A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Fete

It was Saturday morning. I was supposed to meet fellow WHO interns and "Runway" inhabitants Amy and Sophie downtown to watch the Fete de la Musique (Music Festival) in Geneva's Old Town. We'd all agreed it would be fun to spend our first full weekend in Switzerland touring our own city, rather than traveling to a more distant destination. For me, however, Geneva itself was no short trip away: my neighborhood of Bois-Chatton was 10 kilometers from Cornavin, Geneva's central train station, and the buses stopped short of my neighborhood on weekends (not to mention on weeknights).

Backpack on shoulders and croissant in stomach, I sprinted the kilometer to the bus stop to arrive precisely at 12:24pm, one minute before the 12:25pm bus. Phew! I was supposed to meet the others at 1:00pm, and the next bus would not come for another hour and a half. Perfect timing! Wrong. Not perfect timing. Turned out that 12:25pm was the arrival time on weekdays, but on weekends the bus arrived at 12:20pm. I'd missed the bus by 4 minutes. Awesome. I had half an hour to make it 9 kilometers into the city without any means of transportation. As far as I knew, I only had a few options. Option 1: I wait over an hour for the next bus, and make it to town (late) in two hours. Option 2: I start walking, and eventually arrive in town (late) in two hours. Option 3: I hitchhike across the remaining 9 kilometers of Swiss countryside to get to Geneva. I chose Option 3.

I must admit, it was humorous at first to stick out my thumb as I sauntered along the shoulder of the road. As motorists passed by, I felt like I was praising their driving with my thumbs-up more than I was looking to hitch a ride. But my amusement was short-lived as I realized that no one was eager for an extra passenger. In fact, at least two dozen cars passed by before I was about to quit. It was then that I decided to pray. "It may sound a little funny, God, but I could use a lift." The very next car pulled over.

"Are you going to Geneva?" the Hispanic driver asked me in French. Yes! Heck yes I am going to Geneva! I hopped in the car, and soon discovered that he spoke Spanish and was from Quito, Ecuador. We introduced ourselves to each other and chatted the whole way into town. Nelson was his name, and he was incredibly friendly. Nine kilometers later, we arrived downtown. I thanked him immensely, wished him the best, and hopped out of the car, glancing at my watch to check the time. It was 1:00pm exactly.