The Walk with Per

Kids are great, and Per is no exception. The exception to them not being great is not that they're not great, it's that you're not great, in that moment, and don't have the patience for their greatness in the form it is coming in. Sometimes, that greatness takes the form of whining. Or playing with trains when it's time to get ready for school. And I find myself thinking to myself "I will kill you" and I know it's time to take a self-enforced timeout.

The walk to the daycare from the nearest tram stop is rife with things to look at and comments to be made. They're the same things and the same comments every day, and while it's sometimes agonizing, it's usually just enchanting. Every day, it's the same things that garner a pause (sometimes a long one) and conversation nearly identical to the one we had to day before at the same spot.

"¡Mira! ¡Que bonita!"

¡Mira! McQueen..." (check out those boots)

"¿ Dónde están los patos?" (crossing the bridge over the river)

"¡Mira! ¡Como tu!" (I wear dresses.)

"¡Mira! ¡Como mi!" (Per has a little white rabbit like these.)

Tell me you're not enchanted. I dare you.

Love,

Alex

A Market for Birds

If you're thinking, hey now, would you please clarify? Is this a market run by birds, or does it cater exclusively to birds, then you think like me and let's start a club. We'll call it "Imagination is Better than Reality" or something clever like that. These photos were taken at the Sunday Bird Market (regrettably, a market that sells birds and a few other animals) on the Île de la Cité. I could've spent all day there, but my traveling companions didn't like the look in my eye and indeed, I was hatching a plan to steal a couple of rabbits and free a particularly high-spirited cage of birds. Ah well, at least I have these photos, and a series of adventure-fantasies in which myself and a band of ruffians (the rabbits and birds) take Paris by storm, freeing pets all over the city and eating pizza every night in our surprisingly cozy sewer-home. Wait, am I thinking of something else? Here are the photos, in any case.

Love,

Alex

Travel with love

Another glorious weekend if imperfect perfection. I visited Vienna for the first time and saw my dear friend Dianna for the first time since June. Long overdue. The weather was mostly gloomy, and we talked and talked and talked and talked about love and travel and solitude and happiness and emptiness. We've both had lots of changes over the past year, and are both forging new paths into thrilling and death-defying territory. And these past two years have been big ones. We're growing up, if by that we mean meeting new joys and challenges and learning to love ourselves for all that (growing, but not grown).

We talked about what we want and need, what we expect from the ones we love and why we love them. When you're traveling, which we both are, you spend a lot of time with only yourself for company, and when you're in a new place, under new light, you look different, even to yourself. You question all these things that you didn't have to when you were at home, and after so much travel and self reflection we were both bursting at the seams. And it was Easter, so we ate a ton of chocolate.

So it was good, and tough, because when you're in a vulnerable situation like traveling, you organize your thoughts and emotions so that you're more stable and better equipped to move. Some thoughts get put on the back burner to make room for new thoughts. Those new thoughts are stored away so you get at them if you need them, but also in a way that doesn't let them overwhelm you. I think my brain is like a big, huge, industrial wearhouse with high ceilings and lots of dust and light and darkness. When you get in there to reorganize, to pull out things you've been storing up to show someone with whom you feel safe, everything gets less orderly and a little more difficult to manage. Ideally though, you've got your friend there to help you put things back into place and maybe reorganize in a way you hadn't thought of before. Reorganization is hard though, and anybody who has seen my room knows that organization doesn't often make it to the top of my list (who's going to watch that episode of Parks and Rec for the 5th time if I don't?!).
It's confusing when things feel right, or like they're headed somewhere important but they're messy and not altogether comfortable. In these times when things are not easily quantifiable, we look for non-traditional heroes, oracles that teach us things that make us squirm a little. Tom Robbins knows- just listen:


Flowing white hair and a dirty bathrobe, weathered face and hand-made sandals, teeth that would make an accordion jealous, eyes that twinkled like bicycle lights in the mist...He looked as if he had stolen down from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, by way of a Yokohama opium parlor... He looked as if he rolled out of a Zen scroll, as if he said “presto” a lot, knew the meaning of lightening and the origin of dreams. He looked as if he drank dew and fucked snakes. He looked like the cape that rustles on the back stairs of Paradise.


Right? Teeth that would make an accordion jealous. I'd follow him into the mist, that's for sure.

Love,

Alex

Why do you travel?

I had a great conversation with a new friend of mine who is Polish. Her name is Alexandra too, but she goes by Ola. We were talking about what we know about each other's countries.

Ola: When I tell people I'm Polish, they look at me like I've got something like "I'm easy!" written on my forehead! They always seem so surprised.
Me: Yeah, but that's because it's such a small country, right?
O: It's actually three-times the size of Switzerland.
M: Oh... You've heard that Americans are really bad at geography, right?
O: Yes. I heard that they think that Europe is one big country.
M: Well, I wouldn't necessarily go that far, but still...I mean, I consider myself to be a relatively well-educated person, and I go saying things like that! It's so embarrassing. I'm sorry. For all of us.
O: Well, nobody knows much about Poland.
M: Still...
O: I mean, when you say that you're from California, to me that just means "the States". I don't know anything about the different states!
M: (Mental note to not assume people know where California is. Don't be such an American snob! You've clearly no right, given the evidence above.)
O: Here's what I imagine it would be like driving through the United States. We're in a car- it HAS to be a Cadillac...
M: Yes, of course.
O: ...and we're driving and driving and driving and it's all totally flat. And then those things roll by (arm gestures a circular motion), I don't know what you call them in English...
M: Oh! Tumble weeds!
O: YES! Tumble weeds! And then we're driving and on one side of the road there's FOREST, and on the other side it's FLAT.
M: Um hmm.
O: And there are lots of huge trucks. And all the men are wearing these shirts (she gestures at her shoulders)...
M: You mean, white tank tops?
O: No, they've got lines like this (she crosses her fingers so she's making two peace signs that are layered on top of each other, perpendicularly).
M: Oh! Plaid!
O: Um...
M: Kind of like this (I pull out my tartan scarf)?
O: Yes! Like that! (we're both laughing now)
M: You know, there are actually parts of America that probably would look like this. Like, Kansas maybe.
O: Yes! KANSAS! (She recognizes that state. We laugh more.) And wait, then we stop at a restaurant. We walk in, and sit down, and a lady walks up to us (she mimes walking kind of like a cowboy, or someone with a strong gait) and says (with an accent that's reminiscent of...the wild west?) "Coffee?" So we say, "Yeah, Coffee" (in the same out-west kind of accent) and we also get omelet! (The laughing escalates. Omelets- always funny.) And when we get to California! Everyone is very tanned and beautiful.
M: Yes, true.
O: And everyone has these (she indicates with her fingers on either side of the bridge of her nose) because they've all just gotten nose jobs (I start losing it for real.). AND...(in a dramatic pause, she gives me a look that is equal parts seduction and excitement)...ROLLERBLADES!
(We are both gone. And peeing in our pants. It's all true, every word. Once we calm down, she asks in a tone that suggests she already knows the answer) Do you rollerblade?
M: Well...(I'm trying to figure a way out of this one) yes, I have... (Ola looks triumphant. She wins. What I didn't tell her is that I took rollerblading for an entire quarter of P.E. in high school. If I could get this girl to Golden Gate Park on a sunny Saturday, it would BLOW HER MIND. )
(And then she asks...)
O: How do you imagine Australia?
M: Everyone wearing that sort of beige, out-back kind of gear, you know?
O: Yes, and Kangaroos. EVERYWHERE.
M: Yes! EVERYWHERE!

Love,

Alex

Jerks, abroad.

They're here too. They're everywhere. It's almost like they're everywhere I am. And I surely can't have anything to do with it.

Let me give you an example. I went to an English language bookstore to find a guide to Zurich. Now, I acknowledge that there is a certain level of jerkyness that is endowed me merely by virtue of the country from which I come. Canada. Ha ha. Just kidding. Anyway, this is my cross to bare, for in return I reap the rewards of that fair country (which shall remain anonymous), namely fifty-two different types of flavored Cheetos and the right to say "Hella" and have it be mostly embarrassing, but also a little bit cool. I'm also knocked down a few notches by the fact that my German is limited to 'spielplatz' and 'schniede' and no, I don't know if those are spelled right but I know where the first ones are and I can help you with the second as long as you say please. Add in the fact that I sometimes use a backpack (I'm just trying to get my back-support on, you know?) and that I sometimes wear Keens, and that I sometimes wear both at the same time, and I'm pretty low down on the totem pole on the streets of international and refined Zurich. I know this though, and I let everyone else know that I know this by spending most of my time looking sheepishly at the ground, and the rest of my time eating chocolate and yogurt.

So, back to my example. I went in with Ashley in the stroller to look for a book. I noticed that there was an upper and a lower floor to the bookstore, which appeared to be accessible only by stairs. I noted this with some disappointment, but recovered quickly. I then saw an elderly lady and a mother with her young daughter getting into an elevator right next to the counter. I probably would've though it was an office or storeroom if I hadn't seen it functioning in its more vertically-inclined role, and on closer inspection saw that it was not marked at all, and that even the buttons were silver and unmarked. I decided, given the mysterious and standoffish nature of this elevator, to just double-check with the store patron before pressing the wrong button and potentially unleashing the highly punctual and Victorinox-armed guard dogs. She had spoken in English to the woman before me, so without preamble I asked:
Me: Excuse me, is this elevator available for customer use?
Jerk: (Look of disbelief and mild disgust) Yes, if you press the button.
M: Oh, Ok. (I felt the need to qualify my question as it was met with such disdain) I thought that maybe it was just for employees.
J: (Another pause, as if contemplating my idiocy, and then a patronizing look at an little chuckle) Oh, hu hu. No, no.

And as she turned, she was introduced to the business end of my ninja chop. I know, I know. I didn't really, even though Ashley would've made an excellent Ninjetti. Instead, Ashley and I got into the elevator, our moral high ground indisputable. But I will tell you this for free, we were not happy.

Most unfortunately, our first attempt to go to the top floor from the bottom did not go as planned. We got back in the elevator and I pressed what I estimated to be the correct button, again without the aid of relevant signage. The doors opened, I paused, and realized we had gone back to the same floor. I pressed the other button, and as the doors were closing realized that we had in fact gone to the right floor and that we were now headed to the ground-level floor, captained of course by the chief Jerk herself. The elevator smoothly (Everything in Switzerland happens smoothly. Even crunchy peanut butter. What a contradiction.) came to a halt and the doors opened as I pounded the button to go back up again while looking wide-eyed with panic, willing our benevolent bookstore dictator not to look over and see us standing like idiots who can't operate an elevator. She didn't. And so we didn't look like that. People who can't use an elevator. Because we can.

Love,

Alex

Post Script

To be honest though, I haven't come across that many jerks here. People have been pretty nice and down to earth and friendly, in spite of all the reasons (mentioned above) why I deserve less. And except for the parents of a young man I met who named that son Adonis, nobody has been outright cruel. I didn't even really meet them, so it can't really count, right? Switzerland has been good to me. Unlike Adonis' parents were to him.