My shoes were wrong for cobblestones. That’s the first thing I noticed climbing up Rue de la Fontaine. The incline doesn’t look like much from the bottom, but your calves say otherwise halfway up. On a quiet morning, the steps echo with their own rhythm: light, uneven, absolutely human.

There’s a bench near the Maison Tavel. Sit there. Don’t look at your phone, just listen to the voice of our audio tours. You’ll also hear shutters creak open and someone humming upstairs. The street cleaners pass by, slower than they need to. The old city wakes like a cat stretching in the sun.

I had planned to visit St. Peter’s Cathedral, but got pulled into a side alley by a smell. Warm sugar. No signage, just a wooden door and a chalkboard with four lines in French. Inside: chocolate. Not the gift box kind. A man in an apron, hands dusted in cocoa powder, offered me a square without speaking. I nodded. That was enough.

Somewhere near Bourg-de-Four, an elderly woman was feeding birds. She had a plastic bag with crumbs, maybe from Coop, maybe not. She pointed to a stone carving near the fountain. I didn’t understand what she said, but she kept pointing, so I looked. A lion? A coat of arms? It didn’t matter. That stone had her attention. So it got mine too.

Later, on Rue de l’Hôtel-de-Ville, I overheard a tour guide explain that Geneva was never really one thing. Not fully Swiss, not quite French. He spoke like he’d said it a hundred times. I ducked into another alley to avoid the group.

It’s easy to think you’re alone up there. Then you pass a cracked window and hear someone tuning a violin. A child laughs, a man argues with someone over speakerphone, a bell rings far away. Time doesn’t stop in the Old Town—it just moves quieter.

I left without visiting half the places I meant to. Didn’t get the postcard. Forgot to buy cheese. But I remember the feel of those cobbles underfoot and the way the chocolate stuck to my teeth longer than it should have.

I’ll bring better shoes next time. Or maybe not.

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