Rick, Sherlock and I settled in the café for our croissants and Free Write. A neighbor came up to pat the dog. We didn't really see a "victim" in the café nor did one walk by. I had not brought a novel to select a sentence.
"How about an address?" Rick asked.
"Go for it." and he did coming up with Blvd. de la Cluse.
We have a new friend Free Writing with us. What a treat to see what each of us does with the same words.
D-L's Free Write
"It's around the corner, probably halfway up." At least that's what Maddy thought he said. She had expected that her four years of French in high school would have helped her more.
Maybe the taxi drive wasn't French. He certainly was grizzled.
Half of her wanted to turn and run to Charles de Gaulle and catch the next plane home to Boston.
Her other half said, no and that she'd waited her entire life to meet him.
Blvd. de la Cluse wasn't around the corner. Shit! Merde!
A woman in her 50's, maybe, walked toward her.
"Excusez-moi, Je cherche Blvd. de la Cluse, s'il vous plaît."
"Two streets to the right." The woman spoke perfect English.
Maddy gasped a startled, "Thank you."
"Your welcome, have a good day."
The Blvd. de la Cluse could have been a Paris painting. The number 47 was written in white on the ubiquitous blue square.
The stairs had a thick, red rug held in place with brass rods.
The iron cage elevatoe looked rickety, but she wanted the experience and could pretend she was in a French movie.
At the front of the door marked "Thibault" she hesitated then knocked.
She heard footsteps.
A man with a briefcase out the door allowing Maddy to slip in side.
To her left were six mail boxes. "Thibault 3éme" was on one. She heard footsteps. The door opened and an elderly man peeked out. "Oui?"
"Monsieur Thibault?"
"Oui."
"I think I'm your daughter."
J's Free Write
Here we go again, bad intersection, 3 minutes to the bottom and either a right turn, which she rarely
had the pleasure of taking, or a left turn off Rue Emile-Yung onto Lombard then one of those
re-named-for-a-woman streets leading into it.
How many hundreds, no thousands of times has she driven down this street, knowing that at the bottom the left-hand turn would lead to it and to the hospital, towards radiology, towards ICU, towards visiting a sick friend, towards surgery, in short a street that holds more memories
than it’s short distance can contain.
Blvd de la Cluse is the one street in all of Geneva that she could never forget.
Fortunately, this time it led to the maternity hospital and seeing her first grandson.
Rick's Free Write
There were speed bumps, of course. Always speed bumps. But they never stopped the motors from zipping around your car.
Illegally.
Jack was searching for a vacant parking spot, a prize more rare than gold, in the vicinity of the hospital complex from HUG Main at the top of the hill down to the maternité at the bottom.
He'd try one more loup past the Italian restaurant, along the elementary school in the converted 18th century manse, across the tram tracks, the round-about near the Migros and Co-op grocery stores and if nothing give up and pay the exorbinant fee in the underground garage.
He would catch up in time with Claudette, who was midway through a difficult pregnancy and requiring twice monthly check ups.
Jack was anxious for her health, for her mental health especially if she lost the baby.
Again.
And anxious how they would pay for it whether the baby lived or not. Especially if it lived.
Living and working in the international city of Geneva seemed glamorous to friends back in the UK, but a mid-level NGO staffer salary didn't go far.
D-L has had 17 books published. www.dlnelsonwriter.com
Julia has written and taken photos all her life and loves syncing up with friends. Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com/
Rick Adams is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices. com
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