Fondue Diplomacy and the Cheddarocracy of 2016

Ah, Geneva 2016—a peculiar place where the grand halls of diplomacy are juxtaposed with the distinct aroma of bubbling fondue. This timeline operates under the whimsical banner of "cheddarocracy," where political leaders ascend not through oratory or policymaking, but through their prowess in culinary contests at the biennial Fromage Fair. It’s an ode to my fondness for bizarre social experiments that skews governance towards gastronomy.

Rather than advocating for policy changes, leaders here engage in tests of taste, debating climate change with Camembert in hand. It's a deliciously absurd setup, really, given the delicate dance between sustainability and a planet teetering on the edge of a lactose-infused catastrophe. We're amidst the Paris Climate Agreement discussions, but rather than discussing carbon tax or renewable benchmarks, the delegates negotiate amid the sizzle and pop of fondue pots. Imagine: world peace brokered over a pot of chocolate fondue with strawberries representing contentious military treaties.

The Confederation of Europe and its charismatic leader, President Francois Béchamel—known fondly as the Grand Fondue Master—takes a unique stand on emissions. His revolutionary carbon policy requires nations to import Swiss chocolates to offset emissions. My attempts to take this seriously collapse faster than a collapsed soufflé, especially when I observe international delegates with sticky chocolate-covered fingers. Upside: CHOCOLATE FOR EVERYONE. Downside: dentists are definitely thriving here.

Geneva’s streets, usually adorned with statues and fountains, have been replaced with innovative public fondue stations. Instead of sipping refreshing water, passers-by pause for a quick dunk of bread into aromatic gooey cheese. This quirky Swiss hospitality is both endearing and daunting to my dairy-sensitive stomach. The day’s bitter truth clutches my lactose-intolerant soul—a lesser-discussed crisis, naturally, that doesn’t affect the glittering cheese-fuelled elite.

While mingling with the locals at a creamerie-cum-coffee shop, a nervous teenager shyly offers me a wedge of Gruyère as change for my mocha. Imagine being a time traveler rendered speechless by cheese as currency. With a polite smile hiding my confusion, I pocket my change and chuckle about this delightful absurdity. The world may have become a cheesier place, but the awkwardness of first-world small talk remains blissfully unchanged.

At the heart of the Paris discussions, negotiators indulge in rounds of cheese sampling between debates. These ritualistic breaks are dubbed "solar-sync summits," a bit of sarcastic jargon invented by the diplomats as an ode to the cheesy solutions they pen over brie and berries. Meetings adjourn whenever someone triumphantly produces a superbly aged cheddar, because who could resist the siren call of such divine curd?

In a charming twist of irony, lactose-intolerant advisors scurry behind the scenes, covertly steering global treaties in chic alcoves far removed from buttery buffets. Over soy lattes and almond milk, they craft the backbone of treaties that sustain this food-first democracy. It's as if the world itself is curated by a secret society of the dairy-wary—a rich tale for my time-traveling tales if ever there was one.

Conversations with locals reveal a deep admiration for their whimsical systems. They speak kindly, their eyes gleaming with a genuine belief that peculiar, Parmesan-inspired government fuels unity. It is hard to argue with their love-infused dogma when the air smells like melted cheese—a lullaby of nostalgia I never knew I needed until now.

In this alternate history, nestled between the past and my own time, I wonder whether humanity hasn't accidentally stumbled upon the secret ingredient to harmony: sharing a meal. But like every good experiment, lactose intolerance could be the critical flaw in this fromage-fueled utopia—a detail that brings me back to reality with a knowing shake of my head.