Chocolate and Friends

“We’re visiting family in Geneva,” Robbert (Rb2) said. It was a code for his family’s visit to the patisserie that makes the best chocolate and hot chocolate in the world, although there is a place to the right of Notre Dame in Paris that comes close. The Geneva place has the same last name as Rb2 although he knows of no direct connection.

Rb2 has been my buddy and the kid brother I always wanted for 15 years since we shared a company apartment. The friendship has seen us through his marriage and the birth of his son, all kinds of adventures (“I wonder what would happen if we turn left”), discovering a hidden river, Barkley Harvest James concerts, and all kinds of memories that leave me saying “ahhh.”

Their trip to Geneva was for me. Having moved to a smaller space in Geneva, I had stuff left in storage that needed to be taken to Argelès. Like me Rb2&Co. has staked out territory in both countries. In fact, it was his coming home Friday nights around 23h in the early 90s and saying “Want to go to Argelès?” my staggering out of bed, getting the dogs and heading for the car while he drove eight hours through the night, that led him to meet his wife, Sylvie, an Argelèsian.

All around me was the paper work after being away for two months: taxes for both Switzerland and the US (Why is the US only one of two countries that tax their expats? Somalia is the other.). This was my catch up weekend. “Probably not,” I said.

This is silly, I thought after entering one more number of my spreadsheet. I grabbed my coat and caught the bus that arrived at the same second I did at the bus stop (I refuse to own a car-part of my COW plan. COW is for Cranky Old Woman).

The chocolate shop part of the patisserie smells of fantasy. Plastic-gloved women choose between small decorated chocolates, each different but all delicious. Rb2&Co weren’t there. I went next door to the café part, not much bigger than six closets with small white tables, red leather banked seating, and mirrors.

I ordered an Auer Chocolate. It came in a mug, milk whipped to a consistency that a knife could separate it. At the bottom was the chocolate syrup, rich, black, wonderful. The only place in the world it can be bought is there where it is made. I stirred it watching the froth marble into a constant dark brown. Even if Rb2&Co didn’t show, the trip would not be wasted.

However, a big and little smile appeared in the door. Rb2 and Tim were followed quickly by Sylvie. We drank our hot chocolate and exchanged news since our last contact. Sylvie wanted to run an errand. Rb2 and I took Tim to the toy store next door.

Tim showed us all the plastic snakes, fish and sea life. He asked to buy something. “You’ve many toys at home,” Rb2 said. Tim persisted. He threatened to be fachée, angry. Rb2 gave him permission to be fachée. Tim spent a few seconds with a fachée face, with his forehead furrowed and his blue eyes glaring, before deciding he wanted to investigate the rest of the store.

The visit was short, warm – just another in a long set of nice memories with loving people. Another reason that at night when I rethink my day, I wallow in smugness for the joys coloring my life.