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!