The end of one adventure begins another

After I completed my study abroad experience in the spring of 2009, it was the end of the road for "Notes from London." It would have been quite a misnomer if I was writing "Notes from London" that were in fact being written in Hamilton, NY, as I finished up my senior year! Nevertheless, this blog remains as an online record of the incredible experiences I had during my time abroad. Regardless of how or why you have navigated to this blog, I invite you to explore my posts, make comments, and ask questions. I may no longer be in London posting, but I am still online, and I certainly haven't forgotten my experiences yet. I never will. I'd love to help out if you are also thinking of studying abroad and are grappling with any issues or decisions.

As I write this particular post I have not only completed my study abroad experience, but also my undergraduate study! I graduated almost exactly three months ago in May, 2010. That, of course, marked the end of my collegiate adventure, and the beginning of my "adult life." It seems weird to think of it in those terms when I can still remember some of the individual gifts I received at my eighth birthday party!

Nevertheless, I am now out on my next adventure in the real world, looking for jobs, paying rent, and all those fun things. If anybody is particularly interested in keeping track of me beyond this blog, I can offer you a few options. For starters, there is my personal resume website (http://www.jasonbk.com). It is something I put together to help in my job search. It's a little dry, but it certainly has all the facts, and you'll also be able to find my professional writing samples there! Of course, in today's world, there are always social media options for keeping in touch as well:




I tend to keep my Facebook profile confined to my close circle of friends, so if you fall into that category and want to connect on Facebook, I should be easy enough to find!

It is certainly late to finally be wrapping things up with this blog, but better late than never, right? Thank you to everyone who followed me, and good luck in all your endeavors.

Traveling with my father

Obviously this post is coming a little late. The end of my time abroad went in an absolute blur. On May 19 I took the last of my final exams. Fingers crossed that it went well. I won't know until at least July 3; that goes for all of my classes. I believe it was the night of May 19 when I hopped on a bus to Heathrow Airport.

But it is not what you think.

I was not going to Heathrow to get on an airplane. Rather, I was going to meet my father, who was coming to spend my final week in England with me, traveling. Up to that point I had actually seen very little of England itself. I pretty thoroughly explored London, obviously, and the area around Egham. I had also been to Brighton. I had been to Wales (2x), and Scotland; but that is not England. I had been to Italy, Switzerland, and France; but that was not England. So Dad insisted that we would rent a car and drive around England.

Yep. Rent a car.

So we did. Luckily we had a GPS, so the navigation part was a lot easier, and we could focus a lot more on driving. In other words Dad could focus more on driving and I could focus more on telling him that he was driving on the wrong side of the road.

He actually fared very well, and we got to see an awful lot. The trip hit the following locations in a whirlwind week:
-Stonehenge and Avebury
-Bath
-Oxford
-Forest of Dean (on the border with Wales; we visited some people Dad had met when he was working in Holland during the stone age)
-Lincoln
-York
-One last day in Egham. One last trip to Tesco. One last trip to the Happy Man. One last sticky toffee pudding.

Avebury standing stone and two ugly guys
(pic at top of page is Lincoln Cathedral)

The trip was a great success. We stayed in bed and breakfasts scattered across the country, except for the one night we spent with the Phelps, Dad's friends, who were generous enough to host us on about one day's notice when we got stuck without a place to stay (we hadn't anticipated that it was a bank holiday weekend when we were traveling). We saw a whole lot of stuff, were stalked by references to Bill Bryson, ate some good food, didn't die while driving. It was all good.

The trip's end was thus: we spent our last night at RHUL, and took the bus to the airport in the morning (we had dropped the rental off the day prior, and taken the bus to RHUL). Of course, we had to catch the very first bus of the day, which came at some ungodly hour like 5:17 am. That is obviously not the approximation I made it out to be. As if that were not early enough, we had to walk across campus to the bus stop to begin with... carrying four suitcases. Oh, yeah, and to make sure the university left a bitter taste in my mouth, housing refused to let me check out of my room the night before leaving. I had to go sign the paperwork in the morning as I was leaving. So at 4:30 am I found myself talking to this night security guy at the "reception." The process that was so important for me to do in the morning as opposed to at night? Sign a piece of paper. Honestly.

Nevertheless, we caught our bus, navigated the gargantuan airport (largely due to the fact that I had navigated the same route a week earlier as I went to retrieve my father upon his arrival), and boarded our plane without issue. I was entertained in flight with the likes of Clint Eastwood's Gran Torino, and the comedy Paul Blart: Mall Cop (okay... maybe I wasn't so entertained). And that was it.

The folks at the nursing home

I can't remember how much of the backstory I've already give about my attempts to volunteer while abroad, so I'll give a quick recap. Way back in January, when I first arrived at Royal Holloway, I tried to find volunteer opportunities through the campus volunteering organization. As it turned out, the campus "volunteering organization" is little more than an automated email spammer and a load of red tape. After several back and forth emails with an obnoxious computer I located a nursing home in the area at which I planned to volunteer. I had been hoping there was a Royal Holloway student group that volunteered there so that I could meet students... but there wasn't. In fact nobody volunteers at this nursing home, and they seemed surprised that anyone would even inquire....... even though they are in Royal Holloway's poorly constructed volunteerism database. Whatever.

Before the home would allow me to volunteer they wanted to do a background check. So I provided them with 3 forms of ID as well as a reference list. They said they would call when it cleared. This was in January. Over the next few months I would hear from the people I listed as references that they were receiving strange letters via snail mail, etc. I pretty much assumed after awhile that the background check wouldn't clear until I was back in the states. It was frustrating, because all I was trying to do was help! It was not until I was traveling in Europe in April that I received notification that I had cleared my background check. Upon arriving back at Royal Holloway I got in touch with the home and let them know I would still be interested in volunteering, but it would only be for about three weeks, because I'm going home! They said that was fine, and to come in.

On my first day I went and met Martin, the activities coordinator who would act as my "supervisor." He said hello, shook my hand, introduced me to someone and said "you have free reign. Go. Talk." See, when you never have volunteers, I don't think you know what to do when you finally do get one. So for the past couple of weeks I've gone over to the home every couple days when I have a large chunk of time (which is pretty often on this stupid exam schedule), and simply walked around meeting people. With this post I just wanted to write a little about the residents I see most often:

John: John apparently moved into the home relatively recently. He is 85 or 86 years old, and is originally from Scotland. He phrased his age rather ambiguously. I couldn't tell if he meant he was 86 or if he was in his 86th year, which would make him 85, turning 86 on October 24. His wife, Patricia passed away somewhere around a year or less ago, and he has been having a very difficult time coming to terms with it. Understandable when you lose someone you've spent most of your days with since the 1940s. Being a new resident, and someone that clearly could use some company I try to make a point of seeing John both when I first arrive and when I leave. His memory is better than most of the people in the home, and he clearly recognizes me. Occassionally, however, a few lines that are seemingly out of place slip into conversation, and he has trouble remembering people, places and names. Twice he has pulled out a photo album and showed me pictures of Patricia, Patricia's very good friend (married to his own best friend), various members of his family, various homes he has lived in, and various former pets including Blackie, a big black dog, and a very fat white and black cat. John's father was a chemist, and during WWII he wouldn't allow John to enlist until he was 22 years old. When that time came around John enlisted in the RAF. He had a brief stint as a pilot, but wrecked a plane (not in combat) and injured himself. After recovering he returned to the RAF, not as a pilot, but as a member of air-sea rescue. His best friend (the one mentioned earlier) was an RAF pilot. John has a picture on his wall of an RAF battlescene and he insists that it is his best friend piloting the plane in the center of the frame. I'm not sure whether this means he actually was the pilot of that particular plane, or whether he piloted a similar plane. The picture doesn't seem to be a photograph, so I lean towards the latter, but I suppose it doesn't really matter. Fact is, his best friend was an RAF pilot, and John was in air-sea rescue. After the war, John worked in a company that sealed the hulls of ocean-going vessels. I believe he worked in the office/managerial aspect of the company.

Peggy: I don't know nearly as much about Peggy, I suppose because it wouldn't "be proper" to dig deep into her past. Peggy is a very friendly woman. Upon first sight she looks frightfully frail, and you aren't sure she is going to be able to talk with you. Generally she is sitting in complete silence in front of the television with other silent residents. Once you say hello, however, a smile lights up her face and she very articulately returns the greeting and asks how you are. It turns out that Peggy's stance while watching television reveals a lot about her. Many, if not most, of the residents are slouched or reclining as they sit in their seats. This is understandable, of course, as many can do little more than this. Peggy, however, is always sitting up as straight as an arrow. While many residents remain in pajamas for the day, or wear messy clothes, Peggy is always immaculately dressed in a long skirt. You see, despite a mildly faulty memory, Peggy is a lady. As only a woman in Britain could possibly be a lady. When I first met Peggy we were watching a television program in which they try to renovate homes in under 60 minutes. A nurse came to see if Peggy would like to go downstairs to the main room of the home for a possible activity. Peggy hesitated and hinted to the nurse that she did not want to leave because she was afraid I would be offended at her departure. I assured her otherwise and accompanied her downstairs. How could you be anything but a lady when you are served tea promptly at 5pm every day?

Tom: Tom is what you likely picture an elderly blue collar Englishman to be. He is short, talks a lot, and winks a lot. He is "from a family of fifteen," lived only a few miles away in Chertsey, and has never left the country. That means England, not Britain. I.e. he's never been to Scotland. He prides himself on being more mobile and more mentally sound than many other residents. The first floor is where the patients suffering from more severe cases of dementia reside and Tom hopes he doesn't live long enough to ever live on the first floor. Despite his pride in his memory he still finds it difficult to keep my story straight between visits, though he certainly recognizes me and a lot of what we have talked about in the past. Tom's accent is very thick, I don't think it is a cockney accent, but it is somewhere close. It often feels like he is speaking another language. Nevertheless, he is the biggest talker, loves to joke around, and has an opinion about everything. Especially the food. He refuses to eat any of the food served at tea. He says he will eat what they serve when they start serving bread, butter, a block of cheese and an onion. The perfect tea-time snack. While some residents are unable to walk on their own power, most have some mobility with a four-legged walker. Tom hates the walkers and insists he will only ever walk as long as he can walk with his old-fashioned cane. He uses his cane to go outside, unaccompanied and under his own power, on nice days. He sits alone in the garden and smokes a pipe. Given his generally youthful attitude, his memory, and his independence I placed Tom somewhere in the range of mid-80s. He is 98.

Ruth: Ruth has to cope with some significant difficulties. She is completely blind. She is wheelchair bound. And she is almost completely deaf. She can hear with a hearing aid and when you speak loudly very close to her ear. Despite all of this, she is very approachable, friendly and talkative. When you speak to her she likes to hold your hand so that she some idea of where you are. She likes making that connection. She grew up in Staines. To give you an idea of proximity, some of the other Arcadia students and I walked to Staines and back one night in search of ice cream. Having grown up in Staines, she was actually christened in Egham, at a church that is still there. She was christened there 104 years ago. On her 100th birthday she received a letter from the queen, but she isn't sure where it is. At some point in her long life, she never told me when, she somehow happened upon a man getting ready to fly his helicopter (what a bizarre story, I wish I knew more...), and asked if she could go along. He said yes. And then ruth flew in a helicopter over Windsor Castle. Apparently the flight was in all the local papers. As I was speaking with Ruth, Martin (my 'supervisor') came over to say hello to her, and called her "mum." She explained that he called her mum because his own wasn't around. I told her that my mum was back in the US, and though I get to talk to her often, it would be nice to also have a resident English mum for my time in England. So now I have an English mum too (don't worry mom, I'm not killing you off, just trying to make an old lady's day).

There are plenty more residents, but not many more hours to type about them. So, perhaps in future posts.

The Power of the Sun

The sun is obviously a rather influential force in the world. Sometimes, with all the praise it receives, you'd just swear the world revolves around it or something. As a kid it was lost on me why Captain Planet required the sun for rejuvenation (as does Superman I believe... Captain Planet, in retrospect you are such a poser!). My European travels have cured me of this misunderstanding, however, and I now understand what sort of power the sun can exert on us, even individually.

It happened specifically in Paris. I spent three full days there. The first day was generally overcast, featuring the types of clouds that sometimes let enough light through to compel the wearing of sunglasses, yet not enough to generate any warmth. In other words, they were not rainclouds, but they were nonetheless unenjoyable. I spent this day visiting and then wandering down the river, starting at Notre Dame and ending at the Eiffel Tower. I only went in/up at the Pantheon, Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower, satisfying myself for the time being with the outdoor areas of locations such as the Louvre. I did not climb at Notre Dame because the length of the line was borderline absurd. The second day it rained, which sucked to be frank. It wasn't really raining when I set off in the morning, so I went to Notre Dame, hoping to climb the bell tower as soon as it opened. I got there fifteen minutes early and still wound up waiting about an hour. It was well worth it though, because the view from the top was very nice, featuring the infamous gargoyles I had hardly been able to notice when looking from the ground. The problem, of course, was that the rainy, overcast weather limited visibility, as evidenced by this ghostly picture of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. To some extent it added to the atmosphere of Notre Dame.

The spectre of the looming Eiffel Tower

Num-Nums! (My favorite gargoyle)

While the weather may have helped spookify the gargoyles of Notre Dame, it also crappified the city of Paris. I took shelter by visiting the Louvre, as did the rest of the tourist population, as evidenced by the crowds. Perhaps the Louvre would have been cooler and more amazing if it wasn't at the tail end of a three-week European journey. By this point I had seen so many depictions of Jesus, and so many ancient ruins, that I couldn't stomach much more. Maybe if I knew even the slightest about art I could have appreciated the artwork for its skill... but I don't know anything about art. I wandered about a bit to warm up, saw some Egyptian stuff, some Greek stuff, some Medieval European stuff, and of course the Mona Lisa (200 people packed in a room in front of a 2' x 2' painting of a rather plain looking woman... a bit of a let down. Again, maybe if I knew about art...), and then took off into the cold drizzle.

At this point I was feeling a little weary from a combination of the weather and the general experience of the packed Louvre (I'm not big on crowds). I looked at the list of things to do I had compiled, trying to decide where to head next. In such a mood the choice seemed obvious. I hopped on the Metro, bound for the Pere Lechaise Cemetary. All I knew about it was that it was home to Jim Morrison, of The Doors. I wanted a picture of that for my friend Brandon. Good reason to visit a place, huh? Of course that is the joy of traveling alone: you can visit places for no reason other than that you want to do something stupid, and nobody will argue that it is more worthwhile to go see the Arc de Triomphe.

Jim Morrison is indeed dead and tucked away in Paris

The cemetary is home to many more than Jim Morrison, of course. Oscar Wilde is also lying mildly peacefully within the fenced in walls of Pere Lechaise. I say mildly peacefully because his grave is absolutely covered with lipstick marks (and a bit of friendly grafitti) from admirers. Ya got me as to why people are so anxious to kiss a dead guy, but whatever. There are also memorials to all the various concentration camps of WWII. One interesting grave I stumbled upon was that of Abelard and Heloise. They are an infamous medieval couple (Abelard was a philosopher), whose love letters to one another help define the romance of their time period. I learned about them during one of my classes at Royal Holloway, so I found it a bit ironic that I stumbled upon their grave, which was enormous. To be honest, I walked past it about three times, thinking "boy, that's a big grave," without stopping. Then I saw on an information sign that Abelard and Heloise were in the cemetary and set out to find them, only to discover their grave was the big thing I kept walking past.

Oscar Wilde is a player, even in death

Pere Lechaise was like a city built for the dead

That was my last stop for the day. I simply couldn't bear any more being out in the rain. Plus, I'd done my fair share of walking. That night featured a lonely meal, and lonely "chocolat noir" crepe, with the loneliness accentuated by the drizzle and clouds. The next day didn't begin too much better. There was no rain, but the perma-clouds persisted, and I chose to begin with the catacombes. While waiting in line to enter a bird crapped on my head, of course, presumably knowing that I was an English speaker. The catacombes are a depressing, though interesting, sight for their scale and the anonymity of death that is implied in seeing so many carefully arranged bones deep beneath a city. Needless to say, the last day of my trip was off to a particularly cheery start.

Not how I hope to spend eternity, all broken apart and
stacked with countless others

As the went on, things got generally brighter though. It never rained, and though the clouds were not leaving, they seemed to lighten. I wound up at the Picasso museum, whose work to me, the untrained eye, seems a bit less heavy than what I had seen during the rest of my travels. From there it was on to the Sacre Coeur. Again, having seen so many I was weary of churches and didn't spend much time exploring the structure itself. Outside, however, were some really fun to watch street entertainers. I can feel eyes rolling (Mom), but they're part of the experience too. Plus, you should have seen the break dancers. Finally I took off for what would be my final new sight: the Arc de Triomphe. Somewhere along the way the clouds finally, after three days, broke, and the sun emerged. This of course made the Arc de Triomphe, a big thingy that is eerily similar to the Arch of Constantine in Rome, in the middle of a giant traffic circle, much more interesting. I was even able to witness the changing of the flower ceremony thing for the tomb of the unknown soldier. It thought it looked like the French troops were poorly trained (they couldn't march or line up properly)... and then like they were line dancing:

Dance party!

With the sun out I wanted to run to the Eiffel Tower and get some nice pictures of it before it got dark. I had wanted to go at dark anyway to see it all lit up anyway, so I hustled to beat sunset. Turns out I didn't have to hustle at all because it stayed light until nearly 9 pm (it was about 6:30 when I set off to find it). As I walked I nearly settled my judgment of Paris: that it was a decent enough city, but generally a depressing place, what with the gargoyles and bones and traffic circles around important monuments. Then I saw the Eiffel Tower against the backdrop of a bright blue sky and late afternoon sign. I reassessed. Paris can be beautiful, or even absolutely gorgeous. I still hesitate to say that the entire city is gorgeous, but I do not hesitate to make the observation that one's perception of a city is in fact almost entirely dependent upon the weather conditions. Those last few hours in Paris were immeasurably better than the earlier three days...

Montreux

Ah, Montreux. Where to start. I suppose it should be somewhere near the beginning.


I was on a train, two trains actually, to transfer myself from Rome to Geneva. The two trains met in Milan, said hello, and swapped me from one to the other. The train from Milan to Geneva was a relatively long journey and it was in a style of car I had never been in before, with compartments of 8 seats (or 6 seats?) with two rows facing one another. There were four other passengers in the car with me to begin the journey. I couldn't speak to any of them because I do not speak their languages, and because one was a dog. As I said, in Switzerland everyone speaks everything, so the people likely could have spoken to me, but did not make any overt tries. Not to mean that they were unfriendly. There was a girl traveling alone who simply sat in the corner, read, and listened to music. There was also a couple, sitting across from me, only slightly older than myself. With them was a very small dog traveling in some kind of ridiculous designer handbag. The poor thing was so terribly domesticated that it seemed as if it never emerged from the handbag, and was alright with that.

I mention this couple because they taught me one of the great lessons of my trip, unknowingly. They were not talking much as they got on the train, and mostly just quietly mumbled things and pointed as they got settled down. Once the journey was underway, however, I was scoping out everyone in the car, mostly for lack of anything better to do. They were an attractive young couple, both of them good and healthy looking people. And then they spoke. And now I know that German (which I can only assume is what they were speaking) is the singlemost ugly language ever used to communicate a series of messages between human beings. Yuck. A language of gurgling saliva and horrible hacking noises. I don't hold it against this couple, who seemed nice enough. But my goodness, I hope I never have to learn and use German.

That, in effect is a very long introduction to the topic of Montreux. This couple exited the train relatively early in the journey, leaving me to nurse my horrified ears and anticipate Geneva. As the train neared Geneva mountains began to sprout up in the window. As did a big lake, Lake Geneva. And then, something magical happened. The mountains and the lake combined to create one of the most visually stunning landscapes you will ever see (or read about I suppose). The effect was amplified by the effect of the late afternoon sun coming in at an impossible angle through a sky featuring just one or two cotton candy clouds. In the words of my own esteemed generation, it was "like whoah." I wanted to take a picture, but my camera was packed somewhere in my violently stuffed backpack, and I didn't want to disturb those around me by going through such a battle again, so I contented myself with the idea that I would return to this magical land. Just as I had this thought, the train stopped at a place called Montreux.

I whipped out my guidebook and began reading about Montreux, to see how I could get back there from Geneva. It turns out that there would be some expense involved, but I decided that if there was a window of opportunity while in Geneva I would just do it. The guidebook also mentioned that the song about "Smoke on the Water" had its roots in Montreux, as its writer, while visiting, witnessed a fire and wrote about the sights that he saw. Interesting.

Fast forward a bit. Geneva was a lovely city and all, but there really didn't prove to be an immense amount of stuff to do, especially on Easter weekend. So when Easter, my last day rolled around, I made the rather safe assumption that I would have nothing much to do in Geneva, and took off for a day in Montreux. I assumed there would be even less to do in Montreux, but I was hoping the scenery could absorb me for an entire day.

Yep, scenery could absorb me for the day.

It was a day not nearly as beautiful as the day I was on the train. There was an abundance of clouds, but not too heavy, and not rain clouds. But it was not brilliantly sunny and blue. When I made it down to lakeside at Montreux I was hit with two surprises. I had expected there to be nothing open, and a limited number of people. Instead, everything was open. There were even festival-like tents set up along the shore selling candy and cheap bracelets and things, and there were plenty of people, in increasing numbers as the day progressed. The second surprise was a statue of Freddie Mercury. Huh? Apparently he had bought some sort of property or recording studio or something in Montreux when he was alive (obviously), and Montreux wanted to honor him after his death. You've already seen this picture, but just imagine walking through a scenic town along a lake with the Alps as a backdrop, in Switzerland, and stumbling upon a Freddie Mercury statue. Lamar really wanted a picture.

I wish I were rich...
Then I'd go see "We Will Rock You" in London.
But I'm sure it is too cheesy to warrant the price.

But, my day in Montreux was generally what I thought it would be. Lovely scenery, with me walking up and down the shoreline occasionally snapping photos, or sitting and watching... nothing. It was all very pleasant. When I walked far enough down the lake I came across this castle thing. I had read of its existence in my guidebook, but wasn't really interested in another castle, so I didn't pay to go in, and don't know anything about its history. But it made for some scenic photos!

My camera struggles with the white peak against
white cloud thing. So imagine this... more dramatic

The day was not without its further surprises, though. I had packed my lunch, assuming eateries would not be open for business in Montreux on Easter, but a combination of looking for something to do and being a little hungry still compelled me to search for ice cream. I returned down the lake to the crowded area with the vendors (as I had wandered away to much quieter stretches of lakeside path) and came across the most wicked awesome concert ever. And I say that as a complete lie. It was bizarre. It featured nobody playing instruments (though there were instruments behind them), some really bad recorded instrumental bits, a green beard, pink hair, and a three and a half foot singer with a dead mic. Just take a look. Uh... what?

Anyone care to explain this, especially the child?

Finally, the day was drawing to a close. I was determined to get shots of the sun setting over the mountains and the water. The obstacles were the clouds already mentioned, and the angle. Basically, if I waited for sunset in Montreux it really wasn't going to be that dramatic. So I took off down the lake to a spot I could see way in the distance that I felt would offer better views due to the curvature of the shore. Basically it was the next town down the lake from Montreux, to which I walked. Then of course I was faced with the prospect of walking back to Montreux in the dark, and an hour long train ride back to Geneva, which I really didn't want to do all that late. So I had some balancing to do. I settled for shots like this, with the sun almost setting, so that I could begin the long journey back.

I love the tree in the middle of the lake, mostly because I just don't get it.

That's basically all I have to say about Montreux, so I'll leave you with a bunch of other shots....

This is a panorama from two pictures, stitched together later (but before my computer meltdown)

Montreux had all these weird plant people set up.

Recent events in England

Just to confuse your conception time, I'm going to give a quick rundown of my past week, and then hopefully give another post describing my big trip.

This week was the start of final exams at Royal Holloway. These are the tests for which students have apparently been studying for a grand total of 4, now 4+ weeks. I had a final on Wednesday and a final on Friday. I started studying... last weekend? With my computer issues and all, it was late. And for the Friday test I started studying on Thursday. And you know what? The tests didn't seem all that bad. They are only two essay questions and two hours long. And you get to choose the two essays from a choice of 9-10. Maybe I'll be terribly surprised by the grades, but hopefully not.

In other news, I went to Brighton yesterday. Arcadia was leading a "day trip" that I had paid for way back in January when I got to England. So I was up at 6 am to leave my room at 7, catch a train at 7:23, to get into London to catch the Arcadia coach at 9. It was a hassle to say the least. Then the bus left late and the ride took way too long (like over two hours), getting us to Brighton around 11:30. Then we were told we had to be back on the bus to return at 3:50! My reaction... nope. My friend Leah from Royal Holloway had taken a train out to Brighton to meet us and spend the day, so I just ditched Arcadia and bought a train ticket home, letting me stay until I wanted to go home.

In Brighton there is not a ton to do. I got to see the Royal Pavilion because the Arcadia trip included admission there, but I wasn't really into it. After traveling in Europe for a period of time, it grows increasingly difficult to be impressed by senseless displays of wealth. Although it did have a really sweet chandelier. It was a dragon... never mind, you'd have to see it to appreciate it. Unfortunately pictures weren't allowed. Sorry. I guess another thing to note about the Royal Pavilion is that it does not match England in any way, shape or form. Apparently built by George IV, before he was king, it looks like the Taj Mahal and the inside is decorated with things like dragons and other not-England things. Very strange.

(This is the spot where I was planning on inserting a couple pictures I took while in Brighton, but I can not remove them from my camera. Do not, and I repeat, do not, ever purchase a Kodak camera. The software, and even the hardware, functioned shakily with my laptop before my virus. Now that I've had to start over again... I can neither get my pictures off the camera by using Kodak Easyshare, nor by going directly to the camera via My Computer... grrrrrr. There is a reason they are about to fold. Sorry George Eastman.)

After the pavilion we spent the day wandering the beach (pebble, not sand) exploring as much of the pier as we dared, and chowing down on overpriced hot dogs and chips. I suppose Brighton also offers the opportunity to do various arcade games and amusement rides on the pier, but that wasn't really what we wanted/could afford to do, so we just wandered. But it was pleasant, and the weather was beautiful. And the ride back to Egham on the train? Less than half the time than if I had gone back with Arcadia ;-)

Finally: today (apologies for the stream of consciousness that dominates my posts, by the way). After months and months of waiting, I heard from the senior citizen center that I had passed my background check while I was traveling. This is because despite approaching them all the way back in January they were running a background check on me that included snail mailing forms and questions to my references... in the United States. Ugh. In any case, after passing my background check I went in to volunteer for the first time today. They apparently never get volunteers, and didn't really know what to do with me. So they said to just walk around and chat with the residents. The residents are generally in great need of care. Many suffer from various degrees of dimentia, many have trouble walking, that sort of thing. I went on a walk outside with one woman who was completely mobile and quite talkative, but did not have any grasp on the current reality. Some of her sentences would start on one topic and apparently change two or three times by the end, referring to things that weren't there and people I didn't know. At first it was difficult to converse with her, but then it actually became really easy because you could say absolutely anything and get a heartfelt and enthusiastic reply!

A lot of it was obviously very sad, and I wish I could help more, but hopefully just showing an interest and being around to talk to helps in some small way.

In this part of Switzerland, everone speaks...

I have my computer back again after its lobotomy, and I'm ready to tell you a little more about traveling in Europe. But how do you tell people about three whole weeks in a blog? I can't do it. So instead I'm going to tell you bits and pieces, in no particular order. We'll start with Zermatt.

It is an interesting little place. It is full of people in synthetic pants and plastic boots. Keep reading. I went because my guidebook said it was scenic, lying beneath the epic Matterhorn, and had many outdoorsy things to do, from hiking to biking, and obviously skiing. It seemed like the perfect place to get away from cities after spending two weeks in Naples, Florence, Rome and Geneva. So from Geneva I hopped on a train that took me to Visp, and in Visp I boarded a train for Zermatt. The train to Zermatt went up. And up. And up. I'd never been on a train that went so far up. I'm pretty sure I've been on steeper inclines in cars, but I can't remember ever feeling an incline while riding a train. But to get to Zermatt, the train goes up.


Getting of the train in Zermatt was weird. For starters, it was much bigger than I expected. I had envisioned some sort of rustic, outdoorsy village with cabins and not much else. The fact that Zermatt made it into my Western Europe guidebook should have clued me into the fact that there would be plenty of civilization. Emerging from the train station there were a ton of people milling about (I got there around 4-ish in the afternoon) on the street in the bright sunlight. They were all wearing synthetic pants. To get to my hostel I had to walk down the main street. There was store after store selling Swiss Army knives and watches and things of that touristy nature. There was the obligatory McDonalds, because as much as the US loves McDonalds, I think Switzerland has at least one McDonalds per each nuclear family unit.

I may as well make another observation about the Swiss here, that is of particular importance to this story. They have no language. Or, the alternative is that they have every language. I spent the whole time having no idea what to say! In Geneva things were clearly French (or some variety of it) for the majority, but everyone also spoke excellent English... and Swahili for all I know. And I mean everyone. Even the people doing the menial tasks at restaurants. I think everyone in Switzerland is capable of carving their own modern day Rosetta stone. It is amazing. Keep this in mind.


As I walked towards my hostel I noted something else. No cars. Only these weird car-cart hybrid things, all of them electric. The only gasoline powered vehicle in the entire town was the ambulance that wandered the streets day after day, presumably bored and with nothing better to do (I literally saw it everywhere). It was something I would have found particularly novel if I had not already read that this would be the case in my guidebook. I think there is something to be said for going somewhere and just being surprised (which, by the way, is what I will be doing in Brighton tomorrow).


I won't give a detailed rundown of the entire 2 1/2 days I spent in Zermatt, because it was mostly spent walking or sitting in the sun and reading. Instead I'm going to hit you with a stream on consciousness of memories.... ready? I ate something called "Paniertes Schweinsschnitzel mit Pommes Frites" which is a really long way to say breaded pork with fries. I saw a ginormous St. Bernard, which made me happy because it fulfilled a stereotype. I discovered there wasn't half the hiking I expected, but I was okay with that. Zermatt is filled with thousands of skiers. Everyone skis, without exception, period. There was probably one person from every country in the world in Zermatt. My hostel had a "take a book, leave a book." I took a book and finished it while I was there. It was really bad, but it was the only one in English, and somehow was mildly addicting. I saw a parachutist/glider guy land. I saw a helicopter take off. I found a sign while hiking pointing the way to "Moos," and I thought of Monty Python. Zermatt may have been bigger than I thought it would be, but I still walked every inch of it. I couldn't find the fire house, sorry Mama and Papa G. But it did have a Remax. Skiers have funny raccoon tans, and they all wear synthetic pants and plastic ski boots.

And finally, the important point I wanted to make about language. Switzerland is inherently confused about what to speak to begin with, so they just speak everything. This is particularly important in Zermatt because in my hostel alone there were people from Spain, the US, China and Italy. Take ten people off the street at random and you will find 9 different languages are spoken. The tenth person doesn't have an official language because they got really dehydrated while skiing one day, and now only speak "dude-speak." So it is helpful to be multilingual. But with all these people from various places in one spot, it is amazing to note that there are two universals tying them all together. Skiing, and synthetic pants for skiing. Seriously, as you walk down the street you are almost driven to madness by the "swish, swish, swish" of people going to and from the ski lifts. So in the end to be honest, even though everyone in Zermatt is from a different part of the world, you really don't need to be multilingual. You only need to know one language in Zermatt, in fact. Because in this part of Switzerland, everyone speaks Swish.