20070623

      This afternoon (6:15 pm, to be precise), I sit outside a cheap cafe in a neighborhood of Southern Amsterdam which I am told by the two counter-cultural looking women who just bought me an espresso is one of the more desirable neighborhoods of Amsterdam. I had the brilliance to rent a bike for EU5/day and bike in whatever directions looked pleasing until I found this place, which has given me an enormous amount of food and a soup for what will probably be less than EU10. This must be how non-tourists survive here. I am now eating one of my two pita shoarmas and it is excellent! I think it is curried french-cut lamb. Unfortunately my conversation with the women was cut short by a short rain shower, typical of Amsterdam, but I did manage to have a fragment of a conversation with them and discover that the free culture here is great for adults, but dangerous for children. Any small child with a 16 year old friend can get hold of weed, which can permanently impair their development before they have a chance to make an informed decision.

      For anyone traveling soon to Amsterdam, I recommend getting your own bicycle and heading off at random; or if you want to follow my footsteps to a local deli, go to Rooseveltllan 67 (at the intersection with Waalstraat) to Lunchroom Broodje. Order the shoarma, or 2 and a soup if you want to be stuffed for cheap. The neighborhood, however, is deceptive. The buildings are all large monoliths which could just as easily be a housing project as a desirable neighborhood. I suppose their location near Centrum makes them quite attractive.
      I should also tell you what I did earlier today: The Van Gogh Museum. It was nice. Unfortunately, you should not expect to see Starry Night; perhaps the Louvre has that one. If you are an art-buff like me, you should budget at least 30 minutes to see the whole thing. (Just kidding; I spent over 2 hours there, though you can do all the Van Gogh easily in 1:30, assuming the crowds aren't any worse for you than they were for me. Seriously, it made me a bit agorophobic, which is not normal at all for me.) In fact, I'm not supposed to say this since it sounds so remarkably uncultured, but you're probably better off looking at postcards by Van Gogh, since his style is best regarded from a distance not permitted by the hordes of spectators. The entire religious experience of art-viewing is destroyed when you must deal with people walking in and out of the art, and when you must limit yourself from soaking too long in the warmth of a piece. So, postcards and art-books it is, in the privacy of your own home, or in a local cafe with a fine cappuccino.

      But also at the Van Gogh Museum, quite fortunately, was another exhibit hidden in the half of the museum that crowds don't see. This Max Berkman (sp?) exhibit was really incredible; I wish I had some pictures for you, but they were prohibited. All decent artists are either insane, or have a focused angst rising near the level of insanity. Berkman seems to have problems with women, and later with Nazis. One piece in particular of his struck me: a simple pen-sketch of a dream, he stands on the edge of the left-half of a bridge which would cross the entire canvas except for a section in the middle of the bridge which has been removed. Standing on this dark left-half of the bridge and about to fall into the chasm below, he is trying to reach the lighter right half of the bridge. At the bottom of the chasm is a nude woman laid out below, her mons ready to catch the artist when he falls. So far as I can read into the piece, it's a compelling display of man's need for woman to complete him, and man's fear of the loss of self which necessarily accompanies this transformative experience. Best of all, it's done in simple and powerful ink. As I will say time and time again, I wish I could have a picture for you; instead I must use 1000 words.

20070622

      Today is my third day in Amsterdam, and I am loving it here. Within a minute of stepping off the plane, I knew what an orderly society this would be, since even the luggage belts at the airport are designed to cooperate with each other to keep bags properly separated by delaying the chain of predecessors whenever the successor was too immediate. (Looking closely at this picture, you can see the little laser-reflector the system uses to detect bags as they cross from one belt to the next).

      My first night in the hostel, however, did present one incident: I had fallen asleep on my bed, and woke to the realization that I had never put sheets on the bed. Not realizing that this was because the bed already had sheets, I took a folded set of new sheets from the empty bed above and started to make mine, which had no folded sheets on it. As I was doing this, a guy came in and asked me what I was doing to his bed. He had already made my bed. I explained to him that this was my assigned bed, and he argued that it was now his bed because he had made it, and placed his clothes upon it. We went back and forth for about a minute before he finally realized that I was not backing down, and that the main office would side with me, whose assigned bed this was. Looking back, I now realize that he was just angry at me because he had tried to cheat me out of my bottom bunk, having himself been assigned a top bunk which he did not want. It is now almost 6pm here, and he is still sleeping in bed. I suppose he likes bed; he took several minutes when making his bed that first night just to fluff the starch out of his fresh sheets while cursing me under his breath.
      Having told this story, I should say that hostels are usually quite a nice experience wince most people recognize the level of collegiality required to maintain workable relationships, but when the system breaks down it breaks down massively.
      Yesterday I saw the Anne Frank Museum, which is situated within the house she actually hid in. It was rather moving, entering this house and standing in the places where we know actually stood and breathed some sixty years ago. I was disappointed, however, that the museum chose to frame her experience as only a Jewish experience, and not to relate the historical Holocaust to modern day and ongoing genocides. Also, the end of the exhibit is always a temporary installation, and the current installation is an "exploration of the boundaries of fundamental rights," including such 'difficult' questions as whether free speech should be allowed even for hate speech, whether freedom of religion should include the right to wear headscarves to school, and so on. The exhibit showed videos of offensive uses of these fundamental freedoms and asked people to vote whether the fundamental freedom should be observed, or whether each particular video clip went so far from propriety as to abridge the freedom. So far as I could tell, especially by the voting habits which were predictably biased toward restrictions of freedom, the point of the exhibit was to show that these fundamental freedoms must occasionally be restricted by resort to value systems of the majority. This is a message in stark contrast to the rest of Amsterdam, which professes freedom of thought, religion, expression, etc. as fundamental bases for cooperative democracy. Nonetheless, if you want an interesting feeling, go to the Anne Frank Museum. I have a feeling I will recommend tomorrow that you see Van Gogh and others first, though, to make best use of time.

      I also went yesterday to the "Heineken Brewery Experience." It turns out that the third word in the name is the most important: Although this used to be a functioning brewery, it has been transformed into a walk-in advertisement with Disney-style effects. From start to finish, the brewery acts just as a beer commercial, indoctrinating the unsuspecting visitors who believe that their admission price has purchased them entrance to a real bit of genuine history.
      My favorite educational parts of this museum were the two rides: First, walking into a small movie theatre, you will wonder why you're given bars to stand between, but then you realize their purpose is to give you a grip while the floor shakes beneath your feet, and you watch the screen as if you are a Heineken bottle moving down the assembly line to be washed, filled, capped, boxed, shipped, and ultimately drank to the tune of "Celebration." The second ride is a horse-drawn carriage ride through the streets of Amsterdam. You sit in a hydraulic wooden carriage, watching a screen as you pass all the happy young school children waiving at the pretty Heineken kleidsdales. Funny enough, many parents apparently think it a great idea to bring their adolescents to the Heineken Brewery Experience. My next favorite part of the tour was the TV-area where you sit down almost totally reclined into a comfortable chair and look up at a TV screen in the top of the curving chair, using your paws to press either forward or back to view Heineken advertising from 1955 until present day. Naturally, there are fewer of the older than the newer advertisements, but the curious side of me wonders what gems are hiding in Heinekens past which are not publicized in this marketing show. You can see in this photo how happy is the Canadian to whom I gave my extra beer token! (Incidentally, he had already used his 3 tokens, and 2 others provided by a father whose young son wanted only a single Coke).
      Today I went on a bicycle tour of downtown, with Mike's Bikes and Rachelle. One of our leaders was a lady named "Mike" who was dressed in a white fur vest and had spiky white hair. I believe that she could probably kill me handily in a knife fight, but she professes no extraordinary skills at such. The tour was nice, though it started to rain just as we transitioned from the biking to the boat-riding part of the tour. We went all around the city on bikes, including Chinatown and the Red Light District. Our guide also explained the way that Amsterdam attempts to curb crime related to various fringe activities by drawing them away from the fringes through legitimization, which allows sex workers to pay taxes and drug users to get needles and treatment. It was a very nice tour, though I'd suggest perhaps a walking tour if you want to avoid criticisms of our President. All in all, it was a great introduction to Amsterdam, which seems to be a place highly affected by, ironically, the free trade of the 1600s laying the ground work for the free lifestyles of the 1960s.
      I have just now arrived home from the Boom Comedy Theatre with Rachelle, which was absolutely hilarious improvisational comedy. I won the first free drink of the night for "Skeletor" as the answer to "Thing." Apparently you have to be really good to perform as a main act in Amsterdam, since these guys were amazing. If you enjoy shows like "Whose Line is it Anyway," you must go see the thing live in person, because the experience is much more dynamic when you have the opportunity to interact with the performance. However, if you don't want to hear criticisms of the current president (and this will probably hold true in the future as well,) I think you might be better off avoiding Amsterdam altogether. This advice also holds if you are readily offended. The number of references to naughty bits and verbs in this act was enough to shock all but the most seasoned veterans of toilet and sexual humor.
      Speaking of the Marquis du Sade, we visited the Sex Museum before going to the Comedy Theatre. EU3 was about what this short "museum" was worth. It's a nice little walk-through in the style of sensationalism rather than history. It was, however, very worth the visit for anyone interested in opening their mind a bit further in an area so typically repressed. At occasional turns, a motion-activated mannequin will spring to life, like the flasher who pops from an alley to reveal the contents of his trench coat. Also, there is an area marked "Enter at your own risk" for those brave enough and interested in seeing more fringe behavior. Of course, this area is not for many people.

      I am now sitting at the sofas of the hostel next to the vending machine watching a guy operate the vending machine and grunt in what is either a foreign language or a mushroom trip gone wrong. I'm not sure it makes a difference whether he's speaking any language or not; he is clearer from the outside looking in than I think he is from the inside looking out. I cannot begin to fathom the difficulties he is going through trying to decide what to do.
      Incidentally, for all those of you who share my love of sundials, here is a building in the center of Amsterdam which has both a main and a backup sundial on the front! I suppose this is some form of redundancy for fault-tolerance in case one of the sundials ices over or is covered by clouds.



      If you look closely in this picture you can see the herd of men making the cattle-call toward the red light district.

20070619

      I got to the train station this morning a couple hours early for my trip to La Spezia and ultimately Cinque Terra. On arriving at Cinque Terra, I went to the ticket window to get my ticket to Milan for my 2pm flight tomorrow. Except there is no train leaving for Milan tomorrow morning. Had the officer at the ticket window been more helpful, I might have been able to buy a ticket from him to get on the same train as the two old women I allowed to pass me in line, who were also headed to Milan. Instead, I had to scramble to get onto the train in time to be now headed to Milan at an extra EU25 penalty for purchasing my ticket on the train. But, at least I'm on the train and I'll be able to make my flight tomorrow. Now, however, I must cancel my hostel reservation in Cinque Terra to avoid credit card charges (I may have to just eat this mistake), and I need to book a hostel in Milano for the night and find a pot of espresso to drown my sorrows in.
      As a consequence, I've spent the last couple hours on this train with Noam Chomsky as my sole companion, which has left me in an even less cheerful mood. If you're interested in democracy, you should consider reading "Failed States." However, I've set the Chomsky down, less as a cause than as an effect of my new-coming realization that I'm still on vacation, and I'm not allowed to be upset by such horrible things as being forced to visit Milano a day early. So long as I am able to sleep at night and eat in the day, I have reason to be happy. Needless to say, this maxim should apply just as truly to everyday life, which is just a very long vacation which tries often successfully to disguise itself.
      (Hours and hours pass, riding the train and more. Finally I am situated at an outdoor café . . .)
      If Rome was hot yesterday and the day before, I know why; and it leaves the Vatican in an interesting position because the keys to salvation in Heaven and on Earth are held in the midst of Hell. But thankfully for the Pope, Rome is closer to purgatory than Milan, which seems to be the innermost circle of Hell. Before the break, (elipses above), I was on the train after having mistakenly let two old ladies ahead of me in line, and paying a EU25 penalty for doing so. On arriving to Milan, however, I had to find a hostel to sleep at tonight. This should be simple, since every train station has a tourist information desk with hostel information. So I asked an official where this desk would be. I asked no less than 4 different types of information desks, more than 8 businesses, and as many random train-workers as I could find. I even asked the police. I asked the police twice. I asked several times to be guided to this magical place that did not exist because everyone wanted to send me different places, either up the stairs, down the stairs, or across both stairs and outside the rail station. Having been in Milan once already I thought for sure the directions outside the station were a jackpot, since that was where I found the ATM after a similar 20 minute ordeal. However, this time it took me an hour and fifteen minutes to find the information desk. If you look closely, you can find it. It says "tourist infomation." Not finding it? It's also labeled "APT," of course. Still not finding it? Are you crazy? The station's huge and I've given you a picture of just where you need to be looking, if you happened to listen to the 1/4 of the people that directed you to this information place, instead of the many others which actually exist clearly!
      (Time passes as I speak with the wonderful Italian, Romi, who has just joined me at the adjoining table. Incidentally, she tells me that my watch could be had for EU3. I am very skeptical, but eager to try. . . . )
      You can clearly see in this final zoomed picture that below the Telecom / Pietra sign which looks like a cabaret advertisement, there is another sign which clearly reads in small blue font "tourist information." I asked the guy inside at the counter if other tourists had ever spent an hour and fifteen minutes, as I had, looking for his office. He responded that the people in charge of the train station were still operating under the principles of the Communist party. . . . Well, I can cross communism off my list now. Along with the rest of Italy. Truly, if you cannot figure out who is the proper person to pay for what you need, you might as well die in this country. If you want to visit a corrupt second-world country with gorgeous historical monuments of antiquity and a desire to take your money, visit parts of South America. But if you want to go to a place with longer experience and greater desire to rip you off, come to Italy.
      For all those who are still interested in traveling Italy, here are some wistful pictures out the window of the train of what I missed in Cinque Terra. Perhaps next time I will do more travel planning rather than assume that every town will have trains which depart more than once each day.
      In case you're wondering where Italy spends all the money they take from tourists, if they're not spending it on improving the transit system, or on making the "tourist information" sign bigger (FYI, this is only for hostelers. Hotels are very easy to find in Milan.) Here is a picture of how Italy spends their money to upgrade the subways: pictures of the wonderful beauty of Milan appear on a large projection screen television. (just please ignore the immediate surroundings).

20070618

Dinner with Ashley was entertaining; we had a 3 course meal for EU17 with a Canadian she met by chance. Apparently Ashley always meets someone new in foreign countries. Before dinner, we visited the Vatican to use their toilettes, since there was not sufficient time to do any more. Ashley and Joseph also informed me that the day at the Forum and Collisseum had taken its toll on my neck. My neck does not yet hurt, but that's only because the nerves under the skin are probably also burned. Who would have thought that Italy would be so sunny? Carrie would. And she warned me. So much for remembering good advice; but I can tell you what happened in the Greenman v. Yuba Power case! Thank you law school for further advancing the damage already done to my common sense by engineering school.
So I went back to the hostel an hour outside the city, and slept another night with half my valuables stuffed at the far-end of my pillow case, and the other half locked to the bedpost in the corner by my head, and the rest of my belongings chained under the bed. This morning, I left with all my things and set out to find a place closer into the city. I also bought a train ticket to get to Cinque Terra, where the scenery should be more pretty and natural, and the lifestyle less chaotic. I found my hostel, for EU20 / night with a small locker. My clothes are now locked inside my bag under the bed, and everything else is "safely" inside a locker that a child could probably break into. But at least it's an improvement.
I wait now near the Vatican for my tour which will start in 15 minutes, and for which I should soon leave. The pasta is quite al-dente, and the cafe-latte is superb. Most wonderfully, I am finally calming down enough to soak up the Italian atmosphere, which seems to be relaxation amid chaos. It reminds me of living in a dirty rat-hole of a room; once you get past the ick-factor, it's quite comfortable, though perhaps extremely unsanitary.

( . . . time passes as I stand in line, and ultimately tour the Vatican, then have a pizza and then a cafe latte with Ashley . . .)


The tour of the Vatican was wonderful; my tourguide was the same theology student who was yesterday practicing by giving a free tour of the Forum. His performance today was equally good, and I would not recommend seeing Rome without a guide. Anyone going to Rome can contact Jason by email: toursofrome at hotmail. Additionally, using a tourguide gets you past some of the long lines, especially at the Collisseum. So far as I can tell, Rome is an exemplar of capitalism at its finest: the entire city is constructed to milk tourists as dry as possible. I am told that the entirety of Italy is this way; my destination tomorrow is CinqueTerra, and I am told that to walk the trails I must buy a metro pass.
Crossing the street is a test of will, as driver competes with pedestrian to prove that each is himself the least concerned with the physical safety of his current mechanism of transport. But, if it were only cars that one had to play frogger with, the game would be too simple; perhaps for this reason, the streets contain perhaps 1/3 motorbikes, which zip along faster than traffic, and which do not follow the predictable inertial paths of cars. It is these motorbikes which the pedestrians must fear, since they are already playing their own game of frogger, trying to jump into the very same spots between cars, on the other side of speed. In spite of this, I believe that the motorbikes, when they manage to see me, are more scared of me than the cars are.

Incidentally, I forgot to mention one of the reasons I bought the ridiculous sunglasses: Sarah mentioned to me from her previous trip to Italy that the Italians never remove their sunglasses;
even in the depths of the subway.
Also, I learned from the Collisseum tour that the bricks and stone were stripped from the Collisseum over the years, and that one reason part of the Collisseum later fell was that people had melted the supporting-iron from the stones between which it was poured, destroying the structural integrity originally designed by the Romans.
This wall on the other end of the city by my new hostel for the night seems to be made of Collisseum brick and stone!
Please "watch" my future posts for evidence of the newest fashion item I bought off the streets. From an opening offer of $50 from the seller, I talked him down to $20, but only after leaving once, right before the police arrived (dispersing him and the other sellers), then following him across the street and holding out $20 saying it was all I had on me. He was very reluctant, and I think I got close to his breaking point. Yesterday I bought a small tripod for $3 in similar manner, with the guy shaking his head even after the deal saying "no profit, no profit." I am really enjoying this cheap experience to hone my negotiating skillz.

20070617

There is so much to say about Italy; I suppose I'll begin where I left off. The train finally reached Italy, of course, and the Swiss CFF SBB line took a 15 or 20 minute pause, perhaps to prepare for what it would next endure. This was also my introduction to the Italian transit system, and the patience which it requires. The Italian train parked next to us at the station should have been a further clue for me, but I thought the aged and spray-painted artifact was merely a relic waiting for scrap. I might also have guessed about the state of Italian transit from the charred remains of a van we passed in the first town. But I am a slow learner, and I got accommodated to the Swiss train system, which apologized to me last week over the PA for a 3-minute delay on one of my trains.
Once my Swiss train made it over the Italian tracks into Milan (and I'm glad I took the trains, though it took longer, because I saw exactly what a difference the border of a country makes), my connection in Milan did not show up. I was told that the train written on my ticket does not exist. I was shown on a public chart that it does not exist. And I was shown on this chart which train does exist for my purpose, and where to find it. But that train did not show up either, and I am not certain that it exists either. Luckily, another train by a name not found on my ticket did exist, and delivered me only an hour behind schedule to Rome. In Rome I followed the directions to my hostel, since it was already late at night. To be fair, I perhaps made a mistake booking a hostel an hour outside the city, but it was much cheaper and seemingly more likely to have better accommodations. The directions told me to use a train which does not exist after 7pm. I used a bus instead. The next part of the directions told me to use another train which runs only part way after 7pm. And after taking the bus for this last half of the "train" ride, I tried calling the hostel, as suggested on their website, to request that the shuttle wait five or ten minutes for the seven of us on this late trip. They told me "Sorry, I guess you'll be walking." Sorry, indeed, except that I had a hope, a suspicion, and a prayer that Italian transit is dominated not by Murphy's Law, but by tardiness. I'm thrilled to say that tardiness won, and the bus picking us up did not arrive at 11pm, as scheduled, but arrived 3 minutes after we did, at 11:10pm. Hooray me! Jon 1: Italy 3-issimo.
So I arrived at the hostel, and looked for the lockers. Every hostel has lockers for people to safely store things like the computers they're writing their travel blogs on, right? Not this one. Instead, there is a room, and you go to the front desk to retrieve the key, so you and your friends can go to the locked door behind the building and take anything you want, then return the key. Needless to say, I am not happy about this security situation. But the high point of the hostel is that there is a bar open until 2am right outside my room, and there are also dorms which are mixed guy/girl. This means that I get to be very pleased with myself for bringing earplugs, a sleeping mask, and an engagement ring.
But my experience in Italy changed completely this morning. After the mental beating I took yesterday, I think I've adapted to the Italian way of life. I got onto the bus without any concern that I had forgotten to buy a ticket first, and didn't realize until partway through the trip that I was supposed to take the train instead of the bus, but I figured out the system of labeling for routes, and used my city map to work around the problems. I believe the Italian way of life requires this kind of creativity and problem solving. I also think that the city intentionally screws around the transit system to keep the citizens mentally active, and to divert tourists into spending more money, as at a mall. After a short while in Italy you will be thrilled to pay $20 for a guided tour of anything.
I have not yet talked about the drivers here. I believe the bus driver from the hostel used to race Nascar. No matter how sharp the corner or how small the street, he is driving at the limits of the bus' capability. I say Nascar instead of the more European Formula 1 because of the way he sticks his head out the window when making tight left turns, in order to better feel the bus; the way he crosses behind passing bicycles by shaving as close as possible to their back tire, and by the tell-tale crack in the left side mirror. But as long as he's having fun, I'll enjoy the ride.

Immediately on stepping off the train into the center of Rome, I found the most wonderfully ridiculous pair of Aviator sunglasses. The seller opened at EU50, I countered with EU5, and I got them for EU8, but I'm pretty sure he won. I could have gotten them for EU5 if I'd been prepared. Oh well, it's EU3 lost to negotiating experience. I've also been very happy with how ridiculous they look. I've gotten my picture with a group of nuns in them, and I hope to get a group of Japanese soon.
Before you think I haven't actually seen any of Rome, I'll tell you that my little sister's itenerary has been great so far: I went to the Forum and started to wander through. Things are really old and broken there. Then I ran into a tour guide who was giving a free tour in English. It was amazing; until an official Italian tour guide interrupted, threatened to call the police, and broke our group up (You can see from my photo, though, that the police much prefer to talk on their cell phones or lean on their vehicles). I'm still not sure whether this was for real, or whether it was simply an act they put on together since our group had not yet grown large enough. I wandered around for a while more before running into the same guide giving the same tour, right where I had left off, but with a much larger group. I followed again, and this tour was never interrupted. After this tour, I saw him give another. Italy is a /very/ crooked place.
I was also very happy to see the Basilica where modern lawyering began with one lawyer who outdid all the other self-important orating lawyers by hiring the homeless to sit in the courtroom and cheer for his orations. And the temple of Saturn, which held the gold reserves of Rome under its footsteps.
  After the Forum, I followed by sister's itenerary to the Colosseum where I ran into another tour guide who took me (and the group) past the ridiculously long line and into the Colosseum for only EU10. This was well worth my time, and it was great to have a guide to explain all about how many (1M) people the Romans killed in the Colosseum, and the different ways (e.g. dressing a guy up as Icarus with wings, and dropping him from the roof). As I have just received a call from Ashley, I will have to take a break and tell you the rest soon.
In the mean while, see if you can find all the laser-targeting spots in this picture of ruins; I count 7 . . .

20070616

It is Saturday, as I ride the train from Fribourg to Rome by way of Milan. My attention is torn between the snow-capped Alps out my window, and the terraced wine fields which are becoming more prevalent as I pass into Italian Switzerland. This train trip will take 9 hours, but I am happy for the time I'm getting to reflect and write. Too often as a tourist, time passes too quickly to appreciate the subtleties of beauty. My goal in Rome, therefore, is to find a nice cup of espresso, a beautiful sunset, and some relaxed thought. I hope this exists in Rome. In the mean time, I eat my jar of peanuts and olives happily.
On Monday I last left you while I waited for Ocean's 13 to begin. I loved the coffee shop before the movie, but I cannot recommend the movie. However, it was the little taste of America I've been missing; and it satisfied my inexplicable and guilty desire for some McFastFood.
On Tuesday, our group traveled to Lucerne. Everyone from Switzerland will tell you that their canton is the most beautiful, but it's always after someone from Lucerne has already spoken on the subject. Lucerne is certainly beautiful. When rock-slides have not forbidden its operation, Lucerne has the world's most-something lift. And it's big. When rock-slides have prevented the lift from working, you can take a really (perhaps the world's most-really) long funiculaire. Unlike the funiculaire in Fribourg, I don't think this one was powered by sewage-weight. At the top of this lift is an amazing view of Lucerne, looking far down on the lake and town. We made a barbeque at a park atop this hill and ate some wonderful Swiss meats. We also got to witness how much better the Swiss are than Americans at starting fires; let's just say there was no lighter fluid to use, yet their fire started just as quickly as if there were . . .
On Wednesday I studied for my Thursday exams. I was glad on Thursday to find 6 questions in the 3 subjects I elected to emit which required less than one page per question to answer. These were the best 3 law exams I have taken. I then spent Friday packing and preparing for this part of my trip, and soaking up as much of Fribourg as possible before leaving.
We have just passed though a long tunnel on this train, and are passing now through another. I believe we are in the transition through the Alps into the very Italian part of Switzerland. I will leave you and tend to my lunch, but we will speak again soon!
I will try to remember on my own, but if I forget, please remind me: I need to add moe pictures to this entry!

20070611

     Dear far-away internet-powered traveling-companions, (One must always pause to close Mr. Paperclip when drafting such a sentence in Word '98) I am on my way to Bern to watch Ocean's 13 in English with either French or German subtitles. When I last left you, the good doctor had given me a generous supply of complimentary muscle relaxants. They worked wonderfully for relaxing my neck, which now feels as good as it possibly can while I'm so far from Carrie; but I have also slept 12-16 hours every night since I began taking them. I'm sure also that my 10 minute rejoinder at the mock-international-arbitration exercise on Thursday was affected, but I am told that I did well nonetheless.


     Saturday I went with Chris to Thun, which is below Interlaken. As the name suggests, Interlaken sits between two gorgeous Swiss lakes; Thun sits below the lower lake. We took a pair of the free McDonalds bikes which are present in almost every Swiss city, and rode these heavy beasts from Thun to Interlaken. The ride was amazingly gorgeous, and would have been trivial if the bikes had weighed less than we, or if their axles had ever seen grease. From Interlaken, we rode back to Thun along the other side of the lake.
I'm sure there was more in Interlaken to see, but nothing could possibly compare to the views overlooking the blue lake on the ride from Thun to Interlaken (clockwise, if you want to follow my footsteps) winding up the mountain ridge. The ride was also punctuated by sheer waterfalls down the mountainside on our left, which quickly roared into existence, but were hushed quickly by the trees as we passed. We also rode through one short tunnel cut into the rock which was covered inside with yellow wires leading to a large metal box. This is apparently setup so the Swiss Army can quickly add dynamite to blast the pass in case of war.

     On returning to Thun, Chris and I walked again along the river we had traversed earlier that day. With the sun setting against the wooden bridge, and really ridiculously old structure things, it was a gorgeous evening. We returned to the spot where earlier in the day we had seen a submerged bicycle in the crystal clear glacial waters. And Chris photographed me fishing it out of the water. Yes, ladies, those are my cold thighs covered in water fresh enough to drink, heaving a bicycle out of the very water which still befouls it today. The bicycle was a bit slimy, can be set to have either too much or too little rear brake, has a front brake that doubles as horn, dented lower frame, no seat, and it used to have handlebars which steered somewhat independently of the front wheel. But the last part is fixed as of this morning! The train ride was quite exciting, as I had to periodically leave my game of go-fish with Chris to prop the bicycle back up, and wipe up the new puddle of fish-bait scented muck which had oozed onto the floor since my last mopping. The bike is now parked at the Fribourg train station, with a small lock connecting a link of the chain to a spoke of the rear wheel. All you need in Switzerland to prevent bike theft is to make the theft slightly inconvenient.

     On Sunday I went with Chris to walk around Fribourg. This was a bad idea, since I woke up with very relaxed muscles at the ripe hour of 2pm. I remember little except dizziness and a desire to have some food to ease the gnawing of the morning's muscle relaxant against my stomach. I am reminded by one of my photos that we were able to enter a small church at the top of the city, adorned inside with more riches than should be possible for a church that seats only 35 people when packed full. On one wall of the church were many marble plaques which said "merci" for the miracles granted. Curiously, one plaque hung outside the protective barrier read "spacibo." Apparently even Russians are entitled to miracles.
     Today I woke up at noon, and resolved to quit the muscle relaxants before I miss another beautiful Swiss dawn. I'll know tomorrow whether this was a mistake because the next thing I did was go to the rock wall. As I have said before, the wall here in Fribourg is amazing. I believe that part of the challenge comes from the heat this time of year, which leaves my hands drenched in sweat, and the lack of any regular cleaning to remove the chalk which builds in the best parts of the best holds. The climbing partners I have met here have been incredibly hospitable, and also very patient teachers; though I often had to stop mid-climb and rest my arms and re-chalk for several minutes, they always insisted that I climb once for every climb they took, and they always insisted that I rest and continue rather than quit mid-course. Their hospitality is the same as the hospitality I've seen among climbers in Alabama and Texas, a result of the intense requirements for trust, but this bond seems even stronger in Switzerland where climbing is a more regular part of life, and where the climbs can get much more dangerous.

     I am now in Bern, waiting by a movie theater for several friends to meet me to see Ocean's 13. It's a pretty city under heavy construction, and I am sad to say for all my friends who will ask for my sundial pictures that I cannot find the sundial here which reports the time of day alongside the day of the year. If only I had the presence of mind to photograph it when I first saw it, since it was the very first sundial I saw, which piqued my interest in the subject and has led to all my other sundial photographs.

20070605

     Waiting for my spaghetti to cook, and reflecting on the day, I am reminded of my favorite curse: "May you live in interesting times." But before sharing all of today, I will recall for you my wonderful yesterday . . .

     For some reason I woke earlier than my 3pm class. On my phone was waiting a text message from the procurator of the Museum of Swiss Sewing Machines informing me that I could tour at 1pm. (Tours of this museum are by appointment only). Having several hours of free time, I met Chris and we walked a path through Basseville, around the dam, and up the hill on the other side, nearly completing his quest to traverse every staircase in the city. Through the expedition I took periodic photos of our traveling dwarf companion which we found earlier this week at the Giger Museum, and I will send these photos back to the "friend" of this dwarf traveler so she may know he is well on his journey.

     Following our hike, Chris and I went to the sewing machine museum. This is the greatest museum I have ever visited. It is assembled, managed, and exhibited by a retired steel seller who has an interest in recent historic technology. This museum has much more than just sewing machines; the first half features the earliest washing machines and irons, and devices like spiked collars which prevented calves from suckling on their mothers, (and also spiked collars which prevented wolves from attacking sheep), and lighters made from flint-strikes and sulfur-rich fungus hairs. The second half of the exhibit features some of the earliest sewing machines, from the single-thread crochet style through modern bobbin style, with such oddities as a sewing machine that plays organ music with bellows under the foot pedals and a punched scroll which travels above the pipes; and a darning machine with many parallel needles, and a comb which pre-draws the thread through all needles before they are pulled back through the material and manually stitched at the other side. If you enjoy mechanical devices, this museum is a must-see attraction. This museum is also distinguished by Mr. Wasserman's knowledge and passion during the guided tour, and by the opportunity to personally handle some of these rare items.
     Class was not notable.
     But the rock wall was quite notable. There is a huge rock wall inside a tower that is part of the old Porte du Fribourg, part of the wall which once earned tolls for the brilliant count who collected money from those who passed through. The wall is perhaps 30 feet high, and has all levels of difficulty. I was very fortunate that a friend in the program here, Muri, was able to contact one of her friends who both climbs and speaks English. I was also fortunate that the heat of the gym and the adrenaline of the climbing loosened up my neck which had been very stiff for the last several days. After the wall I went with my dwarf-friend (mentioned in my last post) to the Elvis et Moi cafe. This cafe blends Dia de Los Muertos with Warhol-esque Elvis and Marilyn Monroe images. It's like a little patch of Austin, TX in Fribourg, CH.
     That was wonderful yesterday, and this has been today.
     With class beginning at 9, it could not have been a good day, and I knew that when I awoke after a late night of studying with my hands covered in ink. My neck, which has been stiff for several days, stiffened progressively during class, and I found myself unable to move my head or touch my chin to my chest without pain shooting into the nerves of my shoulders. Someone yesterday mentioned to me that meningitis has exactly these symptoms, so I contacted the program coordinator during class about seeing a doctor. I do not have insurance. But, since meningitis is deadly, and since death is typically costlier than treatment at my age, I went from class to a local doctor. And now for the big let-down of the story: I don't have meningitis. The Swiss doctor interviewed and measured me personally for perhaps 20 or 30 minutes, taking my pulse and measuring my height without delegating these duties to a nurse. After asking my course of study and whether I leave the window open at night as I sleep, he informed me that my problem is cold air. Having received a prescription for muscle relaxant, and samples of some cream and pain killers, I inquired about the price. To understand what 70 CH-franks is, you must know that the exchange rate is currently $0.82/CH-frank. This was $57 for an emergency office visit directly with the doctor, without insurance. So maybe today is not as bad as I thought; but then again, I discovered before dinner that I had not only stained my hands, but placed my pen uncapped in my backpack last night.

20070603

     I sit, this relaxed Sunday, in the shade of a park built atop a university building, my stomach full of the barbeque served at the exchange program party. This week has been unusually cold and wet, but the skies are now clear and the air is a perfect shade of cool. On Friday I went after class to a festival held on Perolles Boulevard to commemorate the 800th anniversary of Fribourg. On the street there was much beer, food, and even absinthe to be had. The conversations I've been able to have in local bars with future lawyers about comparative law have been more fun and informative than most other parts of law school. After the street festival I went to a concert held at Fri-Son, a large dirty-looking warehouse-like building with graffiti inside and out, and which features a large disco-ball in the shape of a skull. Although the main act was quite technically good, I preferred the opening act. Featuring an electric guitar, an accordion, a toy electric saxophone with labels on the keys, and a short brass horn, the spaghetti-armed guitarist led the band with his voice ranging from contralto to Count-Chocula in such songs as "I eat my breakfast in the niiiiight."


     On Saturday I went to Gruyere and toured the cheese factory, Geiger Museum, and castle. Gruyere cheese is incredible, and there is a huge difference between the 6 and 10 month old cheese. It's well worth buying the older cheese, if you want a more crumbly texture and mature taste. It's also true that you can taste everything the cow's eaten. My mom tells me this is also true of chickens' eggs when stink-bugs swarm. The best part of the cheese factory was in the cellar, which employs a robot to carefully flip each 80 pound wheel of cheese. The castle of Gruyere was quite beautiful, but you'll have to see it for yourself if you want to understand. The Geiger Museum, however, is easy to describe. It's like walking into the set of Alien. The entire museum is dimly lit and futuristic, and even the floor tiles are of an alien texture reminiscent of circuit boards designed by Geiger. Everything inside is a blend between organic and machine, from the cyborg statues, to the bone and rubber chairs, and even the floors which are raised above an edging of river stones which runs to the walls. Geiger is crazy in a very good way.

     After the museum we met up with another friend who was too scared to go inside, and had lunch at a local Gruyere restaurant. Gruyere is best known for its cheese, but also known for its meringues and creams. I enjoyed a wonderful meal of two espressos and ice cream, which seemed to me better than strawberries and cream. But I would not have realized, except for my friends who ordered this meal, just what it means in Gruyere. The bowl of cream was larger than a cereal bowl. It was about 6 inches across, and 2.5 inches tall. This monstrous bowl was filled with a cream which flowed only until the cream had thinned to a coating of about 1mm. I have not had chemistry in a while, but I think this indicates fatty chains about a million nanometers long. So I wrote my name in it. Then Chris took a small bowl and began slowly stirring. Within two minutes, he had made butter. Judging from the amount of butter he extracted from the small amount of cream used, I think the bowl had about a half pound of butter fat for coating the little plates of strawberries. How tasty.

     Since I believe in saving the best for last, I'll mention now a new friend I met in the Geiger museum who will now accompany me on the rest of my travels: Grumpy. One of the seven dwarves created by Disney, and mass produced in the millions, this Grumpy is only #6/25 of a series of mute dwarf travelers who hitchhike across the globe by way of note tied to their person. If you see me, please ask about Grumpy. He'd love to have his picture taken with you.