Slightly less than a year ago, my daughter and I spent a week in Geneva for her to meet some old friends of mine, practise her French (good on the lunch-ordering level) and get a first-hand look at where Dad grew up. But after the passage of so many years I didn't expect to be able to show her the very house I lived in from the age of 7 to the age of 17; surely it was long gone, I thought, razed to make way for Geneva's ever-burgeoning suburbs. But no, there it was, like a fly in amber, almost as if I'd left it the day previous, exactly as I remembered it, right down to the overgrown garden and crumbling fence. I wondered why it looked so run-down, in such a now-upscale neighborhood. Well, in doing casual mid-afternoon research on the Net recently, I discovered why: According to a municipal document that had recently been posted, my old house was awaiting imminent demolition, which has since occurred, in the cause of a row of elegant "town houses." So we came upon it just in time. Suits me, in a selfish way, that no one else will be able stock it with their future memories.
