Lauren Meets a Volcano

    I woke the next morning refreshed; I was finally rested after two sleepless nights. As we walked to the train station on our way to Pompeii, my refreshed faculties began to notice Italian subtleties I had previously overlooked.  For instance, there was the overwhelming amount of facial hair. Aashika and I tried to scope out attractive guys who didn't sport copious amounts of facial hair; in fifteen minutes of scouting in a crowded street, we spotted one worthy specimen.  One. Even the mannequins had small, creepy, feathery-looking mustaches printed on their upper lips: the epitome of Italian teenagers. However, the Italian breed of men has proved immensely helpful in one aspect--my ego.  I was called beautiful more times in my first 24 hours in Italy than I had in the entirety of my existence.  Italian women are another breed as well; even the old ones are fashionable! The most ridiculous thing I was the footwear. Of course, the obligatory six-inch heels were abundant, but even more intriguing was the heels for the elderly. Yes, you read that right. I saw more old ladies than I care to admit wearing typical white, velcroed, old-lady sneakers--plus a five-inch heel. It was quite ridiculous.

Imagine this, with a five-inch heel tacked on.

    The overabundance of Napoli beggars necessitated an original scheme: we also invented our own secret warning code to keep wary of potential pickpockets. We figured if we used common Italian (or American touristy) words, nobody would be suspect that we were on to them.  Inspired by our wonderful logic, we decided "chocolate" meant we saw a creepy guy with a 90% chance of Mafia membership, and "pasta" warned for pickpockets.  We unaccountably switched to Hindi, with "DMA" meaning cute guy (it stands for dekhne me acha, Hindi for an attractive man).  Our first encounter with chocolate occurred the previous night, although then we referred to him as the naked Roman guy.  We walked into our room, and a lumpy figure rolled off the top bunk across the room. Normally, not that weird, but this guy was naked. Well, almost. He was arrayed in the tightest of tightie whities, which unfortunately left little to the imagination.  We soon discovered that this was his outfit for 90% of the day, and he also liked to change his clothes in public.  Later in our stay, he also chose to give us nicknames: Aashika was "Fashion" because all she did was primp, and I was "Eat and Sleep" (that should be self-explanatory). I'm not quite sure which nickname is more insulting.

A typical Napoli street.

   
     But enough about creepy Italian men. Let me tell you about our day in Pompeii and Vesuvius.

     The journey to Pompeii was an adventure in itself.  Every single train stop was covered in graffiti, so seeing where you actually were was impossible. I relied on kindhearted Italian souls who (after hearing "Pompeii") gestured violently at every stop for me to not get off.  In spite of the ridicule it receives, this hand gestures thing really works for the Italians.

     As soon as we departed the train, tourist companies bombarded us with a furor matched only by Justin Bieber fans. We considered ourselves savvy travelers, and adeptly navigated through the crowds of guides and stupid American tourists, knowing that we were independent and superior--we didn't get suckered into any expensive tours. In hindsight, a tour might have been a good idea, but our ego boost more than compensated for the loss.

     Walking around Pompeii was one of the coolest experiences I've had; while I knew intellectually that the city was preserved for thousands of years, it is quite another thing entirely to walk through streets that existed before Christ. Every building, mosaic, every stone was original. Maybe I'm just nerdy, but I was entranced.  We even saw two-thousand-year-old graffiti preserved on the walls--it turns out that kids have had a destructive streak from the beginning of time!  Even future Caesars were not immune.

Graffiti from the eons ago. Suspect: Claudius Caesar.

L-R: Remains of a temple; intricately carved table legs. I never imagined this intricate of marblework thousands of years ago.

 L-R: A very cool bathouse ceiling; time for the theater in ancient Pompeii.

      The city also exhibited a surprising amount of cool technical tricks; for instance, in the hot baths, the floors were raised on stone pillars and hot air pumped into the space to warm the tiles for the bathers. I believe I could have been quite happy in such a sophisticated ancient city (provided, of course, that I was a white male of significant means).  My morbid side demanded a trip to the plaster body casts, and Aashika generously obliged; after much gaping, Aashika persuaded a reluctant me to see other parts of Pompeii, too.  However shocking my ghoulish interests appear, though, at least I'm lawful--Aashika's first response upon entering a Coliseum-type structure was to ignore all posted signs and climb her way up onto the seatings. After several heart-pounding minutes of pretending not know her, I decided to join her.  I felt very dangerous and exciting, flaunting The Law right out in the open. It was quite a new experience for me.  After these moments of rebellion, we scurried back to the entrance, intent on catching the last bus to the top of Mount Vesuvius.  We walked by picture-books showing the original (mostly erotic) art and sculptures found in Pompeii which had since been relocated to museums; let's just say that boys have always been boys.

Plaster casts of some of Vesuvius's victims. Their bodies were covered in volcanic ash and degraded over time, but the cavities where the bodies once lay were filled with plaster, creating these figures.

Vesuvius, menacing in the background.

Bath-house heating system: hot air flowed under the floor, which was supported by the columns seen in this picture; this warmed the floor and the rooms.

More death. My fascination is probably unhealthy.

      Our bus driver to Vesuvius must have been possessed, because I have never seen anyone drive so fast or with so little apparent regard to traffic laws. Buses took us most of the way to the top--our twenty-minute walk to the pinnacle was paltry in comparison, but nonetheless we whined the whole walk.  The view from the top was phenomenal; I'll never see anything like it.  A wee bit of flirting with the guard got us farther down the trail than was technically allowed, and man, was it worth it.

The crater!

The view from the top; nothing will ever come close to this.

Who knew Vesuvius is populated with wildflowers? I'm not entirely sure I believe those vicious Pompeii tales of explosion and death.

Naples, as seen from Vesuvius.

The obligatory selfie

We hurried back to catch the last bus; when our bus driver caught sight of us, he pretended to drive off without us, but when we finally did make it on, he earned our forgiveness by calling us pretty.  A long commute finally brought us to the hostel and a grocery store on the way. At this point, Aashika and I recognized some irreconcilable differences.  While we like much of the same food, we positively despise each other's favorite vegetables.  According to Aashika, "even smelling broccoli [my personal favorite] makes me want to throw up," while the mere thought of Aashika's eggplant makes me queasy.  Clearly, dinner would have to be a motley affair.

   Aashika cooked her mushrooms and peppers while I steamed my rejected broccoli.  All was well until, in the middle of the meal, I discovered a large, disgusting, dead caterpillar masquerading as vegetative matter.  I lost it. I emitted the loudest, most wretched scream of my existence and leapt away from my plate; the hostel workers ran into the kitchen, ready to battle flames or a deal with knife wound. Needless to say, I didn't hear the last of that incident for the rest of my stay. I was reminded to check for caterpillars if I was ever seen eating--even walking past the front desk was good enough excuse for another caterpillar jibe.

       For our final day in Italy, we planned to visit the Amalfi coast. However, the notoriously confusing and mislabeled Italian train signs cost us two hours; we ended up splitting off the line in the wrong direction and didn't realize it until the last stop. We wandered around a nice town called Poggoiomarino until the next train came. Of course, I wanted real Italian gelato, so we stopped in the first store we came to. This might be an overstatement. Aashika may have glided into the store gracefully, but I tripped and fell flat on my face.  The Italian girls at the counter never got over my small accident, and couldn't even give me lemon gelato without giggling and whispering in Italian.

    We finally arrived in Positano, tired and frustrated with the long journey, which had been disappointingly safe.  All the ads and internet reviews had talked about the Amalfi buses as crazy and nausea-inducing,but our trip to Positano was sadly secure.  A tiny overpriced lunch at Positano fueled us for the long trip down the stairs to the beach, where we were surprised by the large, uncomfortable pebbles evidently standing in for sand.  It was wretchedly uncomfortable to walk on, but the only alternative was immersing in the freezing water.  In spite of these drawbacks, the view was beautiful.

The neverending staircase to the bottom of the hill.

The Amalfi coast. Sigh.

Positano, plus a pose-y sorority girl. While this hill may not look like much from the pictures, it is a Herculean climb.

    After our time lazing around on the beach, we definitely did not feel like walking up those stairs.  So, in true American fashion, we decided to take a bus. This was a mistake.  The walk would have been maybe 10 minute of agony; instead, we waited over an hour for a bus to transport us half a mile. The only positives in the situation were the new friends we made at the bus stop.  We met two South Korean dance students in the midst of their own European adventure; their command of English was lacking, but we got by with hand gestures, many repetitions, and a helpful little English phrase book they carried around at all times ("What do you think of the Italian furniture, Mr. Smith?" "I'd like two pizzas and one olive, please.")  I was especially grateful for their friendship on the ride home, when the previously tame bus became a vomit-fueled roller coaster--the Koreans had seasickness medication that made my stomach settle at least partway into its usual resting place.  After the terrible bus ride, we had almost forty minutes to wait for the train, so we badgered the Koreans into demonstrating some of their dance moves for us.  The hip-hop dancer did a very impressive gymnastics run with far too many flips to keep track; the ballet dancer began a very graceful leap that ended in flames when his pants ripped.  In return, we taught the young men how to waltz in the middle of the train platform. We got a few stares, but we figured those people were just consumed with jealousy of our dance knowledge and confidence.

     Finally, we arrived back in Napoli, two minutes before the last subway to our hostel. We bid farewell to our lovely Korean friends and headed back to the hostel.  There we met some British guys, including one self-important guy who claimed he owned two businesses, had published two books, and knew the Indian prime minister personally.  When I probed further, he finally and reluctantly admitted that one business was personal training and the other was motivational speaking, and that his books were "From Flab to Fab" and something entitled "One Secret Rich People Never Tell You".  Essentially, the secret is to write a book since it impresses everyone (gee, I wonder what his authorial motivations are). He "proved" this to me by asking me what authors I knew off the top of my head. Before I had a chance to respond, he had answered for me: Oprah, Obama, and Ellen Degeneres, of course! All these authors were famous and wealthy, so obviously authorship comes with those benefits. The logical fallacies in this argument are so glaringly obvious that I disdain even to mention them.  Out of pure curiosity I googled the books, and found that the weight-loss book did indeed exist, and had exactly 19 reviews to its name on Amazon; I couldn't find the rich-people secret book.  So much for the successful British man in Napoli.

Geneva, Naples, and One More Sleepless Night

   
   I arrived in Geneva completely exhausted; I stumbled around in the train station for about half an hour until I finally found George and Aashika. We walked to George's apartment; he lived in the center of Geneva, and it was quite nice to be able to see the city.  Tired to the point of almost drunkenness, I took a thousand pictures of very ordinary streets, thinking that somehow these poor-quality pictures would represent the very heart of Swiss living. Unfortunately, my pictures ended up more like this, with un-glamorous trucks and electrical wires in the background:

 
    We found our way to the grocery store after deciding to pick up picnic ingredients; Aashika's nostalgia came back with a vengeance as she passed shops and streets that she recognized. (Aashika studied abroad in Lausanne, a city near Geneva.)  We bought the ingredients for a perfect Swiss picnic--bread, wine, cheese, chocolate, and fruit--and made our way to the famous fountain, narrowly avoiding the crazy bikers that seem to populate every European country.  These people hurtle down pedestrian paths, arrayed in speed-racer getout. Their warning system, generally a set of pitiful bells, doesn't give off a loud enough sound to make up for their speed.  If you are perfectly silent, you can hear a slight tinkling sound reminiscent of some fairy godmother.  But this fairy godmother is merely a distraction for the evil demon to follow: some Swiss biker, intent on an accidental manslaughter charge.

 Posing with George in front of the fountain; rejoicing with the fountain.

   After finding the fountain, we found a park and ate our delicious meal by the lake. A few swans graced the waterfront, floating around like they jumped straight out of The Ugly Duckling.  At first, I was entranced by the graceful beasts.  Then they turned into cruel, vicious birds of prey, intent on stealing our food or pestering us until we agreed to a "donation." In order to avoid being strong-armed into giving up our precious food (the first meal I had in two days), we periodically moved around the rocks, hoping the swans wouldn't notice. Unfortunately, they did.

Enjoying our lakeside picnic

   

                        My lovely friends :-)

   After eating the majority of our food, we found a park that no self-respecting American would ever visit.  It was a rubber-tire park, with rubber strips tied to trees and dangling down in cool towers and climbable monkey-ropes.  There were ten thousand ways for children to die, with zero safety nets or really any consideration for children's vulnerable spines at all. I could practically hear the lawyers slavering.  In spite (or because?) of the danger, we had a very lovely time. We climbed all the towers and swung around like monkeys, all while drinking our bottle of wine and talking about everything from life to growing up and moving abroad. We probably disappointed the few children who came by and found their playground overrun with adults pretending to be young, but we didn't care. It was a lovely evening.

Swinging on the tire towers!

An uncountable number of potential hazards await the Swiss children. 

This is, by far, my favorite image from the whole trip.

This would have been my favorite place as a child!

After our lovely time playing Tarzan on the beach, we made our way to the historic center of Geneva.  We climbed the stairs up to a church, and on impulse I found myself humming Loch Lomond (a famous Glee Club song) with George. Nobody was around, so we sang from the balcony of the church to the city below.  I love spending time with fellow singers!

This magical experience was destined to come to a close, however; Aashika and I bid goodbye to our wonderful host and headed to the Geneva airport for my second night sans a bed.  We explored the entire airport looking for some kind of couch, but the Geneva airport is specifically designed to discourage overnight guests; there was only one tiny area with couches, and it was almost filled with other people trying to save some money on hotels. We finally settled in between two men who snored like......like.....I can't even find the words. It was dreadful, but more bearable than sleeping on the floor (or so we thought).

Our oh-so-glamorous accomodations

   We woke up the next morning sore and tired, and had to fight through crowds of people to even brush our teeth. I don't really remember the flight itself--I passed out as soon as I sat in the seat.  Our arrival in Naples, however, remains quite vivid in my memory; we were terribly, terribly lost for a good amount of time. Each new person we talked to gave us new directions, as far as we could decipher--not many people spoke English, so we mostly attempted to follow the direction of the infamous Italian hand gestures.  We also discovered several important facts about Italian driving: it's very aggressive, Vespas are above the law, and the aforementioned Italian hand-waving became even more violent in a vehicular context.

   My job had been to vaguely plan our time in Naples. Unfortunately, my sense of decency had been massively eroded from the two airport overnights, and I decided that our first day there would be the most morbid. We would visit the catacombs, and then the cemetery.

    Still deliriously tired, it took us well over an hour to find the catacombs. Once at the office, we had to wait thirty minutes for the next tour. We plopped ourselves down on the couch and fell fast asleep during the wait, scandalizing the man at the ticket counter.  I'm sure our behavior will be enough to earn Americans his censure for decades to come, but I was far too tired to care.  When the time came for our tour, we realized that we had accidentally picked the tourist destination for middle-aged couples with a morbid sense of fun.  This theme (of middle-aged couples) was to be a recurring one throughout my trip.  Our catacomb guide's English ability consisted of a completely memorized tour; any questions were met with a blank, resentful stare and a halfhearted attempt to answer the question she didn't understand in the first place.  In spite of this unforeseen difficulty, the catacombs were very intriguing.  There were several levels, and rectangular niches covered the walls. We were lost as to their purpose until our guide explained that they were, in fact, holes for bodies.  I think my favorite and most gruesome fact was that infant baptisms were regularly performed in a room surrounded by infant graves.

Part of the catacombs. Eerie, yet awesome.

     Our walk to the next tourist destination cemented my reputation as the girl with no street smarts.  We were walking in a rather sketchy neighborhood, and all of the sudden I was inspired--hadn't I heard that Napoli was the center of the Mafia? Well, where were these supposed villains? Did they live around here? I practically shouted these questions to Aashika, who looked at me like I was an escaped asylum patient and tried to lose me around the next corner. But I was a sneaky bugger, and she couldn't shake me.  We definitely got more than a few narrowed looks, but escaped the area unharmed.  After we slowed down and I got a well-deserved tongue-lashing from Aashika, we started to notice the area around us and we wondered what, exactly, these people did with all their time. From all appearances, it would seem that the primary occupation of most people consisted of sitting on their porches and occasionally hanging laundry.  I think I'm starting to understand the financial crisis in Italy....

     We finally arrived at our next destination, and it was even cheerier--the cemetery!  Most cemeteries are rather boring things, with the bodies all buried and only slabs of stone to mark their resting place. The Cimitero delle Fontanelle, however, was an experience all its own. This was a chapel filled with bones. Literally. The walls and floor were covered with skulls, femurs, vertebrae--there was even furniture made out of it.

 L-R: The Day of the Dead. Conjoined twins rest in peace.

 L-R: The creepiest headless angel statue I've ever seen. The crucifix is supported by a pile of bones.

I'm not sure why I was so determined to visit this place, but afterwards, I was really glad I did, and not just for the creep factor. At the risk of sounding cheesy, it reminded me of my own mortality and insignificance.  There were thousands of bones all around me.  I'm sure some of these people were also young and thought their youth was eternal.  Each skeleton once housed a soul; who was I to come in and gawk at what I will so soon become?  My future accomplishments, however worthy, will doubtless lead to the same oblivion in death. Am I really so different, so noteworthy?  What will I do that makes my life worthy?

   These questions are a bit out of place for a blog that usually attempts at jest, and I apologize. I couldn't in good conscience post gruesome pictures of bones to make fun of them; I had to say what I thought. However, if this is distressing to you, I suggest you do what I do when I don't like what I read: I purposely forget it!

    The rest of the day was rather uneventful. A pizzeria generously supplied dinner, and we met a Belgian guy who just so happened to stay in the same hostel room as us. In an attempt to make some friends, we sat ourselves on the grass with people-sized spaces conspicuously between us.  When no one joined us, we just talked in the cool night air for over an hour and then went upstairs to get ready for bed.  At first, I didn't realize that there were separate men's and women's restrooms (give me a break, this was 50+ hours without any proper sleep), so I staggered into the nearest bathroom and brushed my teeth next to a very hot, very shirtless guy.  He didn't say anything, just looked at me. The next morning I realized my mistake and was completely mortified; when the shirtless guy from the night before passed, I didn't even raise my eyes. It was humiliating. Incidentally, I also figured out that while the men's showers were quite normal, the women's shower curtains were completely transparent. Oh, Italy.

I'm Not Dead! : EuroTrip #2

Hello! For those of you who kept up with this blog one year ago, the inexplicable recurrence of what was surely a source of unending joy must come as a shock.  You probably dismissed me as either dead or heartless, the victim of some British kidnapping plot (yes, yes, I know I never wrote about the London adventures), a fugitive from the IRA, or maybe just a forgetful, silly American college girl who stopped writing once her European adventures drew to a close.  While I cannot give credence to any of these rumors, I can now proudly say I am back, fueled by a new burst of European experiences.  Here are the things that have happened since May 15, 2013 (the day of my last post):

       - I had a lovely time in London

   

Buckingham Palace!

      

      - I arrived home safely, spent about two minutes with my family, and rushed off to my internship for the summer

       - I returned to school expecting everything to be the same, but somehow everything had changed. It was rather a rough year, but I made lots of new friends and learned a lot. I suppose the best lessons are the hardest ones (that's what I keep telling myself, at any rate)

   

       - Over winter break, several of my Cornell friends proposed a short vacation to Puerto Rico. I gladly joined in, and took part in many adventures that I may write about after the EuroTrip #2 Chronicles are finished

       - I graduated!

       - I embarked on a 3-week, all-expenses-paid (Ha! I wish) trip to Europe with one of my best friends, Aashika. We went to Geneva, Naples, Bruges, Brussels, and all over Portugal together, and then I split off and visited Barcelona and Madrid by myself.

       - Three days after arriving back home, a cruel man pulled out all my teeth. Well, just my wisdom teeth. But I've spent the past week at home, alternatively being dazed on painkillers or moaning about the pain and my not-so-glamorous face. My new nickname is "Jabba the Hut" because of the fantastic jowls the recovery process has given me

      - I start full-time work in two days! You're catching me at the end of an era; I suppose I must begin Real Life now. But before I do, allow me to reflect on my adventures abroad....

     I began to plan this trip with Aashika months before, in late March/ early April. We agreed upon an ideal itinerary--we'd travel around Greece for about a week, go to Portugal, maybe stop in Milan for awhile, perhaps visit to the south of France.  It took us a very long time to agree on this itinerary, and the decision-making process involved a complicated system of rankings, weightings, and exclusions that only two math-happy engineers could ever come up with.  We happily settled down and bought our tickets to and from Europe.

       When we looked into buying our inter-European tickets, however, we soon realized that the low-budget airlines did not, unfortunately, comply with our plan.  All the tickets we wanted were prohibitively expensive, so we decided to plan our journey one leg at a time. Our internal destinations didn't matter as much as long as we made it to Portugal, where we planned to rendezvous with Aashika's study abroad friends.  Thus our original plan was completely demolished, and a somewhat haphazard plan fell into place. Our destinations make no sense geographically; we bounce all around the continent with no apparent regard for reason or convenience. If you look at ticket prices, however, it all works out.

Like I said, it makes no sense. But it was affordable!

       Anyway, here I was, a freshly graduated Cornell alumni with one week at home to prepare for the journey. So I did what any self-respecting member of my family would do: I procrastinated. I hung out with my family, read books, even watched a movie or two, hoping that the daunting challenge of packing for 3 weeks would diminish. Sadly, it did not.  In fact, it only got worse: I had originally thought that I would get 1 free carry-on and 1 free personal item (ie a purse), like most reasonable airlines allow. However, the ultra-cheap airlines we booked charge the equivalent of $50 and up for such rookie errors--you are allowed exactly one carry-on, subject to very specific dimensions.  We'll talk more about these crazy airlines later.  My sole luggage was limited to a backpack. 1 backpack for 3 weeks. I never thought I could do it.

      I did eventually manage this great feat. If you are not in awe of my prodigious packing skills, you will be after hearing that I almost didn't have to re-wear anything. I managed this feat by filling my backpack to bursting; I almost couldn't zipper it closed., and travel-sized shampoos and makeups spewed out of its side pockets like a vomity child.

My trusty companion. You can't tell, but this backpack held practically a complete wardrobe, and didn't explode. I say it performed quite admirably given its unsuitability for the task.

      My first destination was Geneva, but I had quite a journey before me.  The $300 tickets I had booked included an overnight stop in Iceland, which sounds fun until you hear that it spans the hours of midnight and 6am--my first night in an airport.  My flight to Reykjavik was uneventful but sleepless; I took advantage of the in-flight entertainment system and watched old movies to my heart's content.  Marilyn Monroe taught me everything I needed to know in How to Marry a Millionaire.  I also met my first European on the flight over, a nice, intelligent French boy who was leaving a Harvard teaching post to try for a position as a French ambassador.

       I disembarked from the plane, weirdly excited for my first night sleeping in an airport. This was my christening as an official Traveller of the World--the experience everyone needs in order to legitimately complain about airports! The enterprise seemed doubly thrilling from its supposed illegality; most reports I had looked up beforehand reinforced the strict Reykjavik airport "no-spending-the-night" principle. I found my way to the main lobby, grabbed some food ("pizza Americano"--I couldn't resist), and found a bench with a few other criminal nappers. There was safety in numbers, I supposed, and I was not about to get robbed by some Icelandic thug. In spite of my fears and somewhat to my disappointment, I did not get harassed by Reykjavik airport employees.

       Partly from excitement and partly from the blinding lights and unforgiving metal bench, I barely slept at all that night. The frequent rattling from store cages as they closed (only to be re-opened three hours later) also didn't help.  I slept from 1am to 4:30am, when I was woken by curious children started to pass me and ask their parents who the hobo was.  I went to the ladies' room to brush my teeth and almost didn't recognize myself.  See my transformation from normal girl to hideous creature of death below.

 Left to right: Lauren is excited to begin her journey. Lauren is excited for her journey! Lauren is tired but happy after the flight to Iceland.  Lauren is a ghoul after spending the night in the Reykjavik airport.

      It was after this venture that I began to realize some of the oddities of the Icelandic airport (and European airports in general, as I was soon to discover). First, there were no water fountains, so I canvassed the airport cafes, asking for water refills that I promptly sucked down and then had to stalk for new, unsuspecting cafe workers.   

       Around this time I also began to notice the blatant Icelandic propaganda sprinkled throughout the airport.  Posters hung everywhere proclaiming the beauty and glory of Iceland, but the truth was barely veiled.  A barren wasteland became a "vast uncharted territory for YOU to explore!"  A bleak plot of snow morphed into a "tranquil place for perfect views of the Northern Lights!"  Not even the airplane was left untouched; the seatbacks sported embroidered Icelandic phrases with their English counterparts. The free airplane blanket had bits of Icelandic poetry prominently stitched onto the front. Half of the in-flight shows were documentaries about Iceland or movies made by Icelandic producers.  However, their most effective marketing technique was their choice of employee--every single flight attendant was a gorgeous woman: tall, blonde, buxom, and wearing very sexy heels.

     My flight to Zurich was forty minutes late but otherwise uneventful.  At this point I was completely exhausted. I had had 2 1/2 hours of sleep in the past 24, and only an act of God would push me through until I'd get my next time in a real bed (another 36 hours away).  Thankfully, the Man Upstairs had mercy on my poor soul and kept me awake for the next three hours, which were my own version of the Comedy of Errors.

      I arrived in Zurich and barreled through the airport, hoping to catch the train to Geneva that left in a mere 10 minutes. I was going to meet Aashika and my Cornell friend George who was then studying abroad in Geneva. Unfortunately, the Zurich airport is set up like a maze, with a thousand shops strategically placed in the exit route.  I knocked down dozens of elderly Swiss people in vain--I did not make the train. It left as I ran down the stairs. I spent the next fifteen minutes frantically trying to find free WiFi (hint: nothing is free in Switzerland) with which to communicate with George, then paid an exorbitant price for a power converter when I realized my iPod had died, then realized there were no outlets.  I finally boarded the train, twenty-eight euros lighter but still unable to tell George that I'd be late. One station later, the loudspeakers announced that the tracks were broken later on in the route, and the train would no longer stop in Geneva. I got off, boarded the next train almost in tears, and was shepherded by a nice Swiss Rails employee who informed me that I'd have to change trains 3 times. The schedule then changed two more times, and finally it was settled that my new train would in fact go to Geneva.

      Just as I settled down to enjoy my long ride to Geneva, a family parked a baby carriage that must have been filled with dirty diapers right behind my chair.  The smell forced me to move across from a creepy guy who had been eyeing me the whole time.  At this point, I had started writing notes on my iPod chronicling what happened throughout the trip so that I could remember and write blog posts later (I'm looking at my notes right now).  For about the next two paragraphs of notes, I wrote a humorous but very detailed description of this strange man's character in the off-chance that he would whisk me off to be a sex slave in Tibet, and that description was the only thing that could lead to my rescue.  (It appears that the movie Taken had strongly influenced my impressions of Europeans.)

 

      I finally arrived in Geneva, sleep-deprived and weary, but ready for adventure.  I miraculously found Aashika and George at the train station, and we headed off into the sunset to have lovely adventures in Geneva. You'll hear all about that on the next post--this one is too long already.

Much love,

Lauren