Stuck in Neutral

...so, in conclusion: watches, chocolate, cheese. Ladies and gentlemen, we give you the Swiss.

But not really the efficiency that you hear so much about. The journey from Greece to Switzerland was necessarily an epic one... you can't cover that much ground without it being exhausting and, well... epic. But as far as crossing continents goes, this time wasn't really too uncomfortable.

The ferry I took from Patra to Venice was called the Ikarus Palace, which is a name that would have made me a lot more nervous if it had been a plane and not a boat. I was just glad it wasn't called the Kracken or something similar. I've had enough with ironic names to last me for awhile, thanks. This boat was serious business. Like, it had cabins in varying levels of fanciness, two restaurants and a pool (which was empty) on the back deck. It really didn't have to feel like you were on a boat at all, if you had enough money. Just a really swank hotel.

I am poor. My Eurail pass gets me literally the bare minimum of comfort in any mode of transportation, and I'm young and spry so this is never a problem. But in this case the bare minimum would be sleeping on the deck. Outside. Yeah, not such a good idea in February, anywhere in the Northern hemisphere. Luckily, the nice usher guy ushed me into the area full of airplane seats, stating that under no circumstances was he going to let me sleep outside. Then he laughed and told me how lucky I was, because I would have had to pay 40 euros more to sleep in here if it had been April. Lucky me.

The setup was just like in an airplane, with one key exception: you could sleep on the ground. I haven't tried this in an airplane, but I have a feeling people might get a little miffed if you whipped out a blow up mattress (like a few of my fellow campers) and blew it up in the middle of the aisle. That was totally okay here, and everyone kinda set up camp in their little corner of our large communal cabin. Since the ship set sail at midnight, I immediately went to sleep, with only my sheet and a makeshift coat pillow. This was roughin' it. But not really, since it was decently warm in there and everyone was fairly respectful of the hours when normal people are sleeping, so though I was sleeping on a floor with nothing but a sheet, they weren't the worst two nights of my life.

I had never been out on the open sea before, and let me tell you: America was right. The ocean is a desert with its life underground. It was possibly the most desolate, isolated feeling I've ever had, though not necessarily in an unenjoyable way. It was actually kinda fun, except for the 20 euros I paid for the one and only not-so-awesome meal I had on the trip. Captive audience, I guess.

When I got back to Venice, I had a reaction that worried me. When I got off the boat and heard people speaking Italian and saw the relatively familiar watery city, I had to repress the urge to fall down and kiss the ground. For a girl who is going home in less than a month, this very strong reaction to a place that she's only been once before, a reaction that smacked of a long-awaited homecoming, was very worrying. Returning to Italy was like a weight being lifted off my shoulders; a weight of unfamiliarity and uncertainty that I guess must have been with me since I left Rome the first time to go to Dublin. Being back in Venice, after living for two months in places I've never been before, and where I didn't know what to expect, was much more comforting than I would have ever imagined. It really was like coming home, sort of. I can only imagine what it will be like to go back to Rome. It's going to tear me up.

But onto more entertaining subjects. I boarded a train from Venice to Milan, where I was then to get the TGV to Geneva. I was counting on the Swiss and their renowned efficiency to get me to Geneva early enough to find a hostel, as I hadn't booked one. I put my trust here, and that was where I got it wrong.


But to get away from the foreshadowing for a moment for a word about Milan. It's crazy. Like, women with chihuahuas wearing pink faux-fir parkas that match their dogs' pink faux-fir parkas. I was only around the freaky Fascist train station, so maybe it's different elsewhere, but the hour or so I was there gave me the impression that Milan is not a city that I would enjoy living in. I know it's not fair of me to pass that judgement based on less than an hour, but it honestly felt like one of your not so interesting Midwest cities, rather than the fashion capital of the world. Like... Cincinatti. Innocuous building with very little charm and some jackass people wearing way too expensive clothes. I wasn't sorry to leave.


The TGV to Geneva was an adventure. And not the good, validating, I Am A Strong, Capable Woman kind of adventure. No, this was more the kind of Train Breaks Down At The Border, Board Another Train To Some Random Destination, Then Another To Another Random Destination And Finally One To Geneva, Where You Walk Around At 11 At Night In The Freaking Freezing Wind To One Hostel Which Has No Beds And Then To Another Hostel Which Is Once Again Full Of Very Loud People Who Don't Seem To Understand That I Haven't Slept In A Bed Since Leaving Greece And I Will Totally Cut A Bitch If You Don't Shut The Hell Up adventure. Not actually my favorite kind.

But the bed in this hostel was nothing short of heavenly, even if the Brazillian women who came in after me felt the need to open the window. Isn't it like 100 degrees in Brazil right now? Shouldn't you be freezing your asses off? It's a mad world. But I woke up in the morning and helped myself to the complimentary breakfast, marvelling at being in a place where the winter tourist industry is just as if not more thriving than the summer one. There were so many French school children that I thought I was in a Madeline video... except with more eyebrow piercings and public displays of affection. Though most of the other people in the hostel seemed to be using it as a jumping-off point for all the cool winter sports Switzerland has to offer, I was using it mostly for laundry and a nice walk around Geneva before I headed off to the south of France.

Let me tell you, with the prospect of the south of France, which inevitably puts one in mind of beaches and mild, blue-skied sunniness before me, Geneva's bitterly cold and biting wind was all the more difficult to stomach. I braved it to walk around some, but that breeze coming off the lake ended up being more than intrepid ol' me could take. I sought refuge for awhile in two of my most frequent haunts: the art museum and H&M. I adore both of these places, and have become a connoisseur of each in its own right. H&M is giving me an unhealthy obsession with dresses. It's a problem.

But my usual haunts could really only last me so long before I had to give up the ghost and find something else to do that wouldn't involve subsequent defrosting. I found a theatre, a little art place that showed films in their original version. The one they were showing the day I came seeking shelter was Bright Star, a film about John Keats. It was absolutely wonderful; one of the sexiest movies I've seen in a long time, and one of the most beautifully shot. I'm pissed that Abbie Cornish didn't get at least a nomination for Best Actress... she made my heart hurt. And the storyline was actually something that's close to my heart, since one of my favorite refuges to read and write and think in Rome is John Keats' grave. These connections are everywhere, if you're looking for them.

A word about the Swiss: I don't know if it's having to do with living in a bi-lingual country, or their proud and long history of neutrality, but the Swiss don't really strike me as having much of a collective personality. They're very mild and non-confrontational, from my limited point of view (not one car honked it's horn the entire time I was there)... they actually reminded me a little bit of Canadians. They were all very friendly and nice, but just kinda... neutral. Maybe it's just that I am hyper-aware of their political position and ideals... I don't know.

I spent just the one full day in Geneva before meeting Elsa in Marseille to begin our adventures in France. More on that soon; it'll probably be one of the last posts that I actually write from Europe, so you'll want to get your copy signed or something. I don't know how that makes sense at all. It doesn't. Leave me alone.