I was waiting for the lights to turn green at a huge crossroads in the centre of Geneva. When it happened. It was as though a huge brush had swooped down to paint the streets the way they had been many many years before. All I could see was countryside. Trees. Fields. A horizon. A path perhaps. With a farmer strolling down it. Two women talking to each other. Children playing close by. And, in the distance, a carriage going in the opposite direction.
There was a time when there were no streets here. No cement. No concrete. No towering grey buildings. There were no cars. No traffic lights. No loud exhaust pipes spewing out their fumes. No important men in black suits, black shoes, black coats and black satchels standing impatiently on the edge of the kerb waiting for the traffic to stop, as they fire messages of power down their black cell phones.
In those days, surely there were more smiles. More heartfelt greetings. And was there not less rush? Less frustration? More colour? More patience? More wonder? More curiosity? More joy? More time?
There was a time when there were no streets here. No cement. No concrete. No towering grey buildings. There were no cars. No traffic lights. No loud exhaust pipes spewing out their fumes. No important men in black suits, black shoes, black coats and black satchels standing impatiently on the edge of the kerb waiting for the traffic to stop, as they fire messages of power down their black cell phones.
In those days, surely there were more smiles. More heartfelt greetings. And was there not less rush? Less frustration? More colour? More patience? More wonder? More curiosity? More joy? More time?
