Once More Unto the Fog, Dear Friends, Once More

When I landed yesterday morn, Geneva was enshrouded with fog. This hardly should have come as a surprise, as we had been delayed before takeoff in Amsterdam due to the visibility in Geneva. And, yet, it was a surprise, for Geneva has seldom been foggy. London? Yes, of course. But Geneva? Hardly the adjective that springs to fore.

Fog holds a decidedly ominous place in literature: it causes Pooh to get lost in the 100 Acre Wood; it turns Merry into a Nazgul-esque phantom; it cloaks many a quarry of Sherlock Holmes. This is no shock given what fog does: conceal and mask reality, making our imagination run wild. But it is for precisely this reason that I enjoy it. It turns the quotidian into something evocative and invokes grandeur.

To be sure, it can be dangerous. Driving in heavy fog can be quite hair-raising. One must drive slowly, proceed with caution. But if one does this -- and how kind of the fog to make us take a breather -- the fog is calming. There is little more peaceful than canoeing or kayaking on open water before the sun has burned away the fog. The gentle dipping of paddles as the craft glides neatly through the water. Sound is muffled, but the senses are keen. Trees and rocks spring forth from the mists. The hidden nature of things allows you to focus on that which you are able to see, drinking it in.