Wanderlust: My Franco Swiss Adventure

Wanderlust
Current mood: contemplative

Wanderlust.

I love this word...how the syllables roll off of your tongue, and the synonyms it evokes. I'm afraid that it has become a hungry mantra for me that begs me to give into its cravings. Obey I did...and booked myself a ticket to Geneva, Switzerland to see my friends Katherine and Juli Giselle.

March 31, 2007 Los Angeles International Airport

Musings: My mind is full of work, responsibilities and the realization that I am a card-carrying member of the adult world. I'm wanting the plane to transport me not only out of the country, but away from the stress that accompanies a real job, bills, and rude bank tellers who think that being patronizing is a clever way of flirting. I love the feeling of taking off. While some are anxious, I feel my body weight fall into the seat, and savor the feeling of being forced to sit, be still, and relinquish control...if only it wasn't for those two yappy high school girls and their game boy, it would have been the most pleasant plane ride.

March 31, 2007 Amsterdam International Airport

Musings: I'm still thinking about work, and contemplating the finality of decisions that are made while one is still youthful. I think about my future self, and try to imagine her peering at me sitting in the airport, knowing the travels that lay ahead. One of my co-workers made a bad decision when she was young, and now she is sitting in a jail cell. I'm sitting in an orange airport chair, and reflecting on how we get to where we are. At the time those decisions seem small and perhaps insignificant, but I know all too well that every cause must have an effect and vice versa. In fact, its Reading Comprehension standard 2.3: Analyze text that uses cause and effect organizational pattern. Ironically the next standard is 2.4: Identify and trace the development of an author's argument, point of view, or perspective in the text. The greatest text of all is our life, and I think about the chapters that I'm writing and the arguments, points of view and perspectives that are shaping their plot.

All too soon irony is biting me in the ass.

Cause: I bought Clinique make-up to help smooth over my haggard appearance. In my haste, I opened the seal-proof bag and failed to read the tiny letters that warned doing so would make me a criminal and ensure the contents to be confiscated. (I just throught that they were being efficient about theft and shoplifting). I realize my folly, and inquire politely if I can obtain a new vacuum seal bag, since I do have the receipt. I am told that this is impossible, because by opening it, I have taken prime opportunity to inject chemicals into the make-up that I will use to blow up the plane. (chemicals which I would have needed to fashion out of things I could have bought at the terminal, or smuggled with me from California.)
Effect: I boldy decide to await my fate and keep the make-up in my carry-on, (although I would be lying if I didn't contemplate stashing it in a plant so that I could use it during my layover the following week). As luck (or common sense) would have it, it was less than 100 mL, and allowed to be placed into a tiny bag that I could carry with me. As a result, I am no longer a terrorist threat.

April, 1 2007 Café Remor, Geneva Switzerland

Musings: Nothing beats sitting in a café with an espresso, slipping stares at the strangers sitting around. My nose sniffs cigarrette smoke, and I'm reminded that I'm not in California anymore. During the morning we went to the modern art museum "Modem", where I learned that it is possible to build a tower that will cast a shadow on the entire state of North Dakota. I'm not sure which distrurbs me more: the fact that it is possible or the fact that someone took the time to figure it out. I also enjoyed an exhibit entitled, "Lucé, Lucé, Lucé" that took an entire room and filled it with bright, blinding yellow sand. I do have a love affair with light.

Also in the museum was posted a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson that spoke about how beauty isn't something that is manufactured, but rather it springs up between our feet, and we intrinsically know it for what it is. This resonates with me. I look around and see the ideas exchanged in this café as beautiful, even if it is in a language that is not my own. I like how here, people take the time to sit in cafés, and how there is not "take out" food or coffee. In the convience land of America, I think we've forgotten what it feels like to sit and look one another in the eye, rather than slink off to our isolating cars or self-serving TV shows. In creating "instant" we've also manufactured the fear of sitting beside a stranger.



April 2, 2007 Café Remor

Musings: I love the fact that I am at the same café, because it feels for a second that I could be a regular, even though my grand total for staying in this city is about 3 1/2 days. I've just been intorduced to the muscial genius Cibelle, who uses everyday objects such as kitchen spoons and coffee grinds in her music. I've always been a sucker for using the ordinary to obtain extrordinary. As I write, Juli and Katherine are deep in converstation over whether or not understanding the concept of dinosaurs are pivotal to the Christian experience, and there is a greasy, bearded man who is sitting behind them intruding on their space with his musty smell.

I choose to reflect on my day with Katherine, where we set off to discover the city and broke bread and cheese in the botanical gardens, walked up cobblestone streets to a large city plaza, and captured the rays of sunglight in my naturally sweetened iced tea glass.

Soon after, we were at a park near the University of Geneva that boasts life-size chess games where individuals of young and old come to battle wits. I had begged Katherine to take me to these famous swings that resemble a May pole, and I was slightly dismayed to realize that they were right in the middle of the chess action, and we would be on display flying about in skirts and dresses for all to see. I had a moment of self-consciousness, and after a pep-talk on the tire swing, called up the child within me who could care less what others really thought. Besides, when you are in a foreign country, that is the perfect time to let out the person who is kept on a short leash. So we flew.

As I pause to take a sip of espresso, I am aware that the man is now standing up, and heading toward our table. I refuse to give him my eyes, and sneakily observe him ask Juli for a kiss. He seems shocked when she refuses, and she is shocked with his lips inches apart from hers. After he leaves, I speculate that if he was better looking, perhaps his request might have been granted, or at least met with more politeness. I am fully aware of how non "PC" this thought is, but I suppose that there are some situations where human nature wins out, no matter how "equal opportunist" one tries to be.

We leave the café, and observe the handsome strangers on the bus back to Colongé. I suspect if they offered a kiss, my little leash might not be so tight. Afterall, I'm practically a regular.



April 3, 2007 Girls' Dorm, Colongé, France

Musings: If I attended this school, I would be tempted to waste hours simply by staring out the window each day. It is just clear enough to see the snow-capped mountains of Switzerland, and as the sun pulls itself over the mountain and floods the window with light, I'm reminded at what a luxury slow mornings are. Here, I take an hour to get ready, savoring each methodic moment, and taking the time to carefully brush each eyelash with a swipe of mascara, or floss systamatically between each tooth without forcefully shredding my gums. From this routine, you wouldn't know that normally I can get ready in 15 minutes flat, and that more often than not, my "layered" look comes from picking up clothes that are lying around rather than planning out an outfit.

Yesterday we had a bit of rain, and Juli and I cuddled up as we shared her orange umbrella as we walked around the streets of Geneva. For lunch, we had an increadible meal at the "Ethno Café", where we had stuffed eggplant, homemade hummus and a large tray of grilled veggies accompanied with mashed potatoes and spring rolls. With our leek soup appetizer, it was a very ethnic experience indeed. We sat on faded lime green velvet arm chairs, ate off of a coffee table, and the water was served with mint and lemon. The ambiance and cuisine were both so delicious, that I was sorry this was to be a solo dining opportunity.

After meeting up with Katherine, we walked about the University of Geneva, appearing quite girlish as we skipped about and trailed Katherine on her bicycle. Apparently I did more than a "hop and a skip", and suddenly I felt a strand on my beaded necklace break, and head south down my dress. Strangely, nothing "came out" (I won't get into the physics of this situation, but at the movies, sometimes I drop popcorn down my shirt, and its difficult to retrieve the wayward pieces discreatly)! However, after walking up a hill and feeling intact, I thought that perhaps I had imagined the entire incident. An hour later, I was proved wrong when we were strolling through the shopping district when suddenly little beads started to escape from my turquoise baby-doll dress, and roll swiftly down the sidewalk. All I could do was walk steadily forward, and hope that I was not mistaken for a shoplifter or practical joker, for fear that someone would need to inspect my dress! There are some things that are just too absurd to explain.

The day ended with success as I found the exact vitange postcards I was seeking out, and we decided to take dining into our own hands as we made "tomato-ricotta-petso" pasta. (I dare you to say that five times fast!) The best part was the "carmelized" bits of fresh parmesean cheese and basil. If possible, I believe that I love lazy evenings just as much as their morning counterpart. The only flaw was at one point of the meal when I felt something roll down my torso. I guess sometimes footprints aren't the only things that we leave behind.



April 4, 2007 Bed and Breakfast, Evian France

Musings:Juli and I said adieau to both Switzerland and Katherine, and took a train to Evian, France, birthplace of the glamorous water. The idea was to simply check my bags and take a look around, but when we got off the train, we realized that we had three options: 1) carry my luggage on this excursion 2) get on the train and not see Evian 3) beg a hotel to keep my bags. As spontaneous girls, we created our own option 4) Stay in a bed and breakfast for the night.

The manager was very friendly and accomodating, and even gave us the option of joining a gym for a day. Apparently, Evian is percieved as a health and rejuvination destination. As true Americans we declined the gym membership, but opted instead to eat!

We found a café overlooking the water, and sat down in a booth next to an older woman pristinely cutting her steak. Two cuts later, the woman was engaged in conversation with Juli, which lasted for the remainder of the meal. In French, she kept apologizing and admitting she was infringing on social boundaries, but at the same she was not going to lose her captive audience. Apparently, after a certain age you've earned the right to pass on pearls of wisdom, and hers ranged from how to rear children to details about the three residences she owned and gossip about all the workers who were employed at the café. Her and Juli exchanged addresses, and she told us that when we first entered she thought we were teenagers. Her parting advice: "Smiling always makes you look younger". She also told me that she liked my name, and was going to compose a song on the piano using it as the title. Somewhere in Evian, a tune is being played that commemorates my presence in the town. As we watched the waiter put away the pillow that she sat on each day, I was reminded of the gift that is given when we allow ourselves to listen.

Perhaps it was a rejuvinating experience after all.


April 4, 2007 Evian, France
Musings: After leaving the café, we decided to make use of our time to shop around. To me, true vacation is observing patterns of life, which allow me to vacate my familiar routines. Shops that had been closed during the afternoon lunch period now were open, and like small treasure chests they cracked open their doors illumintating the gems that lay inside.

We stopped inside one shop that boasted scarves swinging softly on the sales racks. As soon as we were inside, we were met with a thick, high pitched whiny Texan accent. "Buht hon-ey...I juhst KNOW that zeebrah thing will look fancy next to the fireplace". When she went to purchase the zebra jug (whichlooked like it had been imported from Africa), she became confused when the saleswoman offered her a price different than what she thought it should be. As she protested, we realized that the entire shop was filled with Texan tourists who were picking out cheaply made scarves that clashed with their distracting outfits. After a few moments of confusion, Juli explained that the price was correct, but they had misread the 7, mistaking it for a 1."Thank Gawd you speak English!" said the woman. Her husband added, "We need to take ya'll with us foh the rest of our trip! No one here understands us! (Although there was no doubt that everyone could certainly hear them). Juli and I could hardly stiffle our giggles as another hairsprayed and teased woman bought a scarf, and proceeded to put it on (which provided greater mismatched contrast). She turned to her friends and said, "See girls, this is my French scarf!" When I wear it at home, I'll get to tell everyone I got it in France!"

Nevermind that it was made in Asia.


April 4, 2007 Evian Casino, Evian France

Musings: As if running into the Texan tourists didn't provide us with enough flash, Juli and I decided to kill some time trying our hand at the Casino, which seemed to be one of Evian's most prized attractions. As soon as we stepped into the ringing of electronic machines and mezmerizing neon lights, I felt for the first time that I could be in America, land of excess.

We recieved our plastic change buckets armed with 5 euros in coins, and set off to conquer gambling, although neither of us had any idea how. We tried out the slot machines, and became dismayed when nothing spectacular happened when we put in our money and turned the handle. We then wandered around the casino trying to master anything including computer poker and a game that involved linking neon icons together, but we could not understand how to get the blinking electronic figures to do anything significant. Feeling helpless and out of our league, we tried to watch other gamblers in order to glean their secrets, but no understanding came as we sensed we were making people nervous with our peering eyes.

Determined not to give up easily, we ventured to new slot machines that were perched in their own section with higher stools that looked like thrones. Perhaps we just needed to change environments and get away from the ringing noises. As we sat down in the plush seat, my heart lurched with joy when I saw a mountain of coins in the receptacle. Calculating that there must be at least 30 euros for the taking, I felt that finally our luck had changed. Sadly, I did not see the man three machines down who immediately came to scoop up his treasure, and looked at us like we were insane for thinking someone would leave a pile of money for the taking. I guess gambling makes even the best of us a little naîve.

Defeated and feeling quite anti-climatic, we settled down at some 20 euro cent slot machines to empty our plastic change cups along with our pride. After about five tries, one of us had our first small victory, and the sound of coins clanking into the metal tray was exhilerating. Like the little red devil perched on top of a person's shoulder, it invited us to keep going. Just as one of us was about to empty our buckets, some coins would spill, and we would feel accomplished--like we were defying the world and getting something for free. Soon however, we were left with a single 50 cent euro coin, and everything else had disappeared out of those buckets. As we we were walking out, I placed that final 50 cent piece in a lone slot machine, and to my surprise, recieved five euros in coins. I left with no more--and no less--than what I came with. Feeling relieved, I left the electric noise and smoke behind. No wonder what ever happens in Vagas stays there. I doubt its worth bringing home.



April 5, 2007 Old Town Plaza, Lyon, France

Musings: Juli and I are awaiting our "Floridian" créme de la glacé accompanied with a yellow curry crépe at an outdoor café. My ears are drawn to the sounds of a street band offering lively melodies created with accordion, guitar, and bass. We have just descended from the cathedral Basilique Notre-Dame overlooking the city, and like a slide projector, I continue to play the pristine view in my head over and over again with the click of each footstep that I hear agianst the stones of the street. My mind's eye goes back to the golden murals inside the gothic walls which caught the mixed illumination of both the candles and stained glass windows, as each ornate figure representing stories from the Old Testament seemed to jump off the towering block walls. Built in honor of the Virgin Mary, each one of the four towers stands for cardinal virtue including strength, temperance, prudence and justice. I do yearn for symbolism and art in the decor of the churches that I frequent. Pictures and art sometimes speak volumes more than what we are able to articulate.

Our mint chocolate and mango sorbet ice cream has arrived carefully drizzled with sweet sauces, mint, and whipped creme. As I indulge, I certainly realize that my words cannot do this art form any justice at all.

April 5, 2007 Claire's Apartment, Vienne, France

Musings: This morning I awoke to the sounds of a morning street market as vendors boasted their fresh flowers and produce. This moment was the product of yet another unplanned venture that occured when we met Claire, a friend of Julie's on the train from Lyon to Vienne. Though she did not speak English and I don't converse in French, we both knew enough Spanish to exchange phrases and inquries about our different lives. What became immediately evident was her hospitable and generous heart as Juli and I found ourselves at a small detour to the local grocery store as Claire insisted on cooking us a traditional French dinner called, "raclette". We lugged my suitcase up the three flights of old tile stairs of her apartment building, and were soon munching on appetizers as we talked about our favorite musical artists and movie stars. It has been my experience that as long as there is Hollywood and the Billboard Charts, Americans will have some allure overseas, no matter who we are at war with. I'm not sure which is more disturbing.

Claire's younger sister also joined us, and we partook in a fulfilling meal that involved melting several types of cheese under a personal grill, and pouring it over potatoes and pickles (the vegetarian version). The smokey flavors of the cheese coupled with the soft potatoes melted in my mouth with each bite. After being introduced to the freshness of French cuisine, I understand why they look down on our addiction with processed food.

Our meal turned into a sleep-over, and they introduced Juli and I to a Johnny Depp film entitled, "Cry Baby". After giggling hysterically through the movie which resembled a bad spoof of "Grease", we felt a little bad as Claire's younger sister stared at us with bewilderment. Afterall, she knew each song and cheesy choreographed cartwheel by heart. Apparently, there are things that indeed get lost in translation. Johnny Depp portraying a emotional tough guy (his parents are killed by the electric chair) who falls for the prissy blond just wasn't a movie that we were dying to see when we returned home, except perhaps to mock it.

However, as I glance down at the busy street market, I realize that they probably laugh at our drive-thrus and super size mentality, so I guess it all is relative.



April 6, 2007 On a train heading to a country town, France

Musings: Growing up, I always wished that I could have ice cream for breakfast, and not be required to justify why. My rite of passage was granted as today our breakfast consisted of Häagen-Dazs ice cream cones that we consumed at the Lyon Train Station where we were to meet up with Juli's friend Adam, and his mother who was visiting from Washington, D.C. We had enjoyable conversations as we traversed through the historic part of town. For lunch, we sat outdoors in a quaint café, and had a grand time discussing our past and present travels. As we sat conversing about education, the languages we knew, the places we had seen, and the experiences we have had, I felt quite fortunate and well-rounded. After all, I was finally old enough to eat ice cream for breakfast and answer to no one! :)

We said our goodbyes, and Juli and I went to a puppet theatre where we took in a show, as Lyon is famous for their hand carved and detailed puppets. The plot involved traveling around parts of the world, and it was very entertaining to hear French voices take on other accents, especially a western drawl.

We spent the rest of the day shopping, walking around, and losing ourselves in the alluring pace of having no particular place to go. When our stomachs started to suggest we eat yet again, we settled on yet another café, and our table happened to be next to yet another large group of travelers, whose various accents all spoke English. The pinnacle of the meal was when a tall, awkward 20-something American took on the famous delicacy escargot. This excited him greatly, and much to the chagrin of all those around, he proceeded to loudly disect his food before actually committing to eat it. His fellow travelers added to the spectacle by snapping pictures as he indeed did justice to the stereotype of the clumsy and somewhat ignorant American traveler.

Just as I was admiring how savvy Juli and I were at traveling aboad (afterall, I take great pleasure knowing that I am an aware traveler), irony humbled me again as we realized that we had 18 minutes to run to the metro, get to the train station, purchase our tickets and catch the train to Vienne. Unfortunately, French service isn't exactly rapid (and we still had not recieved our dessert course), and 10 minutes later we were running through the cobblestone streets, skirts flying about, holding our chocolate tarts in hand. Several locals tried to run along beside us, as we made a very unusual sight. As we arrived panting and somewhat sweaty at the metro, we knew that we had missed our train, and the cab fare was equivalent to a hotel. Juli called Adam to get the number of a friend of a friend that he knew who might let us sleep on his floor.

All we could do was shrug our shoulders, mulling over the prospect of asking for the help of a complete stranger, and realizing how ridiculous our situation was. Adam soon called back with another plan: if we ran, we could go back the direction from where we just came, and catch the last train to his town 40 minutes in the other direction, and crash on his floor instead. He was driving with his mom the next morning toward our town, and they would kindly rescue us and dop us off. Afterall, his mom would worry about two young girls wandering about a large city by themselves, or sleeping on the floor of a person that they had never met.

No matter how many rites of passage that I go through, I guess that sometimes I still need to be rescued, despite how grown-up or competent I may percieve myself to be. Perhaps I jumped on "ice cream for breakfast" just a little too soon.



April 7, 2006 Juli's Apartment, Vienne, France

Musings: When given a choice between something old and something new, I almost always prefer the former. I enjoy the imaginative power that comes with trying to figure out the story that coincides with the object, and I do grow quite comfortable with the familiar. Whether it has been books, clothes, home decor or even shoes, I've felt comfortable with something that has had a past.

For example, I've used the same brand of toothbrush for quite some time now (which happens to be the kind that my dentist gives me for free). However, since we arrived at Adam's doorstep and did not bring our toothbrushes, he generously offered us unopened ones for the taking. I was skeptical, but I could still taste the remains of our meal. I pasted up, and as soon as I began to brush, Juli and I looked at each other, and knew that we were both experiencing the same phenomenon of falling in love...with a toothbrush.While they did not say in gold letters, "Richard Parker, DDS" they did boast special areas on the back that cleaned your cheeeks, tounge, and just about anything that resided in your mouth. Gave in I did: out with the old, in with the new...at least when it came to oral care.

Adam and his mom explored the weekend market with us, and again I felt myself drawn to the antique and aged. This time, it came in the form of cheese that carried a flavor which I am not even qualified to describe. I fingered old and rugged cloth through my hands, and admired how the market wrapped around the Roman ruins that Julius Ceasar had once called home.

After yet another lunch at an outdoor café, I finally faced the realization that I was about to leave the comfort of "old', and learn to embrace the "new" head-first. Literally. I had an appointment with a hair dresser, who took the look I had boasted since 6th grade, and turned me into a chic
Cleopatra. In a good way. Not only did I get "fronge" on my forehead, but I had a complete lesson in haircare, as Julie kindly translated for the slick, blond hair mastresse my entire hair history along with tips on how to keep it from gettng haggard. Apparently, my "no-brushing-washing-every-three-to-four-days-minimalist-look" wasn't doing much in way of shine and health.

As I exited the salon, I caught my reflection in a café window and thought, "ooh-la-la". We walked past the Roman ruins, and as much as I admired them, I contemplated that living in them today wouldn't be the smartest thing to do.

When I returned to Juli's apartment, I tossed my old toothbrush and reached up to run my fingers through my newly-cut bangs. Admittedly, it feels good sometimes to let go.

April 8, 2007 Somewhere in the sky over the Atlantic Ocean

Musings: I've always disliked the time it takes to travel from one place to another, because it is those moments when I feel most displaced. I am no longer where I was, yet I have not arrived at where I am going. I'm simply suspended.

During this suspension, I've met three strangers, and was presented each time with a mirror charting a different perspective of myself.

After leaving Juli at the Vienne train station, I met a Chinese American woman who was living in Switzerland working in the corporate world. She had also worked in Malaysia, and we talked about Asian culture, our dreams, our work, and the importance of traveling along while exposing ourselves to outside perspectives and cultures. He parting words to me: "travel shapes you as an individual much more than staying in one place will. Your soul will always react to the changes it senses, but become complacent by the routines that it is often surrounded with".

At the airport in Geneva, I befriended a British woman returning from a skiing holiday in Germany. We discussed Boots pharmacy, the value of single life, and the differences between culture in America and England. We even got around to talking about the weather. Her parting words to me: "You are really quite nice for an American".

On the plane on my way to Los Angeles, the Iranian man sitting in the aisle seat in my row was up figeting for the entire plane trip. He would nervously rolls his fingers, and could not get into a comfortable position. I tried to push politically incorrect thoughts from my brain, but I did think about what my reaction would be if he was a suicide terroist. As we became close to landing, he confessed to me that he was not able to sleep, as over $3000 and his wife's heirloom jewelery including her wedding ring had been stolen the night before on a train to the airport. He had come from the middle east visiting his mother, and now he had to return to America a poorer man. Instantly, the guilt welled up inside me for my previous thoughts, and I listened as he poured out his lament. Talk soon turned to jobs and where we lived, and ironically we discovered that we resided both in Redlands, approximately 5 mintues away from one another. His parting words to me: "Are you sure that you have a ride from the airport? It would be no trouble for my son and I to take you home."

It is a small world, afterall.

April 9, 2007 Regal Court, Redlands, California

Musings: My bags are packed, but they are not about to go anywhere. Instead, I am sitting on my suitcase, trying to gather up all of my experiences from the past week so that I can have something to hold onto when life starts getting mundane.

Wanderlust.

I still love the way that those syllables roll off of my tounge.

It is the promise that there is something outside myself calling me to new adventures, new people, and new cups of espresso to accompany my thoughts.

It begs me to forget about the rude bank teller, the stresses at work, the dust on my picture frames, and the papers I have yet to grade. It is the promise that one plane ride can transport me not only into another country, but into another reality that teaches me lessons and offers revelations that did not exist the week before. It gives the gift of being anonymous, and looking at yourself through a new angle as you pour over the photos.

I know that I'll always lust after wandering. Even though my body resides in one geographic area most of the time, my spirit longs for packed bags, my passport, and my worn travel journal resting inside my satchel. These are my favorite things, as they are symbolic of all the new stories yet to be told, and the new me waiting to be discovered.