Stuffy prose.

The light turns red. The temperature is at least 34C and I have the AC on gently in a grey BMW 520i with diplomatic plates. Reverse is where first gear is supposed to be in these things. Always gets you the first time.

The lake is sparkling in the late afternoon to my left and the "jet d'eau" across the water continues to spew francs into thin air. People take pictures of rainbows appearing in the blowing mist as if it's special.

I probably won't make it home for another half hour since the only road across is jammed with people going home - many back into France. There is a Sotheby's around the corner - Christie's is in the Old Town across the water.

The yellow light joins the red, momentarily; I step on the clutch and put it into first, gently release, and ease on the gas. A swarm of scooters awaken, buzzing through narrow in-betweens formed by our expensive parking lot, ahead of the main rush.

Green.

Wealthy Khalijis and North Africans walk naturally amidst throngs of Europeans along the boardwalk. The juxtaposition is, at times, comical. They rent out waterfront hotels for weeks at exorbitant rates, their temporary immigration peaking in early August, during Les Fêtes de Genève. The Noga Hilton, Beau Rivage, and President Wilson seem to be favorites. Maybe their immediate economic superiority serves as a proxy for the other aspects of their collective deficiency.

I pass a yellow Lamborghini.

Veering left, I fail in my attempt to speed across the bridge named for it's view of Europe's highest mountain (if we exclude the Caucasus). On the right is "Ile Rousseau," complete with a statue of Jean-Jacques, himself. (Voltaire was based in Ferney, 15 minutes the opposite direction - though both are buried together.) Commemorating the Geneva-born Enlightenment thinker, the island and monument appear not be discouraging anyone from living "everywhere in chains," as it were.

For some reason there is a giant clock embedded in flowers at the Southeast side of the bridge.

I'm listening to a radio station broadcasting in both French and Arabic, providing a bizarre background for the sights around me. Based out of Paris, Radio Orient ("ghah-dee-oh oh-ghee-ohn du pah-ghee") has cunningly figured out that the best way to show solidarity with sieged Lebanese is by playing songs by Lebanese artists and on the topic of Lebanon "li ajli lubnaan."

But the signal doesn't reach Qana, I don't think.