Reckless Abandon

I can't explain it.

I don't know why.

But for some unknown reason I've been acting strangely lately--so strangely that even I've noticed.

I'll be sitting on the ground near the train-yards in Chur and suddenly have the overwhelming desire to jump on a train, regardless of destination.

I'll go hiking and suddenly find myself halfway up a tree or making my way upstream along a creek, intent on reaching the waterfall in the distance, completely unaware of how I got there.

Today, for example, while straddling a log in the middle of a creek about a hundred yards from the actual trail, I thought I heard someone call out to me and after a minute I realized that two mountain-bikers on the trail below were trying to get my attention. They waved and spoke to me and I just shrugged and smiled back and waved in a friendly, "I know I must look stupid but I promise I'll be fine" kind of way, (if only waves could say so much,) and I watched them ride off looking reluctant and skeptical---I imagine they half considered coming after me...that, or calling the authorities to report a crazy American wandering unchecked in the wilderness, endangering the lives of unsuspecting locals and the occasional cow.

Still emboldened though I was, my encounter with the bikers sobered my spontaneous adventure somewhat and I gave up the waterfall in favor of proceeding on my hike as planned. I took a great many "wrong turns" if you want to call them that, for I would get tired of the trail I was on and so turn off onto the tiny little livestock paths and muddy bogs as they arose, just for a change of pace.  I fell once or twice coming down some of the impossibly steep paths and more than a few times I thoughts that my knees or ankles were in for an encounter of the dangerous and painful kind, but after three hours I found myself a bench and was pleased to discover that, save a few cuts and a variety of injuries to my palms, I was entirely unhurt.

I took a while to consider the idea of "motivation." Why I chose to take this hike, turn left at that last fork, and so on. In truth, I don't know why I do a lot of things. But I do know that if I had company on this adventure of mine I don't think I'd be anywhere near as reckless or spontaneous or impulsive.

As it stands now, I am free to be reckless and stupid without worrying what a companion might think of my choices. And while it could be argued that I currently have more responsibilities of an obvious nature than ever before---childcare and everything attached to it, coupled with running and maintaining a household being chief among those rather important obligations---somehow, amidst all of that, I feel a freedom, a sense of control to my own life that I don't quite understand, though I am growing more and more fond of it with each passing day. I think it has a lot to do with the lack of people in my life that I sometimes find myself performing for.

Here I have no real audience. Carrie and Chrigl are often so busy with work that we do not see each other for days at a time, and as long as I am willing to play and engage with Jamie and Raina in their daily lives, they, like most children, show no acknowledgment for a life that I might lead separate from theirs.

These kids really do amaze me, each and every day. I wish I could be more like them. Hell, that might just be where my recklessness stems from--watching these kids who are amazingly talented and intelligent and wise and brave...it makes me feel just a little smarter and a little more brave myself.

And I think that's good, as my return home and lack of plans thereafter will inevitably require some bravery. So here's to being bold! May we all get a dash of courage in our stockings this year : )

Adventure in Flims

In the last few days, weeks, and months I have learned a lot about kids and parents. A few hours ago I returned from a three day stint in a town called Flims (about an hour's bus ride from Malix) where I baby-sat four-year-old twins for Carrie's Scottish friend, Eilanne, and her Romanish-Swiss husband, Ricco. It was weird at first, suddenly being in a new house with new kids--new rules, new games, new everything!--and yet it was one of my better weekend adventures...if you don't count Italy, of course.


I had a hard time in the beginning (this being Friday morning,) as I had only met Eilanne twice before, and her children, Angus and Reeve, once. (Now that I think about it, my whole experience in Switzerland has been full of weird introductions...case in point: the first time I met Ricco was on Friday night. He came bursting through his front door, arms clutching a briefcase, several bags of groceries and a bottle wine, only to find a strange American girl setting his kitchen table and spearing boiled potatoes with a cleaver. The poor man took it very well, all things considered.) But, as I had no time to dwell on the awkwardness of it all, (potato-spearing and kid-calming and bottle-opening and fire-starting leaving little room for more than a hello and a handshake) Ricco and I seemed to get on capitally from the start.


After meeting, cooking for, and getting the lay of the land from Ricco, he and Eilanne took off on a holiday in Lugano, leaving their home and their children in the hands of a relative stranger who was more than a little apprehensive. (After being warned about some of the antics the twins sometimes get up to I was beginning to think three days might just kill me.) However, it turned out that I spent a truly wonderful long weekend cooking for two relatively compliant kids with adorable semi-Scottish accents, watching a good deal of BBC--albeit kid's telly, but I'll take what I can get in English--hiking, drinking copious amount of tea, playing football with Angus, having tea parties with Reeve, making snow-angels, navigating a 90-year-old kitchen stove and having a positively grand time all the while.

The aforementioned stove. It took some getting use to :)

Indeed, I think Saturday night will be one for the history books, though it was by no means an extraordinary evening. In a quite old house in rural Switzerland, with Angus and Reeve asleep upstairs and my 6th mug of Earl Grey warming my hands, I curled up on the couch near a popping fire and watched To Kill A Mockingbird. I know it doesn't sound like much, but it really felt like renewal to me. In those few hours I unearthed pure bliss. If only such simple pleasures could be distilled and captured like decanted wine. Then would not life be perfect?


Needless to say, I was almost disappointed to leave Flims behind me in the morning, so pleasant was my stay. Yet in addition to the respite afforded me by my weekend away from Jamie and Raina, I also learned a little something. As I have very little experience of my own when it comes to childcare, it was interesting for me to watch and interact with a new family after spending so much time in the company of one set of parents and one group of kids. I'm sure that for most people this next observation will produce a resounding "duh!" but for me it really was a  revelation: no matter where you are or who you're with, kids will be kids, and, even more importantly, moms will be moms. And in light of the former, thank god for the latter!


And as I still consider myself rather child-like in many respects, I shall use myself to illustrate, for after having met me only twice before, Elianne met me at the bus stop in Flims on Friday morning, scolded me for my lack of a warm scarf and promptly produced an extra from her magical-Mom bag.


Moms, huh?


Really though, her actions and general openness to me as well as the unending kindness and hospitality of all my Swiss hosts has made all the difference in the world. I feel as though I've discovered a new kind of home here. I shall be sad to leave it behind.

Swiss German for Beginners

Despite the fact that I've been here in Malix for three months now, I still speak next to NO German. Serves me right for taking Spanish all those years, I guess. The little I have learned is as follows:


Locations:
"Malix" - pronounce the world "mall" as if you were in Boston, then add "eeeks" to the end.


"Chur" locals drop the "C," but most train station workers say "Coor" (as in the beer without an "s").


"Ish-tal-I-za" - though I have never seen it written as such, this is what locals call Italy.


"Leichtenziner"- a nick-name for people from Liechtenstein (who are apparently the butt of some national joke that I know nothing about...)


"Heidi-lande" - the portion of the Alps just Northwest of Malix that is popular with commercial farmers and tourists. Also the setting of the original novels about Heidi, Girl of the Alps. 


Food:
"Spetzli" - pronounced "Sh-spets-ly," it's Swiss-German for picnic of greatness!


"Trokterfleish" one of the first words I was able to sound out (as it is in fact phonetic,) it refers to dried elk meat---kind of like salami or jerky.  


"Apfelwein"- translates to apple wine, though I have had a devil of a time remembering to turn my "w"s into "v"s and wisa wersa. (Curse you, Richard Wanger!!!)


"Zokten-Fotzel"- a local twist on French Toast in which stale bread is soaked in egg and milk for up to a few days, then drained and baked over potatoes and cheese.


Conversations:
"Ich Vice Nicht" - my most commonly used phrase. "I. Don't. Know."


"Greutze" -while I have long stuck with a simple "hallo," this mash-up of what sounds to my ears like "curtsy" with a hard "g" in front is the local greeting. 


  "Guese!"  - pronounced somewhere between "juice," "jews," and "chews," it is Swiss-German for goodbye/farewell.


"Danke Shon" - Thanks a lot


"Bitte"- the go-to word. It can mean you're welcome, please, what can I get you, see ya later, and plenty more depending on time, place and inflection.


"Prost!" - This one I got right away, thank goodness. It means "Cheers!" 


"Liden-Schwachkopf" - I'm told it is all out of love, but this is Jamie's favorite nick-name for me which translates roughly to "slow-learner" or, more than likely, "idiot."


I am however getting pretty good at reading cooking directions, travel instructions and letters from disgruntled teachers due to absolute necessity. "Hausarbeit?" Check! 


And that, save the days of the week, months of the year, and a few names and numbers, is about it for my linguistic education. I knew taking language classes from people called Jones and Bond and Peterson would come back to bite me someday!

Untitled

I am learning to love it here.

Without the distractions 
and the stress of school and work 
and a life filled with needs unmet
I find myself feeling satisfied. 
  
I like the little life that has unfolded before me 
and I feel content in this place.
My mornings are early and long and full. 
I happily and strangely embrace my new role 
of sudo-adult and friend, provider and peacemaker.


I never have enough time to sit and eat a meal in peace, 
let alone finish a book, 
but I take comfort in the activity of it all.
I walk each and every day (a foot of snow be damned!)
I brew and consume enough strong tea each day to fill a bathtub. 
And I'm not kidding.


My afternoons are consumed 
by times tables and games, German grammar and time-outs.
I cook and the smell of cinnamon makes me feel at home.
I crank Axl Rose and jam with Jamie, 
dance to Miley Cyrus with Raina and 
watch movies with English subtitles with Carrie and Chrigl.


And when the quiet settles in at last 
I stand at the kitchen sink in solitude,
 finishing the dishes 
and humming a bar or two of Pie Jesu, 
its gentle familiarity reassures me 
that I am ready to begin again tomorrow.


Because I love it here.

A Great Day In The Life

I love my life.

Why?

Well, for a great many reasons, but for the purposes of this post and this day in particular I must declare my love for life through the appreciation of friends, family and food. This past weekend was a beautiful one in Malix; not only did the sun shine and the snow begin to melt, but my cultural experiences expanded a thousand fold in the course of 12 hours thanks to Carrie, Chrigl, and lots of food.

The morning began like any other day here, though considering it was a Saturday we all got up earlier than normal (the Swiss are backwards, I know) and had a fantastic breakfast, courtesy of Chrigl. He returned home in the early hours of the morning after a two week stint of training in Austria and instead of getting some much needed sleep the man drank some coffee and then started flipping flapjacks at 5 a.m.  Yes sir, Chrigl is climbing the charts of "most awesome human ever;" for in addition to the much loved American pancakes (complete with Nutella and peanut butter, bless him!) he also took the time to prepare the traditional Rosti for me to try. Let me tell you friends, it is fantastic. Somewhere between the boarder of hashbrowns and crepes lies the happy land of Rosti--hot, eggy, potatoy, buttery goodness--not besmirched with such vial American sins as ketchup, but rather lovingly crowned with cinnamon, sugar and hot applesauce. Pure bliss!

Now, I was floored and thankful for the morning's surprise, to say the least, but at the same time I felt kind of caught off guard. This was the first weekend where all three adults were in the house at the same time for more than a few hours and I'll admit I was unsure of what to do. When either Carrie or Chrigl is away I tend to take on all culinary detail simply because I know that each has a million other things to be doing. With breakfast out of my hands I found myself standing in the kitchen at 5:45 with no occupation other than to watch my tea water boil while Chrigl flew around the room like a man possessed. (While a respectable cook and an amazingly involved and domestic father by Swiss standards, Chrigl does tend to have what I lovingly refer to as "The Sam Effect" on a room when he gets into a project. Thus, by the time I retreated to the doorway to lean against the post and repose with my Earl Grey the kitchen looked a lot like a disaster area.)

However, I need not have worried about feeling useless because a moment later, as if on cue, Jamie appeared (clad in nothing but a bathrobe and brandishing a pocket comb as he has done every morning for the past week after I told him he looked like James Dean...I freaking love this kid!) demanding to know where the french toast I promised him could be found. I reddened and tried to explain that Chrigl had made a special breakfast and that I'd make it for him another day, but Chrigl merely smiled and said "ah, yes, this is good. We have all the breakfast at once, America and Swiss together, yes?" and kindly produced a clean pan (from I know not where) and stepped aside to allow breakfast, round two, to begin. (And about five minutes after that Raina arrived demanding Ovomaltine on toast, thus facilitating yet another addition to the breakfast relay.)

I wish I had taken a picture of the havoc-stricken kitchen (how the hell all three of us presided over various cooking projects at once, I will never know) or at least of the carbo-kingdom spread we laid out afterwards, but alas for my lack of forethought! Therefore, I will say only that it was one of the better breakfasts I've had this side of 2005. Carbs and glucose were consumed by all in great abundance before the village clock struck eight, whereupon I cleaned, Chrigl slept, and Carrie took the kids for a walk to their Grandmother's house to put the last of their summer stuff in the storage barn.

By the time we all reconvened I was sure there would be no need for food again for a long time, but when Jamie and Raina's friends from school came over and all showed sighs of being bored I jumped at the chance to distract them with a little culinary adventure. The objective: tarts.

The boys seemed more hungry than excited so I sent them out to the garden to gather the last of the blackberries and raspberries while I scraped together a pie crust recipe from various cookbooks and, with the help of Raina and her friend Joanna, made some respectable muffin-tin sized rounds by the time the boys returned with the vestiges of their berry-picking. It was hard enough trying to sweeten and reduce the meager harvest without prior experience, but doing so in the company of four kids under 10 was nearly impossible---or so I thought. Miraculously, we managed to produce four respectable looking tarts (two having succumbed to the wrath of Jamie and his friend Enzo's over-eagerness to remove them from the muffin tin, and thereby turning them into unrecognizable globs of redish-black jelly flecked with pastry. These, though not beautiful, were no less delicious, or so I'm told.) The surviving pastries were distributed to each child to top as they pleased, resulting in one cream, one shaved chocolate, one sugar, and one with sweetened condensed milk being presented to Mami and Papi as an afternoon surprise.  Carrie ate her sugared one with pride while Chrigl manfully endured the condensed milk and pronounced Jamie's creation "a real triumph" while I shook with silent laughter and packed the other two up to be taken home to neighboring mothers and fathers.

The remainder of the afternoon was spent out of doors, with me alternating between throwing a baseball with Chrigl and Jamie, then sketching landscapes with Carrie and Raina. As the sun began to set and the cold stole in around us I figured I should start dinner before it got too dark, but Carrie stopped me and said that as tonight was a celebration of sorts (that of Chrigl's return and Carrie's three-week anniversary of being hospital-free) we were going on a family outing. I became more and more excited and intrigued as heavy winter clothes, flashlights, and matches started to appear. Uninformed but eager, I suited up in my warmest gear, donned a head lamp, found Raina's hand in mine, and the five of us set off into the wilderness.

After about a 25 minute walk up and away from the town of Malix we arrived at a remote farm with a covered out-building, beside which I could see a fire already blazing. Even from a distance the sound of hearty voices carried into our midst and I felt the cold of the night surrender to the powers of warmth and good cheer. Once seated around the fire I was introduced to Paulo, a older farmer and family friend of Chrigl's; his wife Ruth, their son Karl, a man of about 35, and their granddaughter Juliana, who said to me in near-perfect English, " I'm thirteen and I love Nick Jonas. Do you know him?" One of the funnier conversations of my life. Hurrah for being American, I guess?

Introductions were followed by drinks that seemed to materialize out of nowhere, for I could see no chest or cooler from whence they came.  Still having little to no knowledge of German food and drink I simply smiled and nodded when Paulo offered me an unknown liquid from a stoneware blue and white jug. Chrigl mumbled the word "Apfelwein" to me and when I was handed an enormous mug of cold, fizzy-looking cider I nodded again and raised my mug to toast with the others before taking a long pull of the most delicious beverage known to man. Seriously. I think Jameson and Malibu have been officially unhorsed by a barrel of Swiss apple juice. Man, do I love Switzerland!

Dinner had been simmering over the fire since before we arrived--another local treat. Now, I had had the pleasure of enjoying Carrie's homemade fondu a few weeks before in the comfort of home, but I can now say that nothing beats the sweet, almost smokey taste of melted raclette, gruyere and whole cloves of garlic over fire-baked potatoes with pan rustica and pears. Between eight of us, we killed two boiling pots of fondu and more than three loaves of bread (all the better to soak up the apfelwein for the walk home, so I was told,) and yet we somehow made room for a brick or two of simple, solid Swiss chocolate for dessert, plus coca for the kids and apple Schnapps for the grown-ups to help us home, though we stayed around the fire for a good hour or more after all the  drinks were dry. The three kids talking animatedly about their favorite Jonas Brother's songs, the adults discussing hunting season and tourism and Carrie's recovery, while I sat happily on the sidelines of each group, content to listen and absorb. (Though my speaking is still virtually nonexistent, I can usually pick up enough to understand what is being said around me in German. Usually.)

By the time we rose to return home night had fallen in earnest, yet we opted to take the long way home, meandering here and there through the dense forrest, headlamps bobbing as various members took it in turns to sing German folk songs or old camp classics (I resorted to Ode to Joy when called upon to sing in the local vernacular...obviously I drank to much cider...) The light of the little house was nevertheless a welcome sight by the end of the walk, Raina heavy in my arms and Jamie beginning to snore into Chrigl's shoulder. Laughing soundlessly, the three adults disrobed and put to bed two shockingly acquiescent children before nodding off ourselves.

It was a great day.

Remember, Remember

...the fifth of November.


*That's Guy Fawkes Day (a.k.a. Bonfire Night) for those of you who missed out on nursery rhyme education.


And man oh man, do I wish I was in a pub in London right about now!  Cause really, what's not to love about burning a historical traitor in effigy while marching all over London and singing God Save the Queen at the top of your voice while the grog flows in the streets?


But I guess I'll just have to settle for an evening spent around a backyard campfire with children for company instead of party-goers, stars instead of airborne explosives, Raclette instead of a Cornish pasty, the Sanborn songbook instead of God Save the Queen, and a little Schnapps instead of a pint of bitter.


I think I'll take it.

Waxing Nostalgic; or, 22 Happy Thoughts

Blame the time of year if you want; 
fall is synonymous with academia in my mind. 


Or blame the weather if you choose; 
crisp days and clear, cold nights 
that necessitate baking 
and huddling near a fire are bound to result in daydreaming.


Or, if you like, blame the girl with too much time on her hands...umm, me.

Either way, I'll admit to recently devoting a good many hours to the occupation of reminiscing. (Such a lovely word, don't you think?) For in this crazy, mixed-up, unfriendly world that is the reality of post-graduate life, I am often tempted to belittle my college experience. And yet, after pouring over old e-mails and letter, photographs and cards, I remind myself that my time at Whitworth really did gift me with three of the happiest years of my life.


Cause really, where else could you find and experience these wonderful things, all in the one place?


-Traditiation (True, it wasn't what I would have picked for myself as a first semester freshmen, but I enjoyed it immensely each year thereafter...Perhaps that is the point?)


-French Dip day (Wednesday, Friday, whateverday. The only thing that matters is the artery-clogging goodness.)


-Life in Arend (RD Tim Caldwell saved my life, among other favors, but I was also blessed to live among some of the most amazing people I have ever known. Regan and Addie; my amazing roomie Michelle; Caroline, Tiffany and Merideth, three girls who could brighten the darkest of days; Devin, one of my all time favorite humans; "the guys" full of humor and unending kindness; Calli, kick-ass Montanan; and so many others.  Two good years filled with cookies, dance parties, movie-marathons, all-night cram sessions, all night chats, and plenty of laughs. Y'all rock.)  


-Core (for allowing me to enjoy and hate and love and learn, all without leaving the B-Rob teaching theatre...and introducing me to the brilliance of Leonard and Forrest.)


-Dr. Death (thus establishing the groundwork for building relationships based on mutual fear of and determination to survive life as an English Major. We did it Sam!!!)  


-The Writing Center (built in homework time, help when I panicked, money enough to keep me in cereal for a month, and some of the best times of my life. The stories shared and laughs had in that ridiculous little fishbowl will bring me pleasure for years to come. Oh, and I learned a lot too. I swear, I did actually work there some of the time...)


-Christmas (Nothing says "holidays at Whitworth" like punch and pot-stickers with B-Rob...Unless it's truffles, story-time and caroling at Leonard's.)


-Leonard Oakland (Fountain of knowledge. Master of Core lectures. Teller of seemingly-off-topic tales. Teacher of Russian Literature and Homeric Epic. Renaissance man and friend.)


-BISP (Three of the best months of my life, spend in the company of over a dozen of the coolest people I know. I saw the Globe, made friends with mice in the West End, went to Wales--does anyone know why?--fell down an ancient Roman wall atop Devin Rourke, ate many, many kebabs, followed a tall red-headed man around every country in the UK, fell in love with Oxford, experienced theatre through Les Mis, Fringe, and even a little of our own making, and made some memories to last a lifetime in my favorite city in the world.) 


-Pemberley (I had the pleasure of living in the company of five of the most amazing girls I've ever known, with whom I enjoyed the greatness of life in Plano, the terror of 24, the culture of Robin Hood and countless other BBC gems, 'hide and discover' with Edward, induction into the S.M.C., fabulous family dinners, themed house parties, and innumerable other Austen-esque adventures.)


-The chance to try new (good) things (whether it be guitar lessons, learning to truly enjoy a science class or discussing theology over a cup of coffee with a professor, I was able to test myself and experience academia in a way that challenged and enriched me as a person. Take that, state school greek system!)


- The Vagina Monologues (while on the subject of new things, I had the pleasure of reading in the VMs two years running, something I would never have been brave enough to do in High School, and an experience that educated and enlightened me immensely.)


-Ivanhoe, Round Two (by the time I did the VMs a second time I was living with another group of wonderful ladies who share their skills, personalities, and opinions with intelligence and grace, for which I love and respect each one of them. As a house we spent our time reading and studying, talking and venting, cooking and thrifting, laughing and loving and affirming. It was a nice way to spend Senior year, to say the least.)


-Jan Term (While I don't actually have the best memories of my first three Jan terms, during my senior year I basically went exploring around London with friends, some new and some old, for the length of a month. I had one of the best birthdays of my life. I hopped a train with friends to Paris. Aubrey and I discovered how Russians stay warm in winter. I stalked Marks & Spencer, partly for the food, and partly for the heat. I felt even more in love with London.)


-Road-tripping (Not only did the NULC trip to Utah give me the chance to hang out with some of my favorite English majors for a long weekend, but being in Ogden--of all places!--seemed like Mecca for a literature geek. And we met some really crazy, passionate nuts just like us. Nice to know you're not alone in this world...thanks, Lindsay Johnson.)


-Vic Bobb's Reading List (Thanks to which I have read more obscure and awesome books than I knew were in existence...and saved myself the trouble of reading "classics" for as long as I can help it.)

-Vic Bobb (Mentor. Teacher. Friend. Father. Writer. Poet. Artist. Provider of Bob Dylan CDs. Wearer of Beatles ties. Drinker of gallons of coffee out of the never-been-washed Corn Maze mug. Watcher of pointless yet awesome YouTube videos. Reader and recommender of GREAT books. Waster of time to rival college students. Teacher of Poe in the depths of winter. Dog lover. Pullman native. Supporter of hitch-hikers and road-trip-takers. Fiction writer. Dream chaser. Asylum giver. Moby-Dick lover. Wisdom dispenser. All around great man.) 

-Pleasant Blends (Hug-in-a-Mug. Need I say more?)

-Ground Crew (I had the honor of working for and making friends with the people who keep Whitworth looking nice for pictures and parents. I've never worked harder, loved a job more, or had more fun getting up before sunrise to spend time with a bunch of friendly, skilled, helpful folks.)  

-Running Bloomsday (...and the morning after breakfast, compliments of Biff's amazing mom! The race was a pain, but I'm glad I had the local experience and that I was able to cross the finish line hand-in-hand with beloved friends. I'll be content if I can finish another of life's races holding those same hands.)


-A Final Summer in Spokane (Once enveloped within the community of the Pine Cone Curtain it is hard to leave, and I had the indescribable pleasure of a slow departure from Whitworth over the course of this past summer, this time with a third and totally awesome bunch of gals in my Ivan-home. The BBQs, Fo-Yo, nights of berry picking, cooking adventures with Julie, dance parties, movie nights with Lauren--a la Joe Versus the Volcano!--and countless hours reading, talking, laughing and roasting treats on the porch were fantastic good fun.)


-People ( You know that annoying video on the home page that asks students and faculty what their favorite thing is about campus? Well, 90% of the answers to that question are the same, and all of them amount to roughly the following: "I love the people. I love the community. I love the relationships I have made here. When I leave I'm going to miss the people....etc." The culture of Whitworth, like any other place on this earth, is a manifestation of its inhabitance. The people make the place, just as a family makes a home. Thankfully, I had a pretty great one to begin with and it has been made all the more wonderful through the addition of you "people." 


Thanks for reading. And thanks for being you, dear reader.

A Day In The Life

In many ways this weekend was just another few days in the bigger-picture-life of my Swiss adventure. And, realizing that I haven't actually communicated what it is I do here on a typical day, I figured a little play-by-play might be nice. (Or, you know, mind-numbingly dull. You be the judge.)

It was a good weekend overall. My hostess Carrie got a medical leave for three days and came home for a while. While I've loved the things we've done as a little family group when Carrie is around, the kids seemed to get more agitated (or maybe they just relax and stop being polite) and by the time their mom was picked up to go back to the clinic a few hours ago, I was almost too tired to get the kids to bed, let alone myself. (I write this now in a haze of half-sleep muddled with a desire not to forget the happenings of weekend.) 

So much happened. Although the Swiss version of "Fall Break" officially ended today, the kids have still been on holiday mode (today being their first return to school and a regular schedule in the last two weeks) so I can't really blame them for being full of energy and excitement, and rather lacking in the patience and manners departments over their last weekend of freedom.

Sunday morning began like most, me getting up and preparing breakfast BEFORE waking the kids (something I learned the hard way--if you wake them first, they are all over the place and you can't do anything. Make a meal quietly while they sleep, then wake them, and you just bought yourself 15 beautiful minutes of tea time on the porch in relative quite,) followed by a battle of wills: Jamie trying to get everyone at the table to play Clone Wars with him, Raina wanting to make jewelry between bites of crepe, Carrie trying to tell me the plan for the day, and me desperately attempting to take in important information while not appearing to ignore the kids around me. Let's just say it was a draw. 

After breakfast I leaped into my usual (and if I'm honest, my favorite) duty of family Dish Fairy and Clean-Up Queen. Not only do I not mind dishes, it is really my only chance to be completely in control all day long. Not that the kids don't listen to me (most of the time...) but cooking and cleaning are just easier and simpler than asking an energetic 9-year-old for the tenth time to please stop jumping on the couch. But after more than a few polite reminders, requests, and outright orders we were all safely buckled in the family car and off to Chur to visit the petting zoo and have a picnic in the park. 

The drive was fine, and while I know I'll never drive the speed limit here (I top out at about 15 under) I feel like I'm getting the hang of curves, blind corners, my crazy, lane-hogging fellow drivers, roundabouts, and traffic lights that are so well hidden you have to look for them at interactions. Paying for parking is still a challenge, and I think I will simple become known as the stupid and generous American girl due to the fact that I always put in a 5F coin, no matter how long I'm parked, for fear of it being too little...coupled with a complete lack of ability to read the requirement on the coin machine.

But make it we did, if a little more slowly than what is considered a normal pace. (Have I even mentioned why I'm doing all the driving? I ferry the kids around during the week because I am the only one here, but on the weekend when Carrie is home I drive because she has yet to pass a driving/ combined motor skills test following the brain infection she suffered as a result of Meningitis. Recovering from headaches and dizziness, though improving every day, it only seemed prudent that I, despite my inexperience, take the wheel in favor of the lady with the brain infection.) 

At the park we did what I assume is typical of kids and their families as petting zoos. We looked at sheep and quarter horses and donkeys, the kids played with goats and pigs and tried to chase a llama, then we spent a large part of the morning in a barn in which the top portion had been converted into a ropes course, just above a three paneled trampoline. Jamie did cartwheels and backflips and ninja kicks until I was sure he'd puke, while Raina planted herself on a tire-swing, content to have me push her as high as I could for as long as my arms could take it. We picnicked in the autumn sunshine near rocks and a splendid climbing tree. The kids climbed all over but soon fell to fighting over whose branch was whose, who could go higher or hang upside down longer---the whole nine yards of competition.

The afternoon did not improve when we got home. Continued fighting--now the physical kind--alarmed me more than I can say. Not that Jamie kicking Raina or Raina pinching Jamie back is anything new to me, but the sheer volume of their retorts to each new attack, combined with the one-uping of each new insult or injury...it was oddly draining.  After a little break and breather for everyone, during which I washed some more dishes and put a disheveled second floor back in order, the afternoon activities involved making things out of clay (props to my mother for this one--hours of time, and fight-free!) 

while Carrie took on dinner, for which I was extremely grateful, not realizing how truly tired I was. It was a simple meal, but yet another first for me, and a cultural treat to boot. Toasting forks in hand, the four of us shared a meal of sausages, bread and pears dipped in traditional Swiss fondu. Who knew that a little combination of grated cheeses, garlic, cornstarch, and a little wine and vodka could make such a smashing dinner time experience?!

I took on the cleaning while Carrie packed up to return to the clinic in Valence, we tag-teamed bedtime, and in no time at all I find myself in my room, typing like a fiend, only to realize that I have said pretty much nothing of consequence in the space of this entire post.

Alas, it can't be helped, as I am dead tired and the whole rigmarole must begin afresh tomorrow. Welcome to adulthood, I guess. Wish me luck, dear reader! 

Life is a Highway

In keeping with the theme of driving...

I did it.

I put the key in the ignition,
started the very quiet European engine,
backed out of the driveway,
and drove a little VW down the insanely narrow, curvy, steep mountain roads of Alpine Switzerland.

With three kids in the car.
And no copilot.
And everyone lived to see the light of another day.
I call that awesome.

I remembered to yield to those going uphill
and that I have the right-of-way coming back ("two lane" my foot!)
I drove about 10 km under the whole way to the sports center in Lenzerheide, four towns away.
I remembered WHERE the complex was, despite having only been in it once before.
I navigated a foreign parking garage without injury or getting a parking ticket.

Go me!

.     .     .

The above was a week or more ago, and I have since played the role of chauffeur several times. I now know my way by bus, car and on foot in every direction surround Malix--a least for twenty minutes worth of travel, anyway. Which, in reality, is saying rather a lot, as twenty minutes in a car is about one tenth of what it would take to drive to the French boarder. Can you imagine driving twenty minutes and reaching Canada or Mexico? I'm lucky if I can get to downtown Spokane in twenty minutes!

But, time not withstanding, the driving here is far more involved than a simple straight shot down Monroe. There is, in fact, no such thing as a straight road in all of Switzerland, as far as I can tell. Everything is steep, narrow, and...did I mention steep? I asked Carrie once, really just as a joke, how often she has to replace her brake-pads. "Yearly. More often if we take long trips," she told me. I believe it! And yet, for all of the difficulties of Alpine driving, I have rarely seen a more beautiful stretch of road than that which I drive from Chur to Malix and back again. Despite early snow and quite a bit of rain, fall is still evident in the color of the trees and the yellow heaps beside the roads. Ambitious hikers with ski-poll-like sticks trudge ever upward, whatever the weather, as when morning fog settles on the valley and I am forced to drive at half speed on my way to the Co-Op, mindful of the weather, the wet roads, the hikers, and the combine that just passed, no doubt irritated at my snail's pace.

Ah, well.  To each their own. I use to think that life, like school or employment or any other game we human's play, was all about the race. The result. The "I won" moment. After all, that is how we are conditioned from birth. You try hard at "x" to achieve "y," which then allows you access to "a," which you must accomplish before moving on to "b"--and all of this must of course be done in reference to the rest of the world. After all, what is a man if not weighed and measured against his fellow man? How do we know what our value is unless we compare ourselves to others?

Well, I guess my little Alpine adventure has shown me that the race is not the most important thing--not right now, at least. Sure, I still envy my friends who are "ahead" of me, in some ways. Those who are in grad school or married or fully and gainfully employed, for example. But then I remember that I am not in competition with those I love. We each of us have our own tasks to deal with (for me of late, it just so happens that my road is a literal as well as figurative one,) and in our own good time. And if it takes me longer than the man driving the tractor to get from here to there, I guess all I can do is enjoy the scenery.

Afterthoughts and Inspiration

Oh, and Locarno was great.

Palm trees in Switzerland? Who knew?!
The piazza Grande was fun and lively, while the Castello Visconteo was ruinous and made me feel like I was walking around the set of Ever After. But the main attraction, Lago Maggiore, was the best of all. Blue and deep and dotted with fishing boats and sleek sloops in the shadow of a pink sunset...it was postcard worthy, to say the least.

The Italian look and feel and sound of the area was refreshing in the face of the...weight, I guess you could say, of Swiss-German life.  Locarno was clear and bright. It's houses painted in warm shades of yellow and blue and pink and green, as if pastels alone are a talisman against cold and discomfort. Stucco replaces wood and peaked logs give way to roofs covered in title shingles the farther south you travel. The women are model-esque and the men laugh like they expect someone to snap a photograph of their impossibly white teeth at any moment. Fashion rules the day and I felt decidedly out of place in my jeans and sweatshirt, but such is the life of a traveler. And, of course, the food was amazing. Still heavier than your typical American fare, it did at least provide a much-desired break from the carb and sausage-laden meals of the northern provinces. That, and they put chicken in their pasta. God love 'em.

I like the southern part of the country so far. Gives me hope for my own.




And while I'm on the subject...

I have a crazy, half-baked, long simmering scheme in mind for all you wonderful, newly-adult-ed Whitworthians.


I want to take a roadtrip. 


I know I've said it before, and I know there are six million reasons why it is a bad idea and can't work. (I glare across oceans at all you gainfully employed graduates. Know this.)

But I think it would be fabulous.
I've never seen the 'Old South', and I want to.
I want to visit you amazing people in your natural habitats.
I want to drive down the 101, radio blasting, beloved friends packed in tight, hair wiping in the wind all the way from Canada to Mexico.
Or San Diego to Miami.
Or Seattle to Manhattan.
Or straight across Texas.
Or all over Montana.
And I want to keep that ridiculous idea of "community" alive.

I don't have a car
or concrete dates
or locations
or funds
...yet.

But I will. And when I do, I want you with me, dear reader.

Will you come?

Globe-Trotting is to Paper-Writing as Journey is to...?

I know that most of the people reading this blog think that what I'm doing this fall sounds like a dream come true. And it would be, if it had been my dream.

The truth is though, it wasn't anything I ever considered until it fell into my lap. I never even looked at Switzerland on a map after I passed European geography in 10th grade. And yet, here I am. Living, albeit temporarily, in Europe; In Switzerland--the hub of Western civilization this side of the Atlantic. I am a mere 2-3 hours from half a dozen countries all at once. If I get on a train going even half an hour in any direction the language I hear changes, even within the confines of Switzerland itself. Coming from a nation where one must drive for DAYS in some cases just to hear one's own language spoken differently, this new "cultural diversification" has been hard to get use to. (Oh, wouldn't my profs be proud! You see? You see how I did that, all you Whitworthians turned global-citizens, you see that?)

After doing it a few times I am, by my own admission, getting a little better at this whole solo-travel thing. But, in the same way that I use to panic before, during, and sometimes inexplicably after writing a paper in college, convinced that I did not in fact know HOW to complete the task ahead of me, I somehow manage to forget how to travel, just as I would forget how to write a paper for Doug Sugano. I put things off and over-prepare and don't sleep well and I become forgetful and my voice gets all high-pitched and girly in the most annoyingly fake, "would you like to open a new account today, sir?" kind of way.

Determined to beat my inner-barnyard-fowl into submission however, I somehow muster up the courage to "get out there and do it." And do you know, it always turns out alright in the end. Just like every paper I've ever written, traveling never turns out exactly as I plan for it to, nor is it by any means easy or relaxing in the way I so wish it could be. Other people seem to be able to travel like they write papers or drive cars. Quickly, easily, painlessly. I, alas, seem to lack the grace, poise, and self-assurance that it requires to do these things without effort. It is my hope, however, that the next few months will reveal that elusive trick to tranquility that other people in this world just seem to possess in abundance.

And without this seemingly necessary sense of tranquility I resort as ever to observation about the world, and me as a speck upon its spinning surface.  While on a quick weekend getaway to the Italian coast (God, how weird does that sound?!) I realized that solo travel kind of sucks. Sure, it has its benefits. You don't have to compromise what you want for the interests of others. You can travel like a leisurely tourist or a no-nonsense go-getter, all in the same day, and no one cares or comments. Meals are optional. With the acceptation of the general "see you Sunday," you're free to go wherever and do anything your heart desires. Like writing on the subject of your choice without guidelines or restrictions or instructions of any kind! Ah, yes. Freedom, in its purest form.

And yet, given my choice, I'd rather have a little company; a little roadmap for my writing, for my travels...for my life. Maybe not all the time, (there have been a few  moments of embarrassment, stress, or the simple desire to read a book for a few hours in front of a beautiful lake that are much more conducive to solitary travel) but when trying to navigate a new city, pick a decent, price-appropriate restaurant, or when you realize that you haven't said more than two words out loud for two days straight...that's when a little company might be nice.

Yet I know that I am nevertheless learning and adapting, at least a little, with every new experience. After all, it took four years of all-nighters and panic and the amazing forces of Sam, Jenny, Elise, Aubrey, Libby, and countless others to polish my library of half-baked rubbish into documents fit for professorial eyes, so why should this travel business be any different? The setting and tools and helping hands look a little different, but I hope the end result will be the same.

But do they give "As" in the real world?  

Bang Head Here

When I was a kid I remember that I liked to amuse myself with a poster that was taped to a wall in the kitchen of the Country Lodge. In big, bold letters above a target-like circle it read: In Case of Stress, Bang Head Here. At this moment, I wish I had that poster on my wall.

AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

It has been a loooong day. And it's still not over. (I am currently stealing a moment to myself while allowing Jamie and Raina to play on their father's computer. Strictly speaking they are not suppose to use more than 10 minutes of media time per day, but I've had it up to my ears with stress and thus took the necessary steps required to give myself a break.)

But first, a little background. It is Monday, the first official day of the Swiss version of fall break. The only difference is that even elementary school kids get it, and it is two. weeks. long.
Chrigl has been gone for over a week now, and Carrie was home last weekend on a medical leave of absence from her rehab clinic, so taking care of the kids on my own is not exactly new to me. The big difference now is that they don't go to school for large parts of the day, nor do they even have homework to keep them productive. Most of their little friends have left for family vacations as well, which leaves me to provide for and entertain two kids for a rather long period of time. Without a break for my sanity.

Now, you may be thinking that I'm just tired and therefore over-reacting. After all, I am new to the whole childcare thing. But really, I feel like I just jumped out of one of those cliche sitcom episodes where kids tie up the babysitter and burn the house down.
Ok, it's not that bad. But here are a list of things that have transpired in the last 12 hours:

Jamie lost his appetite at breakfast, and thus decided to throw his uneaten cereal on the floor.
In some unspoken need for revenge, innumerable lego ships were dropped from the second floor down a flight of stairs by Raina.
In retaliation, Jamie knocked Raina into a table, making her cry. (I HATE it when they wail. Makes me want to join in, sometimes...)
I lost count of the number of times someone pinched, kicked, hit, or called someone else a dirty name.
Jamie, when asked to clean his room, ran out of the house and rolled in the dirt so I wouldn't let him back in.
We played a variety of sports down at the empty school, the better to get some exercise. Jamie cheated, Raina cheated, people fell off of monkey bars and dropped crackers in the dirt, lost favorite bouncy balls and cried because they didn't win a game of field hockey. Then we went home for lunch.
Jamie refused to take a shower until (literally) placed in the bathroom by force.
Raina actually ate her carrots without complaint, resulting in her gloating at Jamie and his mouthful of orange chunks, almost causing Jamie to choke.
Juice was spilt on the coffee table.
While I was washing dishes several cookies went missing from the "off limits" cupboard.
Jamie borrowed Raina's princess costume without permission and refused to take it off until we played the card game he wanted. (This I succumbed to without much of a fight. At least card games are simple and relatively quite.)

Oh yeah, and...
I got locked out of the house.

Aren't kids great?!

Mind The Gap

London, Day 2.
This was a Monday, and as such the tube trains are packed to bursting and school groups are out en masse. And there I was in the midst of it all, hunting for a hospital. But at least I had a plan. Step one, get to the Embassy. Step two, get a list of local physicians who take foreign patients. Step three, find one, and for the love of all things holy, get meds to make the upper respiratory infection from hell return from whence it came. This proved to be a bit of a challenge, but at least it was one I could completely understand in my own language. (The week before I had lived through a kind of mini-nightmare trying to track down meds for my host, Carrie, at a Swiss apothecary. Not fun.) But with the aid of a chipper American guy in HR who wanted to know if I'd ever been to Mardi Gras, I was once again on my way. Four hours and an ungodly sum of British pounds later, I was happily diagnosed and medicated. And just in time to enjoy the customary September showers that turn London into the worst version of itself. So in the grey and the gloom I returned to my hotel and watched High Society on cable. Not what I originally had in mind, but not a bad way to spend an evening.

Day 3, spontaneous activity of the most wonderful kind. 

While I am not normally an early riser, I made an exception on Tuesday for the promise of continental breakfast--only to find that it was little more than corn flakes and bread. No toast. Ah, the echoes of BISP were strong in my heart and only getting stronger! Undeterred, I took to the tube and gave myself a mild shock at how easily the city layout all came back to me. I had neither my trusty red tourist map nor a pocket tube guide, and was pleased to realize that was fine with me. I was in no hurry, and the weather was surprisingly temperate, and so I made my leisurely way amongst the suits and camera-laden Asians towards the galleries in the heart of the city. Remembering too late that nothing opens "early" in this country, I spent a few hours wandering St. Martin's churchyard and sitting in the shadow of Lord Nelson on his column before spending a pleasant morning in the company of Turner, Rembrandt, and the likenesses of Byron and George III. After a truly terrible midday concert at St.-Martin's-in-the-field I walked south along the high street to take in the view from the river. While there are innumerable rivers in this world more attractive than the Thames, part of me finds it one of the most alluring bodies of water known to man. Blame the literature, I guess. In my customary way I spent the afternoon wandering the south bank. It has none of the old charms of historic London, nor the speed and glamour of Oxford Street, nor even the tourist appeal of Covent Garden (save the eyesore that is the "Eye") and yet I love it all the same. I crossed back to the North bank at Westminster Bridge in time to make the evensong service in the Abbey, one of my favorite London haunts. The music in that church, older by far than anything made of stone and mortar in all of North America, has the power to lift the listener almost to the very rafters of its golden ceiling--and to feed the weary soul. 

Thus invigorated, I left the church and found myself a ration of sustenance of a different sort, though no less appreciated. 

Wandering into the bustling Wagamama under the Jubilee Bridge made me laugh out loud in memory of BISP, while my heart ached for distant company and conversation. (I was, however, supremely glad that there was no one to openly insult my complete lack of skill with a pair of chopsticks. I have resigned myself to the fact that there are just some things I shall never master. Arithmetic, chopstick etiquette, and French braids being principally among them.) 

As it was still early when I left the noodle bar, I figured I'd chance it and walk in an eastern direction toward the National to see if anything struck my fancy. Two shows were running and both appeared sold out, but knowing how the system works, I approached the box office, my as-yet unexpired international student ID in hand, and asked about the new play "Or You Could Kiss Me," produced by the same company that did "War Horse" and "Nation." As expected, shitty seats for the under-25 crowd remained, and, a mere ten quid later, I was set to witness the evening production--the only thing about which I knew was that it centered on two old men and that there would doubtless be puppets. I was correct on both counts. It was, as with most national productions, odd. But I liked it, and wished, as I usually do after seeing a movie or other cultural piece of entertainment alone, that I had someone to discuss it with. Turns out that a young couple that I followed out of the theatre were on both of my tube trains back to Bayswater, and so they shared their opinions with me and I commented here and there. It wasn't Ebert and Roper  by a long shot, but it was nice to decompress and to share, and to be reminded yet again that solitude is, like everything else, merely temporary. 

The next few days were a blur of retracing steps of years past and even plotting a new corse here and there. (A little advice--do not do this in the pouring rain at night without looking where you're going, as it may result in more human contact with lake Erie-sized puddles than is ever desired. Just saying.) By the end of my trip I concluded that London is indeed "my city." I love its culture, its food, its scale and history and scope and its people--most of them, anyway. I am always sad to leave it. Especially when my last memory of the place is in the confines of the international wing of terminal 1, in which nothing exists save the slew of designer shops and one painfully crowded Cafe Nero. But at least there are roast chicken crisps. (Don't fight me on this. They're good. I swear.) But last looks not withstanding, I boarded my plane back to Zurich with a sigh and cracked my new book, "On Chesil Beach." Desperate for more reading material in my native tongue that is a bit more complex than Grimm's Fairytales, I scoured the shelves of WH Smith for ANYTHING that was not recommended by reader's lists or emblazoned with hot pink letters having something to do with Mrs. Darcy or some equally offensive garbage masquerading as literature. (I know, I know. Book snob. Rant almost over.) After much hunting I settled on some McEwan and a reject copy of "Little Women." I don't know if it's just that I have more time to think and process what I read without fear of a fearsome Asian man judging my responses thereto or what, but I've felt a much deeper connection to what I read of late. I feel the childlike kinship with character and author that I did when I was 18 and that I was sure I had lost forever upon graduation last May when I couldn't even bring myself to read a few pages a day. I guess I'm just grateful that one of the tangible things that this adventure has rekindled within me is my love of books. If that is to be my only treasure brought back from foreign lands, I won't find myself wanting. 

But enough of that. Back to the travelog. 

My arrival in Zurich was decidedly less straightforward that my departure. My plane was late, and therefore cost me the chance to make my train. I half-heartedly enquired about hotels in the area, but was told that Zurich is always crowded. As everything around me began to shut down for the night (this was around 11 or so) I made my way to the main train station, the better to contemplate my prospects. I had no way of contacting Chrigl (the second time in my life my phone dies and I have no way in which to charge it) and no means of transportation until at least 6am. "Oh well," I told myself, "something to write home about." And so, ipod full of Eastmountainsouth and the Weepies, I lay my head on a bench near a well lit coffee shop and tucked in for the night. 

Around 2am I rolled over to find I had company--a guy in his late 20s who I could only assume was American or either a very dirty European lay on the bench across from mine, sleeping in his whitewashed holy jeans and snoring thunderously into his own armpit. My other companion had selected the bench directly beside me, why I could not say, as her head was dangerously close to my unshod, travel-worn toes. She looked to be about 40, and none too pleased with her evenings accommodations. I offered to help her when it became clear she wanted to move her bench as far as possible from our oblivious fellow, now flat on his back with his mouth lulling wide like a dosing hound. She looked at me quizzically and said something in French to the effect of "no thanks" and I shrugged, returning to my tunes and the sleep I knew would come at the price of a serious back ache when morning came. And come it did...finally. Around 5am I peeked up from my makeshift bed to see agitated women opening the little window of their coffee stand and turning on lights. I shook myself awake, gathered my belongings, and promptly supplied myself with a king-sized dose of hot chocolate. For once in my life not being a coffee person paid off, for while I saw other customers leaving the line with disgruntled looks and tossing around comments like "weak" and "blech!" I started off the morning please to discover that pretty much everything in Switzerland that involves chocolate, from bars and muffins to toasty beverages, is just plain great. 

I don't know that I'll ever be able to look at a Hershey bar the same way....though I think I know what I want my first meal to be upon my return to the states. After all, who doesn't love a little rasher of chocolate covered bacon a la Katie and Lauren?

Too Loud a Solitude...Travel Edition

The title of this post is, yet again, filled with duality. First, as most of you are aware, it is the title of a most excellent novel by one Bohumil Hrabal. Being a trifle lighter to the touch than the works of Uncle Walt, I chose to favor Hrabal for my most recent train riding and plane flying reading pleasures. Whilst in the midst of my excursion to London this past week, rereading TLAS along the way, I also discovered my own isolation to be so audible at times as to risk causing my own premature deafness. And yet, at each turn, events would unfold to prove to me yet again that my solitude is, in fact, most heavily populated.

The first souls to visit my harum-scarum Infinity and Eternity were met by chance or design in Zurich airport, though it was a lonely struggle to get that far.

Last Sunday morning I was packed with bus and train and plane tickets at the ready, but all I could think about was how sick I felt and how much I didn't want to move an inch more than necessary. But, as I am me, I told no one this, said my goodbyes to Chrigl and the kids, and began the first leg of one of the longest travel days of my entire life. Completely alone. I was hopeful, but scared shitless at the same time. That, and coughing up parts of my lungs every few minutes. But off I went, trepidation clearly visible upon my lower-lip biting face.
The first part was not so hard. Trudge down the hill to the AutoPost and wait for the bus that goes to Chur. check.
Get self, plus baggage, onto said bus without causing major delays to fellow travelers and/or looking like a complete idiot....well, I managed.
Get off of said bus at the appropriate point, retain all belongings, locate signs that say "Bahn" and follow with single-minded diligence. ok.
Navigate smoke-filled train station (thus further agitating two already overworked lungs) in order to find the correctly labeled bright red train, board, stow luggage, and proceed to an empty second-class carriage where one's inevitable coughing fits will be least disruptive. Done and done.
Remain on train number 1 for about an hour, then alight at station with unpronounceably long German name, regain travel stance of focused and purposeful composure and hasten to search out the proper platform for the next leg of the journey. check.
Repeat this process once more. check.
Arrive in Zurich in one piece: hell yes!

Once inside Zurich main station I had a little bit of a hard time figuring out which "check in" I was meant to use, as there are three total, and no apparent reason why one aught to use this one or that one. And each one is, of course, in a completely different wing of the complex. Which is one of the largest in Europe. And the whole world.
But after a little trial and error, plus a game of "that guy has an English accent--follow him!" I made it beyond security and safely into my terminal--where I proceeded to find the first available seat and a bottle of "silent" water and tried in vain to stop the pounding in my head by counting the smudges on the tile floor.
(Interjection of internal monologue:  Do you ever sit and people watch and wonder if people are watching you? I had actually never done this, as I never assume I am worth wondering about, but that day in my chair in the Zurich airport I discovered that I was the subject of someone else's "person watch." I discovered this by catching a few words of Spanish that amounted to something like "...maybe get something for sickness. This girl looks not so good, eh?" The words were spoken with a slow and clear accent, which sounded neither Castilian or Mexican, and I guess out of pure curiosity I removed my head from my hands to look in the direction of the speaker. He was seated in the same section of attached metal chairs as I was, some two seats to my right, waving at a woman who had just joined a line at a News Stand type counter across the room. Smiling at me, he offered me a bottle of water, indicating with a nod that mine was empty and that his companion had gone to buy another. Taken aback, but grateful, I took it from him and smiled weakly. He introduced himself as Christian, and indicated that he was traveling with his wife, whose name was Deanna. He asked where I was from, and where I was traveling, and I found myself falling quite easily into conversation with him, despite his less than complete grasp of English, and my own fumbling Spanglish. His wife returned and I learned that he was originally from Uruguay while his wife was Russian. They live in Sweden, and were traveling to Moscow for a family funeral. He was a Spanish teacher, though he spoke fluent Swedish and French, and was learning English. Deanna spoke Russian, Swedish and English. In the course of a ten minute conversation, these two strangers told me about their lives, their loves (football, music, architecture and theology, among others) and had me talking about my own before I could consider the true oddity of the situation. After a time, I rose to check my gate number on a digital board, and seeing it listed, began to gather my things. I told the couple I needed to be going, but thanked them for their kindness and conversation, and wishing them a safe journey, went on my solitary way again, feeling just a little less alone in this great big world. So, wherever you are, Christian and Deanna, thanks again.)

Safely through the airport and aboard my plane, I let myself take a deep breath and relax. Granted, my unexpected interaction with Christian and Deanna had strengthen my resolve to succeed in my solo travels, safe in the knowledge that I was not in fact completely alone, I nevertheless retained a feeling of being ill at ease in my seat, and nervous about the next step in my journey. But then a child just behind me--with a strong Yorkshire accent--began a conversation with the man seated beside her. She told him she was traveling alone to visit her grandmother in Clapham, and it was evident by his speech that he was returning home to London himself. I spent the remainder of the flight being oddly comforted by the sound of their voices and the familiarity of their conversation--from Cadbury bars to tube stops and kebabs, I smiled in spite of myself and returned to my book, knowing that we are none of us alone, and familiarity is everywhere. So I guess I'm a little less like Hrabal's protagonist, Hanta, than I might have thought. I realize I CAN live in this world of other people---though I may still prefer the literary one. I imagine it has something to do with the fact that one feels far less put-upon and exhausted in dealing with fiction than with real life. Though, as I discovered, reality can reveal itself to be just a bit more satisfying than any two dimensional adventure could ever dream.

Upon arrival in London (something like 6 pm) I was exceptionally weary and under the weather, but also strangely empowered. Newly aware of my own reality in stark contrast to any fiction, I set off on this, the last leg of my journey with renewed vigor. This, I could do. Get luggage, find ATM, purchase Oyster card, ride the Piccadilly, then the Bakerloo, "mind the gap," exit Paddington on Praed (after a quick spot of supper at a take-away M&S) and carry on around the corner by the Tesco to my temporary home. No problem. Fun, even. By 10 pm I was beat. But I made it. I navigated five kinds of transportation in three languages in one day and survived. And while that might not seem like a big deal to you, it was quite possibly one of my proudest moments to date. And it went off without a hitch. Solo journey to London, day 1: resounding success!