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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

Anything But Dull

Even something as mundane as going to the grocery store is a very different experience in a foreign country. I arrived back in Switzerland this morning, and since I will be staying for well more than one night, I opted to make a pit-stop in a nearby town, Veyvey, to take advantage of their large, well-stocked supermarket. I went there about 6 months ago when I was here with Jane and Katrina, so I remembered how to find the mall in which it is located from the train station. That was apparently the only easy part for me today.

Not seeing the store on the level I was on when I first walked in, I promptly went up the escalator of the 5-story building. Then up again. And once more to the top. Where the heck is that enormous supermarket? When I finally bother to study the sign, I determine that it is on the bottom floor. Lovely. So back down I go…5..., 4…, 3…, 2…voila.

I walk into the store, daypack on my back and purse on my arm, and study the shopping cart situation in the vaguely familiar store. The shopping carts are chained together like you see luggage carts chained together at the airport. There is a slot on each for coins to be inserted. I think about how many ways I could screw this up, and then also think about the fact that I can’t buy more than I can carry since I still have two trains and a five-minute uphill walk to go. I wisely grab a shopping basket, hoping I’m not supposed to also be paying for it, and off I go.

I start with picking up a big loaf of freshly baked bread. I’m able to ask for it and thank the lady in French, but when she says something after handing it to me, I just nod and smile. I have no clue what she just said, but she didn’t seem upset, so smiling seemed appropriate. Next I grab tons of fruits and veggies (I need to make up for my eating in Italy and everywhere else), some goat cheese, chicken, shampoo and conditioner, and a couple of other odds and ends. I make my way to the checkout line and attempt to study other patrons to make sure my checkout process goes smoothly. Apparently my study skills are a little poor at the moment, because when I get to the front of the line I’m told I’ve done this wrong and I need to remove everything from my basket and put it on the conveyor belt – the basket is supposed to be left behind in the stack in front of the belt. I promptly unload all my goodies onto the belt and the plump little lady in line behind me is kind enough to take my basket and stack it with the rest.

I feel we’re finally getting somewhere as the lady at the register is scanning all of my stuff and pushing it towards me to bag. I have just paid 60 cents for two nice paper bags because they don’t provide free bags of any sort. I get to work until we realize there’s another problem. There is a man somewhere in the produce department who was supposed to weigh my fruits and veggies that are priced by weight. The line is growing behind me, so fortunately the clerk just takes the few produce items nearby, weighs them, and slaps price stickers on them. From there everything goes well – she scans those items, I bag them, hand her my credit card and off I go. As I am walking away, the sweet little lady behind me told me in English that she hopes I enjoy my time here. I told her without doubt I would, thank you.

At this point I am loaded down with two large grocery bags in addition to my daypack, purse and jacket that I was forced to shed before even entering the store. Wearing a wool sweater with two layers under it, I feel as though I am going to die of heat exhaustion, so I make a beeline to an area with tables and chairs, set my things down and began fanning myself with a piece of paper. A minute later, a lady carrying a tray walks over and says something in French. I respond, “Non, merci,” and she then advises me that I am sitting in an area for restaurant patrons only. My goodness, can’t a girl get a break around here? Apparently not, so I pick up all of my bags, feeling a bit like the homeless person that I am, and head outside where at least it’s cold.

I head back to the train station and have a good 15 minutes to relax and cool down. The train arrives and I hop on without paying attention to the time. A few minutes go by and when I check my watch, I realize that I have probably just boarded the wrong train as it is just now supposed to be arriving. Crap. I stay on until we get to a stop that confirms my suspicions, as it is the last stop and all passengers must get off – and it’s not my stop. Dang it. So off I go. When I check the train schedule, there isn’t a train that needs to go further down the line where I need to go for several hours. My best option is to wait 20 minutes and board the exact same train I just got off of, so I can go back to the exact same town from which I came. If only I had paid attention and waited those 4 extra minutes. When I get back, I have 25 minutes to wait around again for the train to arrive – which it does, on time. I check with the conductor before boarding to make sure I don’t make the same mistake again, and it’s confirmed. I’m on my way. Two trains and a five minute uphill hike later, my groceries, my daypack and I are back at the Chalet, safe and sound… and I’m starving. Time for lunch!