It’s no secret that there has been a recent outbreak of a new strain of influenza, lovingly called the Swine Flu. This Flu started in Mexico and has spread to other parts of the world, including Spain, which of course happens to be where I was just the day before the discovery. Fortunately for me, I seem to have escaped the country still in a healthy state and made it back to my politically neutral and Swine Flu free country of Switzerland. What a great place.
A couple of days go by after my return, and the World Health Organization has raised the level of the outbreak to the second highest level that exists – just short on world panic, essentially. I’m still feeling pretty good at this point though since I’m in Switzerland: I’m high up in the Alps, far away from civilization, and there can’t even be more than a couple thousand people who live in my town. I’m safe – totally and completely safe. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that there is no safer place to be right this minute than the Swiss Alps.
Enter Alfredo, a friendly amigo from Mexico City. Seriously? We don’t even have to leave our town now to get Swine Flu, the Swine Flu has been brought to us? My levels of racism are at an all-time high and I consider wearing a mask around the Chalet until my Mexican buddy leaves, I think better of it though, and decide that if he’s come here of the places he could go, if he gives me the Swine Flu, it’s clearly my time to go and I should just get over it already.
Well, I’m over it, and I’m still alive too. Alfredo has gone to spread joy and terror around the rest of Europe and my little nook of the Swiss Alps is once again the safe haven it was meant to be.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Miscellaneous Moments
Moments lived, and observations made (from silly to sad):
Humorous: Walking down the street in Barcelona, I passed a lanky 20-something man wearing an eggplant purple velvet coat – and in the front pocket, instead of a handkerchief, was a single fire-engine red feather.
Sad: I passed by a little boy walking with his mother, who I realized was upset when one enormous teardrop rolled off his cheek and onto his shirt. He looked up at me with his big, sad eyes as I gazed on helplessly.
Entertaining: 10 minutes into an overnight train ride, a man who looks much too young for his gray hair appears to be asking two people about my age, a guy and a girl with dreadlocks, for a lighter. Instead, I realize he’s actually asking if they want to smoke with him on the train. They eagerly accept the offered cigarettes and are instantly on their feet following him into the tiny water closet, where they file in one after the other, and lock the door behind them, reminding me of clowns piling out of a tiny little clown car, only in reverse. Yuck.
Irritating: The three girls across the aisle from me on the train feel it’s necessary to clip and file their nails, creating two of the most annoying sounds I can think of. It’s a 10 hour train ride, but surely they don’t have that much nail to work with.
Creepy: A man dressed head to toe in black leather, accented by metal spikes, has a black cat on a leash perched on his neck and shoulders as we wait together for the tram in Nice, France.
Entertaining: An old man is playing a harmonica in the middle of La Rambla in Barcelona, and as I approach, a crowd has already gathered to observe. When I make my way to the front of the mob, I determine that there is more than inaudible harmonica music – the old man has a live rabbit sitting in front of him, on top of which he is stacking hair rollers and stuffed animals. The rabbit does nothing but twitch its nose and whiskers as the rest of it stays completely motionless. This is the most creative way I’ve ever seen anyone beg for money, so after taking a few photos, I empty my change purse into the cup beside the bunny.
Exciting (probably only to me): In Barcelona, for only 10.60Î, I purchased the following:
One WHOLE Pineapple
Tangerine
Tomato
Onion
Red Pepper
Cucumber
Pack of Sliced Turkey
An ENTIRE Wedge of Brie
2 Cans of Soda
An Enormous Loaf of Homemade Bread
4 Packs of Yogurt
In the States, that would have cost at least 25 bucks. Seriously. Barcelona rocks my world.
Heart-wrenching: Walking along the boardwalk in Barcelona, I spot a little old man in his bathrobe and slippers carrying a stereo with both hands, hugging it to his chest. He has surely come from the hospital right across the street, and as he sits beside me on a bench, I pray someone knows he’s outside. The volume on his stereo is practically muted, but I hope he can hear it and that it’s something good.
Generous: After trying on 4 shirts at a little souvenir-like shop, the owner who speaks as much English as I speak Spanish, personally escorts me out of the store, down the street, and around the corner to another shop where he shows me a wider selection of the same style shirt. He explains my “situation” of being unable to find a suitable shirt to this store’s owner who smiles at me, and gestures towards her assortment of tees. I graciously thank them both, peruse the shirts for a few minutes, taking several out, looking, and then refolding them and returning them to their piles. When the store gets crowded, I seize the opportunity to slip out without buying anything. I appreciated their helpfulness, regardless.
Infuriating: I ordered a 6-euro meal of chicken and potatoes at the train station restaurant. The man who took my order asked me to pay, then have a seat and he would bring me my meal. I looked at the two bills in my wallet and handed him the 20. He took it, put it in the register, and when I handed him an additional 1 euro coin so he could give me bills instead of a bill and coins, he instead handed me only a 5 euro bill. I paused, then said, “…and the 10?” In reasonably good English, the man curtly told me I had only given him a 10-euro bill. Absolutely certain that I was correct in having given him the larger bill, I calmly, and as politely as possible, disagreed. He plopped down a 10-euro bill on the bar, and said “No, you gave me a 10, but I don’t want any problems, so here,” and he slid the bill over to me. My heart pounding, and surely blushing from being falsely accused, I told him that was not the case, took the money, and walked off to find a seat.
It was the most awkward of exchanges when the bartender brought my meal to me. I smiled and thanked him as he set down the stew-like concoction in front of me. As I ate the warm meal, I prayed that my new friend didn’t add a laxative or anything else to it – that would not make for an enjoyable 10-hour train ride. For the first time I can remember, I did not leave a tip.
Laughable: I boarded the metro in Barcelona only to find a group of guys ranging from my age to their mid-30s, averagely dressed with the exception of sashes draped around them like beauty queens, and headbands with red glittery heart-shaped antennae. They looked at me and we all smiled and giggled. I wondered if this could be the Spanish version of a Bachelor party, or if it was remnants of the previous days St. George’s celebration.
Sheer Joy: My own hotel room. Two nights. Just me. Clean, white everything. Queen-size bed. Heaven.
Incredible Discovery: I found the perfect book at a French antique market in Cannes. There was only a small selection of English books and I couldn’t have found a book better suited for me in the biggest bookstore in the States if I tried.
The book is all about a girl my age in the 1930s who abandons tradition in favour of traveling Europe and Asia by train. She starts on the southern coast of France (where I bought the book!), and continues to live a life I could see being my own.
It amazes me how I can find a kindred spirit in a fictional character.
Humorous: Walking down the street in Barcelona, I passed a lanky 20-something man wearing an eggplant purple velvet coat – and in the front pocket, instead of a handkerchief, was a single fire-engine red feather.
Sad: I passed by a little boy walking with his mother, who I realized was upset when one enormous teardrop rolled off his cheek and onto his shirt. He looked up at me with his big, sad eyes as I gazed on helplessly.
Entertaining: 10 minutes into an overnight train ride, a man who looks much too young for his gray hair appears to be asking two people about my age, a guy and a girl with dreadlocks, for a lighter. Instead, I realize he’s actually asking if they want to smoke with him on the train. They eagerly accept the offered cigarettes and are instantly on their feet following him into the tiny water closet, where they file in one after the other, and lock the door behind them, reminding me of clowns piling out of a tiny little clown car, only in reverse. Yuck.
Irritating: The three girls across the aisle from me on the train feel it’s necessary to clip and file their nails, creating two of the most annoying sounds I can think of. It’s a 10 hour train ride, but surely they don’t have that much nail to work with.
Creepy: A man dressed head to toe in black leather, accented by metal spikes, has a black cat on a leash perched on his neck and shoulders as we wait together for the tram in Nice, France.
Entertaining: An old man is playing a harmonica in the middle of La Rambla in Barcelona, and as I approach, a crowd has already gathered to observe. When I make my way to the front of the mob, I determine that there is more than inaudible harmonica music – the old man has a live rabbit sitting in front of him, on top of which he is stacking hair rollers and stuffed animals. The rabbit does nothing but twitch its nose and whiskers as the rest of it stays completely motionless. This is the most creative way I’ve ever seen anyone beg for money, so after taking a few photos, I empty my change purse into the cup beside the bunny.
Exciting (probably only to me): In Barcelona, for only 10.60Î, I purchased the following:
One WHOLE Pineapple
Tangerine
Tomato
Onion
Red Pepper
Cucumber
Pack of Sliced Turkey
An ENTIRE Wedge of Brie
2 Cans of Soda
An Enormous Loaf of Homemade Bread
4 Packs of Yogurt
In the States, that would have cost at least 25 bucks. Seriously. Barcelona rocks my world.
Heart-wrenching: Walking along the boardwalk in Barcelona, I spot a little old man in his bathrobe and slippers carrying a stereo with both hands, hugging it to his chest. He has surely come from the hospital right across the street, and as he sits beside me on a bench, I pray someone knows he’s outside. The volume on his stereo is practically muted, but I hope he can hear it and that it’s something good.
Generous: After trying on 4 shirts at a little souvenir-like shop, the owner who speaks as much English as I speak Spanish, personally escorts me out of the store, down the street, and around the corner to another shop where he shows me a wider selection of the same style shirt. He explains my “situation” of being unable to find a suitable shirt to this store’s owner who smiles at me, and gestures towards her assortment of tees. I graciously thank them both, peruse the shirts for a few minutes, taking several out, looking, and then refolding them and returning them to their piles. When the store gets crowded, I seize the opportunity to slip out without buying anything. I appreciated their helpfulness, regardless.
Infuriating: I ordered a 6-euro meal of chicken and potatoes at the train station restaurant. The man who took my order asked me to pay, then have a seat and he would bring me my meal. I looked at the two bills in my wallet and handed him the 20. He took it, put it in the register, and when I handed him an additional 1 euro coin so he could give me bills instead of a bill and coins, he instead handed me only a 5 euro bill. I paused, then said, “…and the 10?” In reasonably good English, the man curtly told me I had only given him a 10-euro bill. Absolutely certain that I was correct in having given him the larger bill, I calmly, and as politely as possible, disagreed. He plopped down a 10-euro bill on the bar, and said “No, you gave me a 10, but I don’t want any problems, so here,” and he slid the bill over to me. My heart pounding, and surely blushing from being falsely accused, I told him that was not the case, took the money, and walked off to find a seat.
It was the most awkward of exchanges when the bartender brought my meal to me. I smiled and thanked him as he set down the stew-like concoction in front of me. As I ate the warm meal, I prayed that my new friend didn’t add a laxative or anything else to it – that would not make for an enjoyable 10-hour train ride. For the first time I can remember, I did not leave a tip.
Laughable: I boarded the metro in Barcelona only to find a group of guys ranging from my age to their mid-30s, averagely dressed with the exception of sashes draped around them like beauty queens, and headbands with red glittery heart-shaped antennae. They looked at me and we all smiled and giggled. I wondered if this could be the Spanish version of a Bachelor party, or if it was remnants of the previous days St. George’s celebration.
Sheer Joy: My own hotel room. Two nights. Just me. Clean, white everything. Queen-size bed. Heaven.
Incredible Discovery: I found the perfect book at a French antique market in Cannes. There was only a small selection of English books and I couldn’t have found a book better suited for me in the biggest bookstore in the States if I tried.
The book is all about a girl my age in the 1930s who abandons tradition in favour of traveling Europe and Asia by train. She starts on the southern coast of France (where I bought the book!), and continues to live a life I could see being my own.
It amazes me how I can find a kindred spirit in a fictional character.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Barcelona: City of Roses?
When I travel to a new place, I enjoy wandering around with no particular direction. If a street looks interesting, I walk down it. If there’s something off in the distance that grabs my attention, I wander towards it, sometimes making it to my destination, other times being drawn away by other interesting and exciting things. Indeed, I’m like a little kid when I travel – easily distracted and easily amused. Travelling returns to me a childlike amazement at my surroundings – the happiness fills me to the point of overflowing into a smile, and often a laugh.
Today in my wanderings through the streets of Barcelona, I couldn’t help but notice that many people were carrying roses. Mostly women, and some men were carrying single stemmed roses, usually wrapped in plastic with a sprig of wheat or other filler, and tied at the bottom with a yellow and red ribbon. There were red roses, yellow roses, blue roses, tie-dye roses – you name it, they were out on the streets of Barcelona with me today.
This being my first day in Spain, I of course wondered why so many people were carrying flowers. Everywhere I turned, they were being sold – and not forcefully, people were approaching the tables and tubs of flowers on their own to make the 2-3 euro purchase. Fresh flowers make life significantly better in my opinion, so I thought this was just great.
After about 4 hours of wandering the city, a 2 o’clock lunch seemed appropriate (normally, I’m told, people here eat closer to 3pm). I found a nice little outdoor café that offered the traditional Spanish Paella as part of a 3 course meal. During my meal of calamari, paella, pineapple sorbet, and half a carafe of wine (yes, it was included!), I continued to observe the roses marching past me and I pondered whether this was a daily occurrence, or if something special was going on.
As other restaurant patrons finished their meals, I excitedly noted that the women were given roses, and it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, I could join the “cool group” and walk around with a rose too. It really felt like Valentine’s Day in middle school where you have achieved a higher social status if you walk around with a carnation that day – because that means someone clearly likes you. I never walked around with a carnation on Valentine’s Day in middle school. But today? Ah yes, today I had hope. I finished my enormous meal, and was delighted when the waiter brought me not only my check, but also a beautiful red rose. “For you, Senorita.” Hell yeah, I’ve made it. Cool at last.
A bit tipsy from all the wine, I wandered back to my hotel making use of the metro, as I needed to get some things done for work. Once I was satisfied with my accomplishments, and had a refreshing shower, I left my rose in a glass of water and meandered back outside towards La Rambla, an avenue noted in guidebooks for being “busy and full of life.”
I couldn’t believe my eyes when I arrived: there were people everywhere. The guidebook also mentioned that this was a place to just “go with the flow of the crowd,” which was clearly what I would be doing, as there was no alternate way to move down the wide pedestrian street.
In walking down the center median of the street (I use the term “median” very loosely – it is about half the size of a small block), I continued to watch the roses passing me, and noticed that the vendors were being a bit more aggressive now towards the end of the day trying to unload their fresh flowers while they could. In addition to the flower vendors, the street was lined with table after table of book vendors. I thought this very strange, as nothing I read said anything about La Rambla being known for flowers and books, but hey, what do I know? I’m just a wandering American.
Rather than peruse Spanish books I couldn’t understand, I enjoyed watching and photographing the people who could understand them. On every sign and post I looked for some clue as to what this great book fair was - something that would clue me in to all of the roses and people too. Could La Rambla really always be like this? It was sheer madness with all of the people, and I felt certain something special was going on, especially since there were TV crews on location as I was leaving. Perhaps a fund-raiser or something along those lines, I thought to myself.
Arriving back at my hotel after quite a long walk, I stopped to chat at the front desk clerk who speaks reasonably good English, and it occurred to me that he might know what the fuss was about outside. He said today was a special day – he gave it a name that my ears had no chance of understanding. It is the day when men give women flowers, and women give men books. A simple answer to a day of confusion and wonderment.
Upon further research, I determined that April 23 is called Sant Jordi’s Day, or St. George’s Day in English. It’s a day when Catalans (Spaniards from the Northeast) celebrate their patron, Sant Jordi. The legend goes that Sant Jordi started the rose tradition when he slayed a dragon and the blood produced a rose bush. These days men don’t have to slay a dragon to be a hero in their lady’s eyes, they just have to present her with a rose. Because the roses clearly don’t last forever and are purely for love, the book is intended to be a reference on “what to do” in love and the relationship.
All in all, I’d say this is a pretty great holiday, as it’s hard to go wrong with roses and books. I have just one suggestion to the Catalans on how to improve their holiday. Should they ask, I will advise them with one simple, yet magical word: Chocolate.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
A Short Story, Long: How I Wound Up in Switzerland
People often ask how I ended up in Switzerland - which is a good question seeing as it's not the most common of relocation destinations for Americans. So here's the story...: In September 2008, my friend Jane and I went on a two week backpacking trip around Western Europe. We toured bits of Germany, Holland, Belgium, Luxembourg and France, and from Paris we wanted to go to Zurich. All trains were booked for Zurich on the Thursday we wanted to go, so we opted to go to Geneva instead (high-speed trains like this usually require reservations). Our days in Paris passed and the morning we were to leave for Switzerland, we went on the internet to book a hostel in which to stay. Having arrived at a couple of other hostels without reservations and being turned away, we realized this was key. Unfortunately, the hostels in Geneva were quite expensive for our backpacker's budgets, so we looked to another city near Geneva, Lausanne. I found the cutest little B&B that overlooked Lake Geneva and was a short five-minute walk from the train station. We entered in all of our information, including credit card information, and within a minute got an email with the same details in it.
The search for a place to stay took a bit longer than expected, so Jane and I made a mad dash to the metro (subway). The ride seemed to take forever, and we had to change trains a couple of times before arriving at the train station. I saw that we were supposed to be at track 14, but all we saw were trains A, B, C, and so on. I attempted to speek French to get help with directions, but Jane in her brilliant, direct British way just grabbed a couple of people and said, "HEY, do you speak English? Where's track 14?" Finally someone understood and pointed us in the right direction. We ran with our 20 pound backpacks strapped on and carrying our shopping bags from our days in Paris in the direction of our train. After stopping for directions one more time, we found the train and got in the first car we came to. It wasn't 20 seconds after we plopped into our seats and threw our bags down that the train started moving. We'd JUST made it and were about to spend the rest of our trip in France if we'd missed this train.
Out of breath and sweating profusely, we tried to relax and talked about how we couldn't wait to get to the B&B and shower, then just relax. It had already been such a rough morning. A few hours later, we made it to Lausanne. What should have been a 5 minute walk turned into a 20 minute walk when we missed our turn. It began to rain as we marched up the steepest hill I've ever seen in my life - the B&B was perched at the top. Finally we'd made it to our sanctuary for the next couple of nights!
The B&B was just as precious as it looked online, and the view of the lake really was quite lovely. Jane and I eagerly went to the desk and told the receptionist my name - which seemed to mean nothing to her. No reservation under that name. "What? You sent an email - I couldn't print it off, but I got it. We have a reservation for two tonight." She pointed to the computers behind us and told us we could pull up the email... but we had to pay to use the internet - and we had to pay in Swiss Francs. "Huh? Swiss Francs? You guys don't take Euros?" NOPE. Awesome. That lady found and printed the email that was sent, which stated - at the bottom of the email - "We're sorry, we cannot accomodate your request at this time." Seriously? You people send an email that looks like a confirmation email to confirm that you CAN"T take us? Wow, these just keeps getting better and better. The receptionist is kind enough to call the hostel in town, only to find out that they too are booked. She hands us a list of hotels - all 4 and 5 stars, and all clearly out of our budget. As though we are prisoners (and we almost felt that way), she told us she would make one more call for us, but that was it - she was very busy (a bit of a stretch there if you ask me). Jane and I scoured the wall of brochures about activities in the area that had brochures for other places to stay in Switzerland. We were about to give up when Jane found one for a Swiss Alps Retreat. It wasn't too far from Lausanne, was within our budget, and had wine and chocolate tastings. We were sold. The receptionist called and found out they could take us, but before we could even give our names, she'd hung up and dismissed us. Back on the streets we went.
After a quick stop at McDonald's (we needed some form of comfort food), we made the trek back to the train station through the rain - fortunately it really was only 5 minutes if you didn't get lost. It wasn't too long before what seemed like our 18th train of the day dropped us off at a small train station named Bex (pronounced Bay). We spotted the cograil train mentioned in the brochure and climbed aboard. Within a few minutes, we were moving up the mountain and all of the troubles of the day seemed to disappear. I felt like we were ascending into Heaven. It was a clear, sunny day that made the Alps sparkle. Rolling green hills surrounded us, spotted with cows, sheep, and the cutest houses I'd ever seen. When we finally made it to the Chalet, the office was still closed for the afternoon, but we didn't mind that we needed to wait an hour - or that we would be eating pasta for dinner since that was the only thing they had for sale to cook. The view was incredible and it felt great not to be in transit.
We struck up a conversation with the first American we'd met in two weeks, Brian. He'd been in Switzerland at the Chalet for months already, and it sparked the topic that had been on my mind so much over the last few months - the topic of me moving abroad for awhile. This conversation continued in bits and pieces over the following couple of days, and finally on my last night, I asked the owners about helping me find work if I moved out there. Better than helping me find work, they offered to give me work. It was perfect. From that moment, my mind was made up that I would move to Switzerland at the beginning of 2009 - the door of opportunity had opened, I just had to smart and brave enough to get off my loins and walk through. My plan was instantly in action and I managed to coincide my move with the end of my lease at my flat, as well as to work things out at the office and hopefully be able to do my job from abroad. It took a lot of faith, not only that the folks at the Chalet would be true to their word, but also faith in myself that I could make this happen - and make it happen, I did!
The search for a place to stay took a bit longer than expected, so Jane and I made a mad dash to the metro (subway). The ride seemed to take forever, and we had to change trains a couple of times before arriving at the train station. I saw that we were supposed to be at track 14, but all we saw were trains A, B, C, and so on. I attempted to speek French to get help with directions, but Jane in her brilliant, direct British way just grabbed a couple of people and said, "HEY, do you speak English? Where's track 14?" Finally someone understood and pointed us in the right direction. We ran with our 20 pound backpacks strapped on and carrying our shopping bags from our days in Paris in the direction of our train. After stopping for directions one more time, we found the train and got in the first car we came to. It wasn't 20 seconds after we plopped into our seats and threw our bags down that the train started moving. We'd JUST made it and were about to spend the rest of our trip in France if we'd missed this train.
Out of breath and sweating profusely, we tried to relax and talked about how we couldn't wait to get to the B&B and shower, then just relax. It had already been such a rough morning. A few hours later, we made it to Lausanne. What should have been a 5 minute walk turned into a 20 minute walk when we missed our turn. It began to rain as we marched up the steepest hill I've ever seen in my life - the B&B was perched at the top. Finally we'd made it to our sanctuary for the next couple of nights!
The B&B was just as precious as it looked online, and the view of the lake really was quite lovely. Jane and I eagerly went to the desk and told the receptionist my name - which seemed to mean nothing to her. No reservation under that name. "What? You sent an email - I couldn't print it off, but I got it. We have a reservation for two tonight." She pointed to the computers behind us and told us we could pull up the email... but we had to pay to use the internet - and we had to pay in Swiss Francs. "Huh? Swiss Francs? You guys don't take Euros?" NOPE. Awesome. That lady found and printed the email that was sent, which stated - at the bottom of the email - "We're sorry, we cannot accomodate your request at this time." Seriously? You people send an email that looks like a confirmation email to confirm that you CAN"T take us? Wow, these just keeps getting better and better. The receptionist is kind enough to call the hostel in town, only to find out that they too are booked. She hands us a list of hotels - all 4 and 5 stars, and all clearly out of our budget. As though we are prisoners (and we almost felt that way), she told us she would make one more call for us, but that was it - she was very busy (a bit of a stretch there if you ask me). Jane and I scoured the wall of brochures about activities in the area that had brochures for other places to stay in Switzerland. We were about to give up when Jane found one for a Swiss Alps Retreat. It wasn't too far from Lausanne, was within our budget, and had wine and chocolate tastings. We were sold. The receptionist called and found out they could take us, but before we could even give our names, she'd hung up and dismissed us. Back on the streets we went.
After a quick stop at McDonald's (we needed some form of comfort food), we made the trek back to the train station through the rain - fortunately it really was only 5 minutes if you didn't get lost. It wasn't too long before what seemed like our 18th train of the day dropped us off at a small train station named Bex (pronounced Bay). We spotted the cograil train mentioned in the brochure and climbed aboard. Within a few minutes, we were moving up the mountain and all of the troubles of the day seemed to disappear. I felt like we were ascending into Heaven. It was a clear, sunny day that made the Alps sparkle. Rolling green hills surrounded us, spotted with cows, sheep, and the cutest houses I'd ever seen. When we finally made it to the Chalet, the office was still closed for the afternoon, but we didn't mind that we needed to wait an hour - or that we would be eating pasta for dinner since that was the only thing they had for sale to cook. The view was incredible and it felt great not to be in transit.
We struck up a conversation with the first American we'd met in two weeks, Brian. He'd been in Switzerland at the Chalet for months already, and it sparked the topic that had been on my mind so much over the last few months - the topic of me moving abroad for awhile. This conversation continued in bits and pieces over the following couple of days, and finally on my last night, I asked the owners about helping me find work if I moved out there. Better than helping me find work, they offered to give me work. It was perfect. From that moment, my mind was made up that I would move to Switzerland at the beginning of 2009 - the door of opportunity had opened, I just had to smart and brave enough to get off my loins and walk through. My plan was instantly in action and I managed to coincide my move with the end of my lease at my flat, as well as to work things out at the office and hopefully be able to do my job from abroad. It took a lot of faith, not only that the folks at the Chalet would be true to their word, but also faith in myself that I could make this happen - and make it happen, I did!
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Parasailing Video
Here's a video I took of Ashleigh landing - mine looked just like it other than sitting down at the end (oops):
Victory is Mine!
Good news: I’m alive. Yeah, I’m pretty excited about it too.
To help shake out the nerves, my new Canadian friends, Melissa and Ashleigh, and I decided to walk the 40 minutes up the mountain to where we were meeting our Paragliding leaders. The long uphill climb helped distract me from the ridiculous thing I was about to do.
Shortly after arriving at the train station, we located David and his beat-up old white van, climbed in, and off we went to our jumping site. Within 10 minutes, we’d reached a long dirt road that lead us to the overlook we’d be running off of. A few other paragliders were out enjoying the beautiful day, and somehow it calmed me a bit to see that there were other crazy people already doing what I was about to do.
We put ourselves in order so that Melissa would go first, I would go second, and Ashleigh would complete the line-up. There were only two leaders, so Melissa and I planned, if all went accordingly, to meet Ashleigh on the ground (and take photos of her, of course).
With help from David, I put my harness on and the strangest thing happened: My nerves vanished. I couldn’t believe it. I was about to lose it one minute, and the next I was ready to take on the mountain and fly like a bird.
To help shake out the nerves, my new Canadian friends, Melissa and Ashleigh, and I decided to walk the 40 minutes up the mountain to where we were meeting our Paragliding leaders. The long uphill climb helped distract me from the ridiculous thing I was about to do.
Shortly after arriving at the train station, we located David and his beat-up old white van, climbed in, and off we went to our jumping site. Within 10 minutes, we’d reached a long dirt road that lead us to the overlook we’d be running off of. A few other paragliders were out enjoying the beautiful day, and somehow it calmed me a bit to see that there were other crazy people already doing what I was about to do.
We put ourselves in order so that Melissa would go first, I would go second, and Ashleigh would complete the line-up. There were only two leaders, so Melissa and I planned, if all went accordingly, to meet Ashleigh on the ground (and take photos of her, of course).
With help from David, I put my harness on and the strangest thing happened: My nerves vanished. I couldn’t believe it. I was about to lose it one minute, and the next I was ready to take on the mountain and fly like a bird.
After Melissa's flawless take-off, David, in broken English, instructed me to take a few steps then start running until my feet would no longer touch the ground. Once off the ground, I could adjust the harness to create a seat to sit in and enjoy the cruise down, which was estimated at about 45 minutes. Somehow this suddenly seemed like a piece of cake, and indeed it was.
We immediately caught wind and up we floated, above the nearest mountain peak. Delicately tugging on the cords, David floated us in gentle circles and arcs, disrupted only occasionally by a gust of wind that would gave us a bit of a jerk. He asked me how I felt and I responded that I felt incredible! Occasionally the gusts of wind would cause me to get a bit light-headed, and when we reached our highest altitude (about 1200 meters), I felt slightly woozy, but nothing to be concerned about. During those moments I just focused my attention on my camera that I had attached to my harness and snapped photos of the view.
I got so comfortable in the air that at one point I asked David if he’d thought to bring a picnic because it had been hours since I’d eaten and I could really go for a bite. Not realizing I was kidding (at least partially), he asked if I wanted to land sooner. I smiled and declined, and instead of a picnic in the air, we ended up doing “acrobatics.” David asked me if I wanted to do spirals, meaning that we would gain momentum and spin in tight little circles. I gave him permission to give one a go, and one proved to be just enough. My serene, non-nauseous feelings were quickly vanishing as I watched the Alps spin around me, so I let David know that one circle was great – and was just enough.
I looked below me and saw that Melissa had just landed on the happy face of the stick figure that had been cut into the grass field and we were up next. As we drifted in, David told me when we touched the ground, to again run a few steps and stand. As we landed, I ran a few steps and sat. Close enough. I had just successfully run off the side of a mountain, drifted through the Swiss Alps, and landed safely on the ground. I’d call that a large victory in my battle against my fear of heights.
Feeling giddy, and unashamedly proud of my conquest, I removed my harness and jacket, tossed them aside, and lay down on the grass to soak up the sun and bask in my glee. It was such a great feeling knowing that I had just conquered one of my biggest fears. Take that, Fear!
Under the Influence (of Canadians, Fondue, and Wine)
I’m not sure that I’ve ever been so nervous in my entire life. In fact, I was just in the kitchen surrounded by three other hostel guests watching me do a jig/ jumping jacks/ salsa and karate moves in an attempt to shake some of the nerves. Unfortunately, it’s going to take a lot more than that to calm me down.
Why am I so nervous? Because I’m about to do the scariest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life. I’m more scared of what I’m about to do than I am of public speaking, of our current global economy, or of the way I look in the morning when I’ve forgotten to remove my mascara the night before. Yeah, it’s that scary. So what am I about to do? To put it simply, I’m about to run off the side of a mountain with nothing but a stranger and a parachute attached to me. Some call it paragliding, I call it crazy. If I die, you have my permission to call it stupid.
How did I get myself into this? Well you see, it goes something like this. Last night I sit down for dinner with a couple of new Canadian friends, have a bit of fondue, a glass of wine, and some good conversation. Next thing you know, I’m agreeing to go paragliding. To prevent myself from backing out, I had one more glass of courage and then made my jumping reservation with them for 2:30 today. What on earth was I thinking? The altitude seems to have really gone to my head.
Dear God, somebody get me another drink. 
Why am I so nervous? Because I’m about to do the scariest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life. I’m more scared of what I’m about to do than I am of public speaking, of our current global economy, or of the way I look in the morning when I’ve forgotten to remove my mascara the night before. Yeah, it’s that scary. So what am I about to do? To put it simply, I’m about to run off the side of a mountain with nothing but a stranger and a parachute attached to me. Some call it paragliding, I call it crazy. If I die, you have my permission to call it stupid.
How did I get myself into this? Well you see, it goes something like this. Last night I sit down for dinner with a couple of new Canadian friends, have a bit of fondue, a glass of wine, and some good conversation. Next thing you know, I’m agreeing to go paragliding. To prevent myself from backing out, I had one more glass of courage and then made my jumping reservation with them for 2:30 today. What on earth was I thinking? The altitude seems to have really gone to my head.
Dear God, somebody get me another drink.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
What have I done?!?!
Well, looks like I've just secured my one-way ticket to the firey pits of h*ll, and not because I was drinking Bailey's straight from the bottle on Vatican property. Nope.
I just ate a horse.
Yes, a horse. Well, not a whole horse, but a 2 x 3 inch piece of one of those beautiful, majestic creatures I so love and so enjoy riding and being around. What possessed me to do this? Well, to put it quite simply, everyone else was doing it, and sometimes going along with the crowd isn't that bad. In fact, it was like a decent little piece of steak, but cooked well-done instead of my usual medium rare.
Will I eat it again? Doubtful. Am I glad I tried it? Sure, I can check that off my list of things to do in my lifetime.
I think I'll just stick with my Bailey's.
Yes, a horse. Well, not a whole horse, but a 2 x 3 inch piece of one of those beautiful, majestic creatures I so love and so enjoy riding and being around. What possessed me to do this? Well, to put it quite simply, everyone else was doing it, and sometimes going along with the crowd isn't that bad. In fact, it was like a decent little piece of steak, but cooked well-done instead of my usual medium rare.
Will I eat it again? Doubtful. Am I glad I tried it? Sure, I can check that off my list of things to do in my lifetime.
I think I'll just stick with my Bailey's.
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