Nature's Reward

It has been cold and rainy here all this last week (and when I say cold, I mean the lowest it got was 50F, which for here is cold, but for MN right now, would be considered a high) and so everyone has been getting sick and cooping up and feeling very lethargic. After a weekend in Barcelona, I've been staying indoors, napping heavily, and just generally been feeling unadventurous. And then...

I wake up this morning, open my shades, and find a sight I haven't seen in a week - perfectly blue skies. You know, when I got here, the weather was almost identical to MN: mid-80s, humid, a little cooler at night, period decreases in humidity and temperature often caused by impending rainfall. Not too much difference from what I've always known in the summer. Then October rolls around, and I'm unpacking the winter coat and long socks. I started off the month by going to Geneva, where I nearly froze to death. Now, finishing up the month, it is 72F, I'm in shorts and shortsleeves, and almost as if it was planned (it probably was), on the first sunny day in a week, there is a street fair in the main plaza of Montpellier. Everyone is outdoors. The only downside is that with this summer weather, I keep expecting summer solar time. So, when the sun starts to set at 7, I'm left wondering what's going on. Still, I cannot complain.


Also, I am starting to do Christmas shopping (since a lot of time to find things and also because I have to mail everything about three weeks before hand - I'm not keeping everything with me until late January. That'd be too heavy and useless) so if you want anything specific, lemme know. If you want anything that says Montpellier on it, I'll look around, but this isn't exactly New York. In fact, it is easier to find things that say New York on them than it is to find things that say Montpellier.

Nothing else new. Here are some pictures of when I went to a little village in the hills to the west of Montpellier. They are the *gasp* last pictures I took with the digital camera. Not working yet, but I will devote more energy to it this upcoming week. Why didn't I put these up sooner, or mention it earlier? Well, I'm lazy. That being said, I'm going to let the old cliché of 'pictures say a thousand words' take over, rather than my usual slash-and-burn approach of having no pictures and thousands and thousands of words. First set, the Antigone - Montpellier's upscale neo-classical development (complete with its own Winged Victory). Second set - the Grotte de Clamouse, a 37,000 year-old calcite cave discovered in the 1940s. Third set - St.-Guilhem-le-Desert, a picturesque small French town.

Where I've Been and What I've Eaten

Or, My Trip To Barcelona. But first, the bad news. It is raining here. It is raining here, a lot. This rain is the cause of my first piece of bad news, which is that the camera which has so graciously been on loan to me from Grandma Anne has stopped working properly. I know I didn't drop it, as I am especially careful with it, and it still turns on and the batteries are freshly charged. However, the buttons no longer work. The screen works, so the camera's harddrive must still be functioning. The lens comes out, so the zoom is working. However, it says "Press OK to set date/time" and when I try to press OK - or any other button - it doesn't respond. If anyone has encountered this problem before, please let me know. While my Canon from the early paleolithic era is still functioning (Hell, unless it gets crushed in an asteroid impact, it'll outlast me), it relies on real, live film which is expensive here and since the light meter is not functional, I am worried that I am under or overexposing shots. I certainly hope not. I usually have a good feel for lighting now that I've had a year or so of practice. And I am good for film at the moment. I got a bunch in a care package from Dad, etc. a week or so ago (I am enjoying the Swedish fish as we speak). If you want to send me film, be my guest, but black and white is considerably cheaper to develop and print, as I can do that all by myself at Mac, whereas color requires me to go to Walgreens, and the perpetual $7.28 per roll adds up in a hell of a hurry. Speaking of which, does anyone know where to get color film developed cheaper?

That is really the only bad news. I am healthy, which is surprising since everyone around me seems to be suffering from sub-pneumonia colds, and I am sleeping and eating well. Speaking of that... I just got back from Barcelona! (Okay, so I got back three days ago. I've been wiped out since, and took at 4 hour nap today) Where to start. Well, the whole reason for going to Barcelona, other than that it is a beautiful, metropolitan city, is because the rest of the Minnesota program was going, but it was going to cost 120E just for travel and hotel, and it would be in Pineda del Mar which is about 50km outside of Barcelona. I, being crafty, thrifty, and competitive, decided that I could go for cheaper, get closer and do more. My logic being I could find a transport (Eurolines) and housing (Sant Jordi Hostels) for less, for what in the end was about 89 euros. Not bad. This was only half of it though. The rest of my success in beating my program at its own game would lie in my secret contact: Señorita Martha Truax, former resident of Barcelona.

I don't like traveling in large groups (The Nîmes train debacle, for example), because it inevitably slows you down and me, being a Minnesotan, has to be polite and wait while everyone catches up, has to be democratic and agree to what other people want to do, etc. etc. Which, when you only have a weekend, is really too short of time to get everything in. Still, it is nice to have someone with you, as it removes the awkwardness of having nothing to do after all the museums close and generally prevents me from talking to myself and appearing crazier than I need to be. My accomplice for this Foggean adventure was Kristina Merrick, who herself is of like mind to me when it comes to traveling, but doesn't speak Spanish (not that I do either) and didn't really have any idea what there was to do in Barcelona (whereas I did). Travel activities during the day in major cities can usually be figured out using Wikitravel or reading up on guidebook websites and the like. For evening activities and the real scoop, it takes a local perspective. Thus, Martha was instrumental in me and Kristina having a good time. She wonderfully prepared a long list of suggestions of restaurants, bars, clubs, places to see, etc., all while on the job at Augsburg I think. Thank you sweetpea! Without Martha, I doubt we would've had quite the time we did.

No journey is ever faultless though. Whether it was buying our tickets twice (she bought them for us online, I bought them for us in person at the Eurolines office), or waking up in a blind panic not knowing if we'd make the bus, or getting perpetually lost in El Raval trying to find obscure, out-of-the-way bars, we had our downs. Of course, these were always corrected and often times lead to wonderful ups. We got started at 6:30 in the morning on Friday, October 17th - got packed, got ready, and bolted for the tram station by the gare. The gare routiere, the bus station, is located on the outskirts of the city and is accessible only by the Flower Tram. I was terrified we'd miss the bus by mere seconds and would be utterly screwed. We ran. We both realized how out of shape we were, and Kristina was not exactly wearing running shoes. Of course, the bus was nearly an hour late, and we made it with oodles of time. The bus ride through the Pyrenees was particularly spectacular, and I am sorry I do not have pictures of it. Catalonia is a lot greener than Languedoc-Rousillon, even though they are right next to one another. That's because Languedoc-Rousillon is in the rainshadow of the Pyrenees, and it really shows. Catalonia has amazingly beautiful forests! Unfortunately, we were heading in the wrong direction for good weather. The forecast and actual weather were rain and clouds. It wasn't crippling, but it did mean there were no street performers on La Rambla, and it is so much more pleasant to see Barcelona in the sunshine.

My having been in Montpellier for over two months now and not leaving with the exception of going to Geneva (which is of similar size to, but architecturally too different from Montpellier to compare) has made me forget that there are big cities out there. Barcelona is roughly 8 times larger than Montpellier, and unlike French cities of its approximate size (Lyon, Marseille - which are actually bigger), it has impeccable mass transit, beautiful, spacious boulevards, and lovely parks. Adjectives I think of when I think of Barcelona - art nouveau, Gaudí, the sea. Adjectives I think of when I think of Lyon and Marseille - dirty, sub-Parisian, immigrant dumping ground. Maybe I'm secretly in love with the Spanish. I mean, it's hard not to be, especially since they only tax you 7% and not 19.6%, they have little portions and big portions, both for reasonable amounts of money, sangria, paella, and on Saturdays the metro runs all night. Also, after two months of French (and English), it's lovely to hear Spanish. They do wonderful R's. The only thing I can fault them on is the everpresence of mullets. I don't know what the hell decade those came from, but it's over now. Go to a barber, today!

We saw: Parc Güell, Sagrada Familia, La Pedrera, La Rambla, the CaixaForum where there was an exhibit of Alphonse Mucha, and the Contemporary Culture Center of Barcelona. We didn't see, but wanted to: MNAC, the Dalí Musuem, the Picasso Musuem, the Gaudí Musuem, Parc Montjuïc. I guess that means I gotta go back! Other than that...

We ate like Gods.

We ate starting at 9 and ended at midnight.

We ate cheap, delicious food that in France or the US would not be cheap.

We drank and ate in nice restaurants and knew what we were doing. None of this, oh, the Corner Café à la Bumblefuck or An Indian Restaurant with Tandoori and Giardia. Again, thank you Martha.

I have never eaten so well in my life, except perhaps that one time I was in the al-Khali and the Bedouins cooked an entire camel for our expedition. Major Sparling was instrumental in translating, and I remember darling Susan was ever so afraid to try the brains, and then... wait, that wasn't me. That was T.E. Lawrence. In that case, I haven't eaten so well in my life before then. The first night, we went to Les Quinze Nits, which Martha and I had been to before, and is reputed to be the best restaurant in Barcelona. It is affordable, linen napkin, French food (yes, I had to leave France to get French food), and since they don't take reservations, if you're willing to stand in line long enough, you're guaranteed a table. We finished dinner at about 12:30, having arrived at 9:20 and started eating at about 10. We were not the last to leave by any stretch. Afterwards, we tried finding the Bar Marsella, which Martha told me we should go to. Ernest Hemmingway used to go there, and its famous for its absinthe. Unfortunately, I had not made good notes as to where it was, and we didn't find it that night. We went back to the hostel, collapsed, and slept soundly.

The next morning, we went the Boqueria to get fresh fruit and pastries for breakfast. I really hope my pictures from here turn out. It is so colorful, although I'm sure markets in other parts of the world can still beat it. At a truly good market, you should be able to spend all day there. You should be able to buy spices and teas, fresh vegetables and fruits, confections, breads, various odds and ends like a samovar or parts for a Unimog engine, and last but not least, meat that earlier in the day was still walking (or swimming, as in the case of seafood or the legendary aquatic pork chop beast). The Boqueria fulfills about half of these functions, which for me, is half more than I usually find in the United States.

After the Boqueria, we went to La Pedrera, which is an apartment building built by Gaudí and now serves as a museum. An apartment inside has been redecorated to period times to see what life was like in Barcelona at the turn of the century, as well as a display in the attic of Gaudí and his inspiration from nature and elsewhere. It was cool, but I was sad we couldn't go on the roof (cuz of the rain). After La Pedrera, we were both getting tired and hungry, so we went to a restaurant nearby called QuQu. I forget what it stands for. Ask Martha. We had tapas, and it was quite delicious. Tapas, for those who don't know, are basically little plates of food that one or two of which will fill you up. Tasty and cheap.

I wish I knew how to type more concisely/do less things. Sometimes it feels like this adventure journal is more like an epic. After lunch, we went to the Cultural Center, which had an exhibit about the author J.G. Ballard. I was hoping for art and stuff. Instead, it was very conceptual. Or, to put it more succinctly, it sucked and was a waste of time and money. Don't go to exhibits about authors. It's the wrong medium. Should've gone to the National Musuem of Catalan Art. Next time. It was going to be dark in about an hour, and I still wanted to show Kristina Parc Güell. Throughout all of this, she had been very good about blindly following me where I went, and trusting me to show here stuff. I believe I pulled that off fairly well. If not, well, I apologize. We got to the park just as it was getting dark, and we got to see Barcelona at dusk with all of its lights starting to come on. Quite pretty. So, at this point, the sun had set, but it was only like 7:30 and not nearly dinner time yet (in fact, the restaurant we went to didn't start serving until 9). We decided to go see the Sagrada Familia, which I must admit I liked much more this time around than the last time. I guess it looks better at night. And maybe one day they'll finish construction. Maybe.

As we were leaving the Sagrada Familia (we didn't actually go in since it was already closed at that point), we heard explosions nearby. Were we about to be caught up in some terrorist attack? No, it was a street festival! Lots of people running around with flares and firecrackers with drum teams. I'm not sure what it was exactly, but I'm glad we stumbled across it. I'll have to ask Kristina for the photos she took. That occupied us for a while, and once we got back to our hostel, we changed and headed out to dinner. We ate at a restaurant in El Raval called Anima, again which Martha had recommended. It was very chic and again, tasty. They gave us potato and coconut milk soup served in little glasses as appertifs (I don't know or care how to spell that word), and we had cava, Catalonian champagne. It was quite carbonic in flavor, but what can you expect? I liked it. We also had tons of deserts for every meal, as well as subsisting on chocolate cookies, which are a hell of a lot better in Europe than in the US. No time for magdelenas, alas.

Once dinner was done, we went to the Bar Marsella. It hasn't changed since Hemmingway has been there. Neither have the bottles. They are covered in several inches of smoke, soot and dust. Everything is brown. They must pay off the fire inspector there, especially since you are allowed to smoke inside in bars in Spain. I had absinthe, which I liked. It does indeed taste a lot like licorice, and contrary to popular opinion, you do not hallucinate at all. I suspect if you have more than two glasses though, you might go blind... After that, we tried to find a place called l'Ovella Negra, or the Black Sheep. We eventually made it there after an hour of wandering. It doesn't help that it is in a side street and the sign is entirely black and not at all well lit. But it was a nice place with a good atmosphere and good sangria. After that, it was nearly 3AM, and we were both quite beat. The clubs, the other bars, everything else, will have to wait for the next time I am in Barcelona. Hopefully, it won't be too long. The next morning, we woke up, packed up, checked out, got on a bus and came back to Montpellier. What a nice weekend it was! This next weekend, I think I'll go to the Camargue for a day, and in less than two weeks now comes our week-long break and me going to... Belgium! Yay!

May the Force be with you.

Quoi?

I am, at the moment, watching the French news with my host family, and the news story is about Maliens learning not English as their second language (well, probably third, after Bambara and French) but are learning... did you guess right? Mandarin! Yes, the Chinese have invaded Africa and are doing a hell of a lot more to and for the nations of that continent than their former colonial oppressors ever did. I am still perplexed how France ever managed to have an empire, Napoleon or not. Maybe the Chinese are just cashing in on a new round of imperialism, maybe they're actually bringing progress. History will tell. But regardless, ain't that a little odd?

What Is It That I Do?

No doubt many of you, especially those who have invested significant amounts of money into this, wonder what it is that I do with my time? I am, after all, supposed to be learning French, or studying at the University, or not committing treason. So, rather than keep you all guessing, here is my basic day.

First, I wake up. Mostly, I wake up angry. On Tuesdays and Fridays, I wake up at either 7:00 or 7:30AM. This is because I have my internship these days in the Montpellierain suburb of Castelnau-le-Lez, about 30 minutes away by tram. I have to be there by 9:00AM. Waking up at 7:30, I curse God and everything in sight, realize I am either too hot or too cold, that my back hurts or my arms hurt or my whole body is sore, and I decide to hell with it, I can make it there in plenty of time, and sleep until 8. 8AM rolls around. Again, a round of cursing, now including in which is the fact I have half an hour less time to get ready. Any notions of a shower are out of the question at this point, no matter how bad I smell or how greasy my hair is. I eat what is rather a monotonous breakfast of bread with Nutella, muesli (unsweetened), and juice. This has been my breakfast every day for the last two months almost. Still, at least I have a breakfast. After breakfast, I take a moment to think about what I need to put in my backpack before leaving for wherever I need to go. Then, I go back up to my room, look wistfully at my bed, pack up my things and head out the door. On Mondays and Thursdays, I wake up at a much more leisurely hour, such as 9 or even 9:30. This gives me enough time to check my e-mail and read the morning news, which is really the last news of the night before. Actually, it's just an excuse to see how far ahead Obama is in the polls and whether or not McCain has called someone a gook yet. Wednesdays, Saturdays and Sundays are spent blissfully in bed until at least 10, because I have no class, either at all or until the late afternoon. However, I must wake up eventually, because it is rather impolite to be rolling out of bed when everyone else is eating lunch. Unlike home.

Once out the door, I now have a bicycle which I bought for 30E at the local flea market. It was probably stolen. There is a very real chance it will be stolen again, and that if I want it back, I will have to buy it again. This will not be happening, because as soon as the bike is out of my possession, willfully or not, it will remain out there. Too bad for me. The tires are completely bald and the front brakes rub ever so slightly against the wheel so as to produce a sound like a wasp buzzing around in perpetuity. My morning journey to the university by bike (I've yet to have a chance to take it to my internship, I only got it this last Sunday) takes even less than the tram, which itself was 15 minutes + 10 minute walk. Now I can get there in about 15 total. Really quite nice. The only downside is the route to get there lies along the tram line, a wide, paved area that is frequented by pedestrians and bicycles. Oh yes, and of course, the trams. Which make frighteningly little noise until they are right on top of you at which point you can either swerve into traffic to your untimely demise or you can be crushed like those uncooperative resisters Haussman disliked so much. So far, no close calls.

Once getting to the University, I sit through class. My French classes, both of which are in the geography department, are much larger than any I've ever had at Mac. My geomorphology class is interesting, but the professor is somewhat terrifying and calls on students regarding questions the answers to which I am completely oblivious. We have no textbook, we have no real homework, and as far as I can tell, nobody really studies. Am I missing something? Much the same is the case with my Geography of Developed Countries class, which is even larger, and while the professor is less frightening, he is also far less effective. We have spent 6 weeks talking about world systems theory, something I was introduced to two years ago, and learned in the course of two hours. I have long since zoned out. Apparently, I am not the only one. Also, the corresponding TD, travail dirigé or the stuff the TA teaches you in a smaller setting, has been postponed for each of those six weeks. It is mid-October and I still haven't started one of my classes. Hmmm... My courses with other USAmericans are grammar, phonetics and my internship class on the "world of work in France" taught by the program assistant, Cedric. Cedric is very nice, but I'm sure that he, and we know the class is a joke and a placeholder to lend some legitimacy to the internships we have. My grammar class and phonetics class are also nice, but they are in subjects I long ago lost interest in, and so I'd be hitting my head against the blackboard at this point, were it not for the efficacy of the professors. Mmes. Paseyro and Barfety are by far the most competent and skilled professors in the whole of France that I have encountered so far. They know all our names. They've provided us with syllabi, giving us an idea of what will happen in the next lesson. They have senses of humor and are not (widely) feared by their students. I like them a lot, and thus, their classes are much more tolerable. Not thrilling, but I will speak no ill of them.

After university classes are over, I get lunch. This is almost always at the Fournil St. Nicholas near campus, which is a chain bakery that sells reasonably priced and extraordinarily delicious sandwiches, pastries, etc. I usually spend 3 or 4 euros on a sandwich and a pastry of some sort which will tide me over until dinner. On weekends, I eat at home with my host family when I am in the city. When not, what I'm doing for food is as much my guess as it is yours. When I go to Barcelona this coming weekend, you can be sure I will be hitting up the Magdelenas for ochenta centimos. After lunch, I either do errands like mail things or check with the program office to see if there are things to be signed, or I go home. Once home, I start my homework.

No no no, not like what I am given in class. Hell no. This is a joke university. If I have homework, it is almost certainly not graded. If it is graded, an A is greatly inflated to make all but impossible to not receive the highest marks. Were I at Macalester and putting forwards as little effort (okay, so I do put in effort, just not as much as Mac) I would almost certainly be failing all my classes and my professors would've branded me as a hopeless slacker. Sometimes I feel like *gasp* I should ask my professors from home to give me something to do. But of course, that would only complicate my life by making me really work. No, my homework is both simple and complicated. My number one passtime at my home in Montpellier is planning. Planning where I'm going this weekend, what are the best prices for getting there, can I even get there from here, will the prices change by tomorrow, and if so will they have changed favorably or not. Where will I stay when I am in X, Y, and Z place, and will I be traveling alone or with others. What will be seen, what will have to be missed, what must be avoided. If there is something in a suburb or nearby city that should be of particular note, how can I get there, and will it be expensive or time-consuming to the point of dissuasion. Will I need my passport. Will I need my train card. Will I need some form of identification that I do not have with me, and if so do I have enough time to get it airmailed from the United States or will I have to go down to the corner and see if someone can't forge me something and hope the authorities don't mind. Do I actually have enough money to effectuate my travel plans, or am I idly dreaming, or will I have to take out yet another loan from the Banks of Dad, Helen, Martha or Grandma Anne. Can I somehow spend less money while still keeping my level of security within reason (this is how in part I rationalized hitchhiking, plus, hey, it's kinda fun!) Is my presence as a westerner likely to endanger my life. My presence as a Christian. My presence as a man. My presence as a non-member of the military and absolute obliviousness to the presence and location of landmines in the area. In fact, my days are spent almost perpetually in hardcore research! Just, of a non-academic nature...

I also eat dinner in there, and by the time 1 or 2AM rolls around, I go to sleep, knowing I've only scratched the surface of Europe and the places within that I have yet to travel. Oh, and soon I will have a fourth continent to knock of the list (although only marginally) because I'm going to Morocco in November! I found tickets for $38 roundtrip, so I figured what the hell, I'm never gonna get there that cheap again in my life, let's go!

Not Nearly As Interesting As Geneva

I have to be awake (again) in a couple hours, but whatever. I feel like writing this now. I just read an article about how John McCain criticized Barack Obama for supporting a 3-million-dollar projector for the Adler Planetarium, and I was reminded of my own childhood when, at least once a year, our elementary school got its own planetarium.

In I think third, fourth and possibly again in sixth grade, my elementary schools played host to a giant inflatable dome that was set up inside the gym and was a huge model of the night sky. Thinking back on it, that sort of thing must've been both tremendously expensive and rather risky for schoolteachers, who are burdened enough just teaching math, reading and writing, much less astronomy and stellar cartography.

Nonetheless, the traveling planetarium was rather amazing. It's been something that, granted, has sat in the back of my mind until now - but what about the rest of my elementary school colleagues? Surely one in the hundreds of them must've been truly moved, not simply interested, by what was presented in that inflatable dome, with its pinpoints of light symbolizing the night sky and the constellations (which, I must add, were presented not only in the traditional Greco-Roman configurations, but also as how the East Asian and Central American cultures perceived them - AND from the North and South hemispheres). And no doubt, amongst all of the students who've ever encountered this traveling science show, at least a handful of them must've gone on or are going on to become astronomers, astrophysicists, astronauts, or some related position.

True, it is important that we secure the national financial sector and stabilize the banking industry. Without creative minds to solve the problems of today and tomorrow, we'd be... well, screwed. But without inspiring the children of today, and giving them the opportunities to learn and explore all that they can, in creative and wonderfully innovative ways, don't we lose something fundamentally more important?

Chapter 57 - In Which The Intrepid Explorer Nearly Gives Up

...But ends up having an amazing time! Hello one and all, I have just returned from Geneva, Switzerland. Before I go any further, I will remark that this is longest post I've ever put up. Going only slightly further, I will remark to the more conservative readers of my adventure journal that you will no doubt approve of the methods in which I arrived in Geneva, and probably the methods in which I stayed there. Conversely, the anti-hight-speed-train readers will disapprove of my means of return. Regardless, what is done is done and I am safe and like I said, I had an amazing time! So, where to begin.

(Figure 1: The Intrepid Explorer)

Let's start out with my friend Abby Eakin and I first deciding to go to Geneva. It began something like, "Hey Abby, do you want to go to Geneva with me?" to which she replied, "Sure, when?" And from there we began to plan a whirlwind voyage. Upon discovering the weather was going to be rainy and in the low 50s high 40s (highs, all) and nearly freezing at night, we began to have our second thoughts. These second thoughts gradually turned into approval as the journey seemed more and more possible. How would we get there? Well, by car. But Peter, neither you or Abby have cars. How ever would you get there? you ask quizzically. Though some of you will be inclined to cry havoc and scold me, we hitchhiked. I would also like to remark that I am still alive, and everything went smoothly. There's a but coming up, isn't there Peter? you cleverly deduce. Well yes. So, here we are at 3 in the afternoon standing outside the Ikea in Montpellier, holding up a makeshift sign saying "Nîmes/Geneve" and thumbing it by the roundabout next to the A9. Our hopes were not high, but at the very least, we were still in Montpellier and it was a sunny, happy day. And then, much to our surprise, after about twenty minutes, a woman and her husband pulled over and offered to take us to Nîmes. The woman was Valerie and her husband was Jean-Pierre and they were Franco-Suisse and sympathetic to our aims. The half-hour journey was very nice, and our spirits were raised by our newfound means of conveyance. We were dropped at the turnpike in West Nîmes, where we had to wait for about forty minutes before Julien arrived and took up to his home city of Montélimar, about half-way between Orange and Valence, and about 100 km closer to Geneva. I napped briefly, and he and Abby laughed at me while I did so. Upon arriving in Montélimar, Abby and I went to the bathroom and almost before we could reach the other side of the road, a young woman, Liza came and offered to take us to Lyon. It was about 6PM at this point, and was just beginning to become dusk. Here is a picture of our journey across the Drôme - the plains of the Rhône River Valley to the south of Lyon.



(Figures 2-5: Liza's car; The Drôme; Clouds over Lyon; traffic)

Liza dropped us at a service station in South Lyon. We had luckily beat a thunderstorm to the west of us which had Abby and I very afraid for our prospects. It was not the storm we should've been worried about, but rather the fact that night was rapidly approaching. Hitchhiking in the dark is not at all advised, and is nigh on impossible, as we discovered. At about 8:30PM, we decided our efforts at reaching Geneva by car were likely to be futile for the night, so we changed our sign to read "Gare - Lyon" and within a few minutes, a nice man, Olivier, offered to take us to the Perrache train station. Upon reaching it however, we discovered that the last train to Geneva for the day had left moments earlier from the main train station about a kilometer away. Ooops. So, what ever were Abby and I to do? Try and walk alongside the A42 in the hopes of getting a hitch? you guess, and then going to the main train station to see if we couldn't get a train to well, anywhere? you inquire, and then find out that the train station will close in half an hour and you will be forced to spend the night walking around the streets to keep warm, because it's 41F outside and the windchill brings it to about freezing, and without a fully-charged video iPod with episodes of Anthony Bourdain (who you now love) you would've given up completely and been merciful and killed Abby with a large stone before drowning yourself in the Rhône or just eating your hands and then bleeding to death or something equally gruesome? you postulate, and then discovering at 5AM when the train station opens again that it is still freezing cold, you are starving, haven't peed in several hours, haven't slept in longer, and are wondering why the hell you went on this stupid, stupid trip in the first place? you query. That scenario may or may not have come to pass. For those more inclined for the sweet rather than the sour, let us just say that the night passed safely. Here might be Abby and I standing outside the metro stop in Villeurbaine - which may or may not be the ghetto in Lyon I was told by my French professors at Mac to avoid at all cost unless I particularly felt like dying.

(Figure 6: Abby & I in Villeurbaine)

So, 5AM rolls around and Abby informs me that she is sick (literally, she had a cold) and tired (likewise, hadn't slept that night) and wanted to go home. And thus she did, and we parted without hard feelings, having made it so far, and I being healthy and ever the adventurer went on further. I bought my ticket to Geneva, she bought her ticket to Montpellier. Two blissfully warm and well-slept hours later, I arrived at the Cornavin Station in Geneva. Geneva is located at the headwaters of the Rhône River, which flows out of Lac Léman (though you know it by the name Lake Geneva). It is the home of the Reformation, John Calvin, the Red Cross, the European offices of the UN, and most of all watches produced in for the high-end market. Having texted Simon on the train... oh wait, you don't know this part of the story yet. You see, because there were no hostels in Geneva and getting a hotel room would make my most recent phone bill look like candy money, Abby and I (and now just I) had decided to use the wonderful website called Couchsurfing.com, which is basically a geographical-based list of people who are willing to take up complete strangers for a night or two or more for free. It is in some ways a return to the long-lost era when you could count on, well, the kindness of strangers. That, along with hitchhiking, were to be the foundations of our back-to-the-farm-and-socialism-too weekend. So, a few days earlier, I had gotten in touch with a German guy living in Geneva named Simon who agreed to put Abby and I (and again, now just I) up for Friday and Saturday night (though it eventually turned into being Saturday and Sunday night). That's the background story. So, I had texted Simon on the train at about 9AM and gotten no reply, and figuring he was still asleep by the time I arrived in Geneva, went to see the sights. Geneva is not at all like the Mediterranean city of Montpellier. I will digress again for a moment, bear with me.

Things the Swiss do right that the French don't:
1) Words for 70, 80 and 90 that make sense and don't require complicated mental addition
2) Chocolate
3) Beer
4) Streets that generally go for more than 5 feet without changing direction or name and are laid out more or less in a grid pattern
5) Beautiful architecture

Things the French do right that the Swiss don't:
1) Speak French correctly
2) Cheese (no, I did not have Swiss cheese in Switzerland. I have had it in France, though there it is called Émmental)
3) Wine
4) Cheap things
5) Okay, I can't think of a fifth

Rather than go over in words all the things that are neat and cool about Geneva, here are some pictures! Yay! Pictures!







(Figures 7-17 : It is really fucking annoying to try and put pictures on this website. I will be taking a big stick to the man or woman who vexes me so. Wait, did I say stick, I meant sharp, thin, agonizing knives. Anyways; the first several are Geneva's streets; the Cathedral Saint-Pierre; Lady Geneva and her lesser-known sister Murgatroyd; Swans on the Rhône; stained-glass window in the Cathedral)

I realize this post is getting to be extremely long, but I don't care. If I don't do this now, I never will, and chances are I can still interest you yet! So, I went to see the Cathedral of Saint-Pierre which was built by John Calvin, the man who more or less turned Geneva into a Protestant Rome during the 16th century. The architecture reflects this, with lots of elegant stone buildings reminiscent of the later Hausmannian Paris. I liked it a lot, and despite being in the mountains, Geneva is by a lake! Thus, it is flat enough to get around easily. After getting done with the Cathedral and the Museum of the Reformation, I gave Simon a call and headed over to his place. He lives at 49 Rue de Lyon near the train station. After walking back there, I walk along the Rue de Lyon and find 47, and 51, and 53, and 45, but no 49. All of the former are right along the street. There is an alleyway between 47 and 51, and upon closer inspection of this sign: I find where he lives. My first impressions were as follows. "Okay, wrong house, clearly. Maybe I need to go further." I call Simon. Nope, I was right. "It's the house with ivy all over, right?" This is affirmed. This is also the place where mere minutes ago I had passed a drug deal and several shopping carts filled with empty beer cans. "What the hell have I gotten myself into?" is the second thought to go through my mind. The third thought is more comforting. After reflecting on my near-death experience in the freezing Lyonnais night, I realized that my karma was way out of balance. I had genuinely suffered! I deserved karmic recompense! This place was gonna be great, and nothing in the universe could stop the enthalpy that I was due!

(Figure 49: The Sign of the Prancing Pony)

As it turned out, I was spot on correct. Simon lives in a building that is essentially a squatter commune. I have no knowledge of how common
these are in the United States, but they are not unheard of here, especially in cities with large international populations (Geneva is only about half Swiss, actually). Also, the unfavorable immigration environments placed upon European nations by the more conservative elements of their governments make it necessary to give a certain amount of fuck you to the man. Lastly, Geneva is an extremely expensive city to live in. I say Simon lives in essentially a squatter commune because he does indeed pay rent - about 150E per month, or $250. This, in a city where a room for 500E per month is a steal. Simon is a bike messenger and university student in law and international relations and is quite knowledgeable on Switzerland, Swiss law and things pertaining to Europe in general. He lives without about 20 or so other people in this building, which incidentally is the former servants quarters of Voltaire. I'm not sure if there is some hidden poetry in that fact, I've never read Voltaire. I have had limited experience with communes and cooperatives, and all of my friends who pretend to be socialists, much though I love you, you are all as bourgeois as they come. So, my weekend here was... new.

(Figures 19-21: The Main Kitchen; Graffiti; Garbage)


And extremely hospitable. Upon getting to Simon's, he gave me directions to the UN, let me leave my stuff there, and was a very nice man all around. My pack lightened, I went off to the UN. The UN office in Geneva is located on the site of the estate of an old Genevois nobleman's home who died without heir and left the vast estate to the canton. His will stipulated that the site should be turned into a park, which excluding the UN buildings, it is, and that his prized peacocks should be maintained on the premise for posterity, which they still are. I remember looking out one of the windows before finding this out and saying to myself, "Is that a peacock?" Yes Peter, it was. The UN buildings were originally constructed to house the League of Nations and are in a wonderful art deco style, except the newer parts which no doubt that rat bastard Le Corbusier got his hands on. Ugly, ugly concrete blocks. The main building though, was untouched by his meddling hands. Here are some pictures.







(I have no idea how to rectify these two columns, but mark my words someone will pay for that. Figures 22 - 27 (l/r clockwise): The Broken Chair - symbolizing landmine victims; the Palace of Nations; the Spanish Room - named so because everything in the room is a gift of the Spanish government; President Wilson at the League of Nations; me in one of the 34 conference rooms; the United Nations sign)

The tour was well-presented, and I am fairly certain I am the only person I know to have been to both the New York offices of the UN as well as the Geneva ones. Correct me if I am wrong. I like the UN a lot, and I bought postcards, which some of you will be receiving soon. I am slowly working towards fixing the correspondence deficiencies, which leads me to my third tangential list.

Things about France and Switzerland that blow in comparison to the US
1) Nothing being open on Sundays
2) Marginally more things being open on Saturdays
3) No Mexican food
4) Small portions of all food
5) Large, unwieldy and quite frankly horrible inefficient bureaucracies (there are some things that capitalism does right!)

Now, the reason I mention numbers one and two are because after the UN, I went back to the train station to get my ticket to return to Montpellier in the morning. Only... the ticket office that services the SNCF - the French national train service - closed fifteen minutes before I arrived, and wouldn't open again until Monday (today having been Saturday). Ooops! I tried to find a way around it, but there was none. Even though France was only a few miles away, I had no envy to walk to Annemasse (the city right across the border from Geneva) only to be told that the ticket office there was also closed. Also, a ticket from Annemasse to Montpellier, though only three or four miles from Geneva, is nearly 100 euros and requires three changes of train - once in Lyon and again in Valence. I wasn't gonna have that. If that were the case, I'd have better luck hitchhiking back!

After the UN and the train station debacle, I went back to Simon's and well, seeing how I'd slept two hours in thirty, I took a nap. I was awoken an hour or two later by Simon returning with his Malien friend Kata and several weeks worth of groceries purchased on the other, cheaper side of the border in France.
Geneva is in a small point of land only a few kilometers wide and is otherwise enveloped by France. One can bicycle from the northern French side to the southern French side through Geneva in less than an hour. After this, Simon went off somewhere, and I decided to be useful and organized the groceries as best as I could. By the time Simon got back, he had with him Ana, another couchsurfer, from Colombia,
who was studying in Grenoble and decided to come to Geneva for the weekend, as well as his friend from the house, Michael (pronounced like Mikhail), a French-Moroccan, and two Suisse-allemanique (German Swiss) friends of his who'd be joining us for dinner. Of course, like a good host, before dinner came beer, which is, as I mentioned before, much better in Switzerland than in France. Really, France only has wine going for it, and a few other things gastronomic in nature, but not really anything else. Believe me, I'm making a list to present to Congress in hopes of rationalizing an invasion.

(Figures 28 & 29: Simon & the Suisse-allemanique; Simon & Michael)

Around 11PM, Simon took us downstairs to the second kitchen, where the members of the house and various guests were assembled, and where Michael and Hassan, their Senegalese friend, were making a Senegalese dish of chicken, rice and potatoes in spices. It was unbelievably delicious! Afterwards came music, care of Hassan and Javier, a man from Barcelona, and once everyone had eaten we went to bed. Wait, no we didn't. As I recall, we were told to put our coats on, Ana and I, because we were all going to another squatter house where there was a party. And what a party. I have never seen so many people in a single dwelling before in my life. There must've been easily 150 people in a space no larger than my first floor at home. And everyone was smoking. It was like being in twelve different bars compressed into one bar. Ana and I were both tired and since we didn't know, well, anyone, we left after an hour or so, and went back to Simon's and to sleep. I slept for nearly ten blissful hours.



(A/V Supplement 1: Hassan singing at dinner)

I was awoken to Ana and Vlad, a Peruvian squatter friend of Simon's taking to one another in Spanish. I dressed, talked with them for a while, and then got my stuff ready for the day. Ana and I said goodbye to Vlad, who went to sleep, and to Simon, who went back to sleep. Ana had her bike with her, and was going to see all the things I had seen the day before, and so after we went to the train station for me to rent a bike for myself, we parted. Geneva, like many other cities in Europe, is very bike friendly. I decided to head down the Quai Gustav-Ador (named for one of the first heads of the International Red Cross) along the south side of the Lake Geneva. Wow was it pretty. Here, look for yourselves!







(Figures 30-34: The Jette d'Eau; apartments on the banks of the Rhône; Mont Blanc in the distance; the UN compound across the Lake; the Place of the Augustins and the Jura Mountains)

After that, I biked back to the city and went to the Museum of Contemporary and Modern Art. Though I don't remember much of what I saw or names attached, it was free and I do recall that it was not all crap. I am not the biggest fan of modern art, and I am frequently inspired to rage when I find some artist has painted seven canvasses in the same shade of gray and asked us to reflect on our memories of apple pie, swing sets and Richard Nixon. I have a lukewarm tolerance of Pollock, and most things past Picasso upset me (although I do like Roy Liechtenstein and Lucien Freud). I like Delacroix and Rembrandt and David Hockney and Edward Hopper, not look-at-this-big-red-dot-I-painted-I'll-call-it-Big-Red-Dot-c'mon-pay-me-a-million-dollars-now. Afterward, I had to get the bike back by seven (or face certain death at the hands of the Swiss Army) and it was nearly six, so I headed back to the station. And what should I see on my way back but...

(Figures 35 & 36: Capitalism!)



Believe it or not, these don't exist in France. They may have caved on McDonald's, but they still resist the Green Lady of Seattle. I also got McDonald's, which happened to be right across the street, and it as you can see from the other picture just how much a Big Mac meal will set you back. Like I said, things in Switzerland are not cheap.

I headed back to Simon's having had an excellent day (it was also much warmer - low to mid 60s and partly sunny). I had some potatoes and sausage that had been made earlier, and went to have some coffee with Javier as Simon had to study. We went downstairs to find the oldest resident of the house, David, a Frenchman who looks like he'd be most comfortable in the Hell's Angels, jokingly accusing everyone who entered of stealing the last of the mayonnaise. I am always surprised to discover that humor exists between languages and cultures, and that we Anglophones do not have a monopoly on comedy. In an effort to calm what was becoming a rant, I went up to Simon's room, asked him for a couple of eggs, some vinegar, oil and mustard, and Hassan, Michael and I set off to make homemade mayonnaise, as well as fries that were being prepared. It began as my project. Then Michael took over. Then Hassan took over. Then Michael said Hassan was doing it wrong.

Michael: "Hey! Be careful to stir in the same direction or it'll whore up." (Whore is the equivalent of fuck, as well as damn, in French - I don't like the substitution)
Me - stirring: "Okay. But we need to add some vinegar now."
Hassan - adding vinegar: "This is what the whore needs!"
Michael: "Ah, whore! That's too much vinegar!"
Hassan: "No, no, it needs vinegar. It tastes too much like whore oil." (There is also no gerundive form of whore, like there is for fuck or damn)
Michael: "No! My ex-girlfriend taught me how to make mayonnaise once. Just add more whore oil, whore!"
Me: "I think there's enough oil. Maybe if we add lemon juice?"
Hassan: "Good idea!"
Michael: "What? Oh whore! You're going to ruin the whore mayonnaise with your whore lemon juice!"
Hassan: "Oh whore, calm down whore!"
Michael: "Whore! It's like soup now!"
Hassan: "At least it has whore flavor."

Maybe these sorts of things are not meant to be translated from French to English. It really loses any value it had, but I hope at least one of you laughed at some of that. After we made mayonnaise, Simon came down and asked me if I wanted to come with him to hang out with some university friends of his. I said sure and we took the bus to the other side of town. On the way, we discussed the various differences between the United States and Europe. For instances, whereas Geneva can be crossed by car in about ten or fifteen minutes, crossing the Twin Cities in an hour is a feat. Simon bikes to work - thirty seconds. Me biking to work - ten minutes. The university to Simon's home by bike - twelve minutes. Mac to Stillwater - three hours, plus. Additionally, I asked him about the way the Swiss (all non-French francophones, actually) have numbers for 70, 80 and 90. It makes a lot more sense that way - normally 70 is 60-10 (soixante-dix), 80 is 4-20 (quatre-vignt) and 90 is 4-20-10 (quatre-vignt-dix). In Switzerland, it's just 70, 80 and 90 (septante, octante, nonante). He also told me that during WWII, spies claiming to be French would be quizzed in quick equations to see if they were genuinely French or not. Believe me, numbers are extremely hard for foreigners. I always have to take a minute to think about what a number is, even if I understand everything else someone is saying to me.

We arrived at the University housing where his friends live. Apparently, it's nigh-on a squatter commune as well. We arrived to find the students within eating dinner and painting the walls. I painted a face of a man in blue above the sink. We couldn't stay too long, as we had to catch the last bus back. After all that, we returned to Simon's where he was hosting two Suisse-allemanique girls who were leaving from the airport the next morning. They talked in German together while I checked my e-mail and bought my ticket for my return to Montpellier. I nearly had a heart attack when I thought I had bought a ticket for 1:30 in the morning (roughly 10 minutes later from the moment I bought it) instead of 1:30 in the afternoon. Luck was on my side, and I got all my affairs in order and went to sleep. I woke up the next morning when Simon left, bid him a fond farewell and many thanks for his incomparable generosity, and headed off to the International Museum of the Red Cross. It was very well presented, even if it was a bit of a small museum. It is little wonder that so many international organizations are located in Geneva - it's a city in a neutral country that never takes sides and is conveniently located at the (beautiful) heart of Europe. I left the museum with about an hour and a half to spare, and went to the post office to mail my letters and postcards, and then went to the train station. I spied a Mexican restaurant on my way there (there is no way Geneva could not have one Mexican restaurant) but it was too pricey, especially since I know I have taco seasoning mix on the way from the US. I got through customs just fine and finally boarded the TGV direct to Montpellier. I was at last headed back, a day late and an adventure later.






(Figures 37-41: A protest against the Iranian governments abuse of its citizens; a turn-of-the-century battlefield medical kit - note the bone saw below; the Australian triplet helper kangaroo of the Red Cross; various prosthetic legs for landmine victims)

With that, and with these few pictures of the French countryside I took on the way back, I will say au revoir. My next adventure: back to Barcelona! Toodles and love.






(Figures 42-46: Don't cross the tracks or you'll never be able to put your arms down!; various shots of the countryside; nuclear power!)

P.S. As I am posting this (I feat which has taken over an hour now because of the bloody way these pictures load), I am hearing news of my friends who went to Oktoberfest in Munich for the weekend. Apparently they also had an adventure, but more one that has gone extremely poorly and against their plans. Moral of the story: travel light (in baggage and in persons), embrace the unexpected, and don't plan too much, because you never know when your plans will cost you (what if I had bought a ticket for 1:30AM? Yikes!)