile of fluffy towels. Gioia was already in the relaxation room, fast asleep.
We both wanted to swim in Lac Léman, even though Benjamin, the concierge, warned me the water was not yet warm enough. I like cold water (I went to school in Maine) and I was determined to dive from the Bain des Paquis, the public “beach” in the middle of the city, a five-minute walk from our hotel. It was rocking when we arrived at lunch time. For two Swiss francs, you can swim, eat at the collective restaurant (which has a delicious daily plat for 14 euros), sunbathe in the secluded women’s bathing section, get a massage, or take a Hamman. They serve drinks, and chips and salsa at cocktail hour, when everyone piles in after work for a swim, and in the winter, they have outdoor fires and fondue.
Gioia and I headed for the women’s beach, sprung for a locker for an additional three euros, and stripped off to sunbathe. We marveled at the array of female bodies—the shapes, forms, piercings, tattoos, dreadlocks—women camped out with their computers working, children, babies. It was glorious. I swam all day while Gioia lounged. The first dive left me breathless, the second exhilarated. We bought chilled coconut ice from the restaurant and stayed until late in the evening.
The next night, we took a boat trip with Balthazar Witzig, who grew up on the lake and runs Geneva Boats. He looks like a sexy, mini-Tarzan and knows the lake by heart. He sped us underneath the Jet d’Eau so that we felt the mist on our skin, then brought us along the coast to La Bellotte, a simple but wonderful restaurant on the water’s edge. We walked barefoot to our table, ordered ferá fish from Lac Léman, local white wine, and salads. The sun set behind the lake, the colors went from pink to purple to ink.
When I ask Geneva friends where they like to hang out, they told me to check out Rue Blanvalet on the left bank of the lake in Eaux Vivres, which is a kind of alternative street of bars and boutiques. It’s not quite Brooklyn, but it’s a different world from the right bank of diplomats, banks, and watch shops. The Peruvian restaurant Alma just opened last year with a ceviche bar, and Le Labo, a boutique at number 14 run by Leila Krir, customizes eyewear from Linda Farrell, Illesteva, and The Row. Around the corner is the concept store L'Adresse, which sells Mih dresses, Isabel Marant trousers, beautiful silk scarves and kimonos, and has a sweet bar and outdoor restaurant.
The last two days of our trip, Gioia was working, so we went to stay at the Mandarin Oriental down the Quai from the Hotel Bergues. It had a different, but lovely, ambiance. The Mandarin is serious on business and work, and our suite had a tasteful office attached. It was quiet, chic, and efficient, even down to the electric bicycles that the concierge loans you to get to your meeting on time.
While Gioia worked, I spent the day in the Old Town, wandering through the Bourg de Four Square and the Musée d'Art et d'Histoire, checking out the permanent exhibits of Hodler, Vallotton, Calame, Saint-Ours, Agasse, Schwabe, Liotard, Pradier, Tinguely, Giacometti, Barthélemy Menn, Perrier, Baud-Bovy, Trachsel, or Amiet. The museum’s restaurant, Le Barocco, which serves regional food and wine, is on a leafy terrace inside the Museum where I met a friend for lunch. I finished the day at Chez Henri, a secret wine and oyster bar hidden behind a burger joint in Paquis.
That last night, my cousin and I took the tram (they operate on an honor system) out to Carouge, the bohemian little hamlet on the outskirts of the city. We ate at the tiny Le Café de Negociants. Gioia, being Gioia, ordered a beautiful bottle of White Burgundy, Chassagne Montrachet, to celebrate our last night. We finished it all; the end of a perfect day.