Things I Love About Sarajevo (TILAS)

Here is my concerted effort to be able to appreciate this summer in Bosnia instead of looking back on it as a waste. I'm going to try to post about an experience or food or something like that every day (well...maybe every couple of days...) I'm sure you're all tired of my bitching. I kind of am.

So, today's positive thing that I love about Sarajevo is the Sarajevo Film Festival. It's pretty legit. Not quite at the level of Cannes, of course, but they're doing their best. Since they started it in the basement of a bombed-out building during the war, you really can't judge them. In any case, I bought tickets to three movies for this year's festival: The Amazing Spiderman ('merica), Crossing Boundaries and Whore's Glory. Spiderman was great (the spiders in 3D were not), but I kind of expected that. Crossing Boundaries was really pretty spectacular. The showing at SFF was the world premiere, so there isn't even a page on IMDB for it yet. Because it was the world premiere, they showed it at the National Theater, where the red carpet was set up. Coolest. Thing. Ever. Everyone going to see the movie got to walk up the red carpet (after the actors and directors and fancy people did, of course) and all the paparazzi were flashing their cameras and there was a huge screen set up to show all the onlookers who was walking up the carpet...I felt like a movie star. Until the moment when I whipped out my camera to take a picture of it. Pretty sure that killed the illusion. But whatever. I was on Bosnian television and I'll probably be in a couple magazines or newspapers. Awesome.

The last film I saw, Whore's Glory, was a delightfully uplifting documentary about prostitution in Thailand, Bangladesh and Mexico. Didn't make me want to kill myself at all afterwards. Or at least donate all my money to these women who feel that they have no choice but to sell themselves in order to survive. Really phenomenal film, but don't see it unless you have an abundance of happiness that you'd like to take care of.

Voyeuristic Intentions

I know...it's midnight. And I've already posted once today. Pretty sure that's bordering on being a hipster. But since the sleeping pills haven't kicked in yet, and the bars across the street are playing their techno extra loud tonight, I figure I might as well do something productive (research for my internship? ha!)

Today in our weekly circle-jerk session, our director asked us to talk about voyeurism in a post-conflict arena. Some people are feeling awkward about getting excited to take pictures of bullet holes and bombed out buildings and basically proof of mass destruction and death. And yeah...that kind of sucks. My friend Kim said that she was taking a picture of a house that was covered in bullet holes, when the woman who lived in the house suddenly appeared in a window. Kim felt super uncomfortable and awkward, which is entirely understandable. The way she put it is that if she had been in that woman's position, and someone was taking a picture of her house purely because it was proof of war, a war that very well may have been responsible for the deaths of multiple family members, she would be horribly upset.

But...is it better to not take these pictures? Our director kept calling it voyeurism, and I kind of have a problem with that. To me, voyeurism implies malicious intent. When I take a picture of a building that was destroyed, or the side of a church riddled with bullet holes, I'm doing it because I want to document for myself the pain and trauma that crimes against humanity cause, so that when I'm back in my comfy house in Denver, CO, trying to write papers about international law, I can look back to these pictures and remember the intense sadness that I felt and impart that in my paper. To my mind, it honors the victims of the war and the country itself. I'm pretty sure it would be worse if we just covered up all traces and forgot that it happened. We need to take pictures and remember so that we can try to avoid it in the future.

My director also mentioned that she had talked to Bosnian friends about it, and they said that basically they wanted the world to remember and acknowledged what happened here, to their friends and family. And yes, it is clearly very important to Bosnia. But, for me, genocide and crimes against humanity and mass rape are a blight on humanity as a whole -- the war in Bosnia is part of a global history that impacts every person on the planet, not just Bosnia. That's why they call them crimes against humanity...clearly. So I don't feel that I'm being a voyeur into something that is specifically Bosnian. Unfortunately, what happened here is innately human. And as a human studying human rights, I feel that it is almost my responsibility to document what I see and to capture the emotions that I feel here so that I can bring it with me into the future and into the work that I'm going to do in the future.

Thoughts?

Thursday Night Bitch Fest (because I'm good at it)

I honestly have been trying to find positives to being in Sarajevo for the next five weeks of my life. I really and truly have. Contrary to popular belief, I really don't enjoy complaining. And it really bothers me that I'm paying close to $8,000.00 to sit here and have a miserable time. So I have been making a concerted effort to enjoy myself and find things to love here. For instance...smreka. It's this super refreshing drink that is made out of spruce berries and is really quite delicious. Also...I do love all of the amazingly friendly dogs and cats that wander around the city who appear to be well-treated and well-fed. I love that the clothing is ridiculously cheap here (food too)...I bought two amazing dresses yesterday for what one might have cost on sale in the states.

However...these are all fairly minor. Having one kind of tasty drink and a couple stray cats and dogs does not mean that life is perfect, birds are singing and the sun is always shining. In fact, the sun is shining far too brightly and far too aggressively here. That's one of the issues. I can't walk out the door without immediately being drenched in sweat, which does not make me a happy person. When my director was having a 'check-in chat' with me last week (when I told her that no, I am not comfortable being sent to the outskirts of town to work in a room in a bombed-out building with one guy all day long...go figure), she said that I needed to accept the weather, because there was no changing it.

Gee...thanks for that. I thought you could command a sudden cold front and bring snow in mid-July to the Balkans. I understand that it can't be changed. Doesn't mean that it makes me happy or that I'm willing to go along with it like it makes my life better. Odds are that starvation and genocide can't be changed either, but it still upsets me and I'm not ready to say 'Ok...just let thousands of people die unnecessarily. That's fine.' The same with cigarette smoke. It's everywhere here. More so than anywhere else in Europe I've ever been, and I can't stand it. It's not that I just would rather it wasn't there...I physically can't breathe when people are smoking near me. So yeah, that makes life here pretty miserable. 'Well, it can't be changed.' I. Understand. That. But I am not capable of flipping a switch and suddenly being ok with second-hand smoke and lung cancer. It's going to negatively impact my time here regardless of whether or not it can be changed. And I really don't feel like I should change my opinion on that...it is an absolutely disgusting habit that has no benefit whatsoever and is directly responsible for the premature death of my grandfather. So no, I'm not going to accept it.

Another aspect that really tweaks me is the living situation. I do greatly appreciate that I snagged the room with only two other people in it, and my roommates are fairly low key and non-invasive. And the shower in our room is apparently the best on the floor. I do appreciate this. However, the laundry situation is something that I can't handle. We aren't allowed to touch the washing machine located in the main bathroom in our living quarters. I don't know why. They evidently think that a dozen graduate students will fuck it up. So we have to leave our laundry in bags on top of the washing machine, and leave it up to the non-English speaking cleaning lady to take care of. The non-English speaking cleaning lady tries to speak Bosnian at us, even though we have clearly said many times 'Ne znam' (Bosnian for 'I don't know'). You would think that if we say that to her after everything she says to us, she would get the hint. Nope, she still tries. Fine. But I gave her my laundry on Monday. It went in the washing machine, proceeded to sit there overnight (cool...so it'll smell awesome, since they don't have a dryer with yummy smelling dryer sheets), they hung it up to dry on Tuesday, it disappeared Tuesday night, and I finally had to ask them today where it was. I was told to go upstairs and dig through piles of everyone else's clothing (clearly proving that separating it to begin with is useless) to find mine. Yep, it smells like must. And, because it sat overnight, and they don't separate whites and colors, my nice white facecloth from Anthropologie is now covered in pink stains. Facecloths are probably a stupid thing to spend good money on, but dammit, I like to own nice things. It is true that it could've been a lot worse...my white shirt and tank top survived unscathed. But are we serious?! It's not your own laundry that you can screw up as you please...someone is paying you to do it. I suppose I take it a bit more serious than other people, since I spent many weeks of my life being paid to do other people's laundry, and having respect for other people's property.

I promptly went out and bought laundry detergent, as I will now be doing my own laundry in the sink. Even though they've told us they don't want us to do that. Well, if you didn't ruin my shit, then I wouldn't have to. So suck it.

I like being clean. I like having nice things. I don't like having my lungs filled with smoke. And these are essential elements to my happiness. Sarajevo doesn't seem compatible, unfortunately.

I am going to try to make a concerted effort to find one thing a day in Sarajevo that makes me happy. I'm hoping that will improve things and convince the three people reading this blog that I'm really not trying to be miserable.

Insert nonexistent Bosnian word for internship here

Last night, I woke up around 3:30 am. I'm assuming it's because my wine-induced haze wore off, and I hadn't taken any sleeping pills. I had hoped that the wine would last me through the night. Lesson learned...techno trumps three glasses of wine. I tried to go back to sleep, I really did. But I couldn't stop thinking about how much I didn't want to go to my internship today. And suddenly, it was 8:00, and I had barely slept.

I was up for 4.5 hours, stressing out about how much I didn't want to go and how the whole situation put me into a panic. Tossing and turning. By the time I got up out of bed, I felt sick. I had literally made myself sick thinking about going to the outskirts of town to sit in a room with a guy who didn't speak English. I don't want to spend another day talking to him via Google Translate and then going to have a beer with him. I really don't want to have a beer with him afterwards, because we literally won't be able to speak to one another. And he didn't seem to understand the concept of just one beer last week when he first suggested it.

If there was one other person in the office, it might be ok. But it's just me and him. And it stresses me out. I feel like a pansy for saying it, but I was raised to be cautious of situations exactly like that. When I first mentioned it to my dad, his response was 'I wish you had taken those self-defense courses in Denver like we had talked about'. It's not even that I feel threatened by this guy. He seems perfectly nice (except when he starts to tell me that I'm cute...then I get uncomfortable). It is just not a positive work environment for me.

I really don't want to go back in. I want to tell my director that I'm just going to go to the Genocide Institute. When they get back this afternoon, I'm sure that I'll have to explain what happened today. I predict she responds with something along the lines of 'you just have to give it a chance. it could surprise you.' Unless he learns English in record speed, I'm not sure that will happen. And I know I sound like an ignorant American, saying that people should know English. But dammit, everyone else is at an internship where their supervisor at least has some handle on the language, and they can communicate without the aid of a computer. Just as an example, when I sent him the e-mail this morning, saying that I wasn't coming in, this was the response I got: "The problem is not just you do not heal and a cold beer :) It's too hot, because it harms :) see you on Wednesday". Google Translate, ftw.

I really don't know how to proceed. I want to keep helping the organization, but I really don't want to go back out there. Maybe he could e-mail me the documents that he wants me to translate? Somehow I doubt that would fly, given the emphasis on relationships here. And then I'd be 'missing out' on the true experience. What experience is that, director? The one where I sit on the couch, awkwardly, while he and another Bosnian have a conversation that I can't understand for shit? I don't think Korbel would have a problem with it, if I explained that there was far more to do at the Genocide Institute, which doesn't seem to be a lie. When I sit here and think about having to go to that place twice a week, for the rest of the time that I'm here, I feel ill. Physically ill. I can't decide if it's worth the resume booster to be miserable for another 6 weeks, or to just run with the Genocide Institute. Ugh.

Zdravo...or something like that...

I know...it's officially been three years since I've even attempted to sign into this blog. The Lone Yodeler no longer really holds that much significance since I am not in Switzerland and no longer attempting to yodel. But, let's face it...I'm far too lazy to try and come up with a clever new name for a Bosnian blog. And really, since I only want to use it rant (in contrast to the 'politically correct' blog that we all have to write for a grade here), I'm not sure the title really matters.

I've been in Bosnia for about a week and a half now, and I can safely say that the honeymoon period has worn off. I was absolutely stoked to go overseas again, since the last time that I was abroad (apologies to Puerto Rico...you don't really count as international travel) was when I was in Switzerland, and I was going kind of stir crazy being stuck in the United States for that amount of time. My travel bug was going haywire. So, besides how hard it was to say goodbye to a certain guy and a certain feline, I was fully prepared to love Sarajevo and spend my summer learning amazing things about the war in Bosnia and war crimes and things that I just wouldn't be able to learn anywhere else.

My first mistake was getting an internship through a service learning program. Since I work at the International House at DU, I'm essentially paid to promote it, and I apparently was so good at convincing other people that it was an awesome idea, that I eventually started to believe it was too. I preached to undergrads, day in and day out, that going to Bosnia with a group of other students to live in a hostel and work at various NGO's was an incredible way to spend their summers and that it would be a life changing experience. I told them that even though the Bosnian work ethic was drastically different than the United States (understatement of the flipping century), it would be amazing, because they take a dozen coffee breaks a day, you only end up doing a couple hours of work a week, and still get credit for it. What sounds bad about that?

To be fair, the skeptical side of me did try to reason with the euphoric side. Being the Type-A individual that I am, I did worry about my ability to assimilate into a culture that didn't seem to do a whole lot of anything besides sit around and drink coffee. I talked about my concerns with my director before I left, and she said that it was good that I was acknowledging it but that she thought it would be really good for me to sort of branch out and expand my horizons, if you will. I agreed with her at the time. I have a tendency of getting wound fairly tightly and getting really intense about work, so maybe it would be good for me to take a break from the Northeast work ethic and stop and breathe.

Sometimes, I do stupid shit.

We just had our second 'group session', which already upsets me. I've never been one to sit in a circle and talk about feelings. I internalize most things, unless it really gets to me, and then I'll tell you straight up. I expect the same. I have never been ok with group therapy sessions where I have to sit and listen to everyone elses' concerns, hopes and dreams. Just not something I'm interested in. It's why I dropped Theories of Non-Violence winter quarter. In this session, our director asked us to speak up about any concerns we were having with regards to our internships. After having two beers (yes...two beers...my tolerance has gone to hell since I've been here, thanks to the mouthfuls of cigarette smoke that are part and parcel of every bar here), I felt like I had to speak up and say something. I didn't even mention the Genocide Institute, because at least there I have entertainment in the duo that is Travis and Travis. And hopefully once Enis gets back from the United States, we'll have actual work to do instead of sitting in a room and reading poorly translated texts all day long. All I wanted to mention was the fact that on the first day of my other internship, only half an hour out of the four hours that I was there was actually spent doing work, and I felt useless.

My director essentially said the same thing that she's always said, and it's really starting to get on my nerves. I was told, for the umpteenth time, that I need to understand that Bosnian culture is very different and to appreciate it for it's differences and not make it something that it's not. First of all, I wasn't saying anything negative about the Bosnian culture. I knew coming into this that they had a different work ethic. I just figured that since I'm only working at this place for eight hours a week, that those eight hours would probably be filled with useful work. When I told her this, she asked me what I thought 'useful work' is.

I feel like I'm in kindergarten again. I shouldn't have to explain to someone with a PhD what useful work is. I am here to gain marketable skills that I can put on my resume and use to get a job once I graduate next year. She can tell me all she wants that being here isn't necessarily about the internship, it's about learning about another culture, but that's not why I signed on. I want to do work. I am here to do work. Drinking coffee is awesome, and having down time is awesome, but when I'm already doing that for the majority of the rest of the week, I really need to do actual work at my job or I am literally going to lose my mind. Korbel would be absolutely appalled if they knew how much work I wasn't doing over here, especially after I explained to them that I was doing two internships here for the exact reason of wanting to get enough work experience.

She tried to say that I need to not think about it benefitting only me, but benefitting the people that I'm working with too. My presence at the Genocide Institute is laughable; they already have paid researchers there...I'm pretty sure they couldn't care less about us. If we were translating their painful texts, then maybe we'd matter, but with all the extra rooms in that creepy ass abandoned hospital, I'd be willing to bet that they forget we're there half the time. My presence is certainly felt with the concentration camp organization...since I'm the only other person in the room with the one guy that works there. The half hour that I spent actually translating a document was awesome. That's a skill that I can use to apply for a job next year. The hour drinking coffee and 2.5 hours typing a conversation on Google Translate with Amir? Probably not. Ann said that the interaction is benefitting him...how exactly? He's learning how to type in Bosnian on an English keyboard...that's about the only skill I'm helping him with. Otherwise, the computer does the thinking for both of us. He relies on Google Translate to ask me if I want coffee, for Christ's sake.

I guess I just have no idea why I'm paying over $5,000 for this program, aside from the fact that I need the credit, but that could be easily taken care of with an extra 3-credit class next year. As far as I can tell, I'm spending a LOT of money to live in a less-than-ideal environment, to 'work' at two internships that aren't actually going to teach me anything that I don't already know, and to spend the rest of my time exploring a teeny tiny city that could easily be seen in one day. Most of the people that I'm here with are awesome, but paying $5,000 to make new friends is kind of steep when I've been able to that for free for 24 years. I could've taken the $5,000 and spent it on a furnished apartment rental, plane ticket, food for two months, and hooked myself up with a far more beneficial internship somewhere else. As far as I can tell, the $5,000 provides me with the weekly kum-bay-ah session.

Holy hell I got screwed over.

Come ONNNNN!!!!

The title is supposed to be referencing an episode from Grey's Anatomy. If you're my friend, you should understand the reference.

So, I'm in Geneva again. And already absolutely miserable. However, unlike last semester, this time it is completely out of my control. It's not like things are actually fine, and I'm just being a brat. This time there are forces in the universe that are actually telling me that I never should've left the state of Maine. Or maybe just the North American continent, because things were going fine in Philly also. It's just as soon as I got to Europe that my life went to hell.

First, Heathrow. My distaste for London airports shouldn't shock anyone, and it actually goes back many years to when dad and I went to Paris the summer after my freshman year in high school. It is clearly not in the cards for me to successfully maneuver through the city of London via airplane. I had a three hour layover in Heathrow yesterday. Fine, no worries. I have a book and an iPod...I'm all set. So I got through their ridiculously complicated security system and went to the waiting area. Got the gate number for my flight, and went there. No problems, got on the flight, made small talk with the woman next to me for a few minutes, then fell asleep. I hadn't been successful at sleeping on the trans-Atlantic flight because I made the poor decision to utilize British Airway's awesome entertainment unit on the back of the seat in front of me. Transformers is an awesome movie, in case you haven't seen it yet. But it meant that I arrived in London seriously tired. So I figured I'd sleep on the flight to Geneva, and wake up refreshed and ready to attempt getting my luggage on and off the trains and trams and make it to my apartment in one piece.

I woke up an hour and a half later, which should've been about fifteen minutes before we were landing in Geneva. My internal clock does a pretty good job at timing things. So I shook off the grogginess and stretched a little bit. When I became aware of my surroundings, it occurred to me that the plane wasn't moving. Ok...Did I read my watch wrong? Checked it again. No...it's 3:45...I got on the plane a little after 2. Ok. I'm on the right plane because they checked my ticket about a dozen times before letting me on. So what's the deal? I asked the woman next to me why we weren't moving and she said that there was something wrong with a smoke detector. Brilliant. I just wasted all my sleeping for nothing. The plane was still parked at the gate. And remained parked at the gate until 4...which is when I was supposed to be getting into Geneva. Ok, so I'm going to be late. Fine. At least the trains will still be running unlike last time.

So we get into the air finally. I scored major points with the woman next to me when she slept through the meal, and I offered her my cookies when she woke up. So we started chatting. She asked me what I was doing in Geneva and if I was excited to be returning. Well, as a matter of fact, no...I'd rather be buried in snow in mid-coast Maine if you can believe it. And the next words out of her mouth were 'Yeah, I don't blame you.' She wasn't Swiss, she was a Brit, and evidently the Brits feel the same way about Geneva that I do. She told me that it was impossible to learn French here (check), it was impossible to make friends here (check) and it was no place for a 20 year old who wanted a party scene (check). This accomplished adult was saying everything that I've been saying for months, so I felt like I was justified in feeling the way I was feeling, and that it wasn't just me. Geneva actually does suck. And she agreed with me that I absolutely cannot stay here during the summer. I needed to at least get out of Geneva if I was going to stay in Europe. She told me I should go to Paris and be an au pair if I really wanted to learn French. Interesting.

So we finally got to Geneva at 6, two hours behind schedule. Stores in Geneva close at 7:30 every night, and are not open on Sundays. And since I was going to be gone for six weeks, I had thrown out nearly everything in the way of food, so it was fairly necessary that I go shopping if I intended on eating for the next couple of days. Fine, I figured I'd race off the plane, grab my suitcase, and book it to my apartment. I still had time, but not much.

So I got to baggage claim. I dont know about the rest of you, but I always get really paranoid at baggage claim. I'm always convinced that my bag won't arrive on time, even though my parents always assure me that with the computer systems they have now, they rarely lose bags. It still always seems like my bag is the last one to come off the plane, and I'm nearly always having a panic attack by the time I finally get it. I was expecting this, and I wasn't really worried when I didn't see it for a while. However, I did start to get nervous when bags from another flight made it onto the conveyer. Then another flight. And suddenly my flight was no longer being unloaded. Fuck. No no no. This isn't happening. I don't want to be here in the first place, but I cannot be here without that bag. It has my life in it. It must be a joke. It must be. It got stuck somewhere and they're unsticking it right now. No worries. I'll get it. So I wait. And it doesn't come.

I went to the people in the baggage claim office and nervously asked them if they knew where the fuck my bag was. The guy read a little piece of paper that said my name on it, and he told me that my bag might not have been loaded in London. No shit. But it might be on the next flight from Heathrow. Ok, only that was the flight that came on the carousel after mine. And it still wasn't there. Really? Oh...well, I'd still wait ten or fifteen minutes for it. If it still doesn't come, then it'll be on the flight from Heathrow at 7:25. Wait, isn't 7:25 five minutes before Geneva closes? Yes...

So I waited. I was in the baggage claim area at the Geneva airport for a good 2.5 hours. My bag was not on the plane at 7:25. And I had now officially missed my chance to buy food, meaning I was going on an involuntary hunger strike for the next 36 hours. You can imagine my level of pleasure.

I went back to the office and talked to a different woman and told her that my bag was flat out not there. She took my bag claim ticket thingy and typed some stuff into the computer, and told me that they had no record of my bag. This is when I broke out in a cold sweat. Two hours ago you told me that it was at least in Heathrow, and had just missed the plane to Geneva. At least you knew where it was. She showed me the computer screen. 'No Information Available'. I wanted to vomit. My entire life was in that bag. Yes, I had clothing in Geneva, but there was a reason that I had left it here and not brought it with me to the states. It was either clothing I didn't wear, didn't like, or meant for summer wearing only. Everything I wore on a regular basis was in that bag. Not to mention my entire DVD collection because I had been instructed to bring it back so that we could watch the movies that we always lamented not having. All of my toiletries (shampoo, face wash, toothbrush and toothpaste) were in that bag, because of the ridiculous notion that I could blow up the plane with my tube of Crest. The only liquid in the way of personal hygiene I had in my carry-on was my little tub of Carmex. And remember, nothing is open in Geneva until Monday morning. AKA, I can't shower, brush my teeth, or eat food for 36 hours.

This has to be a fucking joke.

So I filed my report with her, on the verge of tears, and I'm pretty sure she was judging me behind her obnoxious, slightly hostile Swiss personality. She told me that bags usually turn up within 24 hours, so I would most likely hear about it either that night or the next day. It's now the next day at 6:23 pm, and I have heard nothing about my bag. I went online and typed in my info, and it still says 'No Information Available'. I have my first day at my internship tomorrow. 95% of my internship clothing is in that bag. As well as all of my personal primping equipment, so that I don't look like a hobo when I show up. I'm going to make the worst possible impression on the people at the ILO. I'm so frustrated I could cry.

The parents aren't helping either. Last night, after I had gone out drinking to numb out a little bit, dad tried to console me and tell me that it would turn up, and I just needed to be patient. Easier said than done. I know you're trying to help, but it doesn't change the fact that everything I really wanted with me here in this hell hole of a city is lost somewhere between here and London. With my luck, it's floating in the English Channel. Dad was a little better than mom though whose first question was 'Well do you have insurance on it so that you can replace it?'

What??? No. Not an option. There will be no replacing. It's impossible to replace the contents of that bag while in Geneva. Forgetting for a second that things cost way more here, it's super difficult to buy DVDs that will play on American equipment while you're in Europe. I'm not sure why there's a difference, but there is. Now, my DVD collection is worth about $800, give or take. In Switzerland, that would translate to over $1000, because the prices in this country are so fucking warped. Most of my clothing costs double here what it costs in the states, at least. So no, mom, replacing is not an option, and you aren't helping by putting the idea in my head that I might have to. It actually makes me want to vomit.

So now I'm sitting in the Smith Center, with the intention of staying here for as long as I possibly can tonight, in the hopes that I'll get a call from the airport saying that my bag is on its way, since this is the address I gave them...and I have no food in my apartment to go back to. Just the empty feeling of my room, and my lack of clothing and inability to brush my teeth for the third night in a row. My world for a dentist...

While living in Gatwick (North) for 8 hours...

Salut a tous.

It's 1:31 in the morning on a Tuesday. I've got a ten minute oral expose due at 4:00 this afternoon. The topic? Bloody Sunday and all pertinent history. I haven't gotten past that point in my research. It's unlikely I'll go to bed before 2:30. And instead of unpacking and brushing my teeth like I should be doing, I'm going to write this, and watch my new episode of Grey's Anatomy, because I like to live life on the edge.

This weekend I went to Cork to see my other half and roommate for life, Jessica. I had a glorious time and being in Cork only reinforced how much Geneva blows. Several times I had to tell myself that it simply wasn't an option to 'miss' my flight and join the IRA. There were some shenanigans that don't need to go on this blog in case I ever run for President, but it's a good possibility that you'll all hear about it one way or another because I'm pretty damn pleased with myself.

But after this weekend, I have some thoughts that I'd like to share with you all, and I have to get them out now, or I know I'll forget them when I actually have time to write them down. Like that dream I had last night, and remembered right when I woke up, but forgot as I was brushing my teeth. Disappointing as all hell.

Observations:

1. The accent in Cork is completely unlike that of Galway and I had a seriously hard time understanding which made me upset.

2. I miss bagels more than I thought I did.

3. I had a vacation disguised as a layover today in Gatwick airport, and after I finished my overpriced green tea and sandwich, I made use of the facilities before going to check in and begin my painfully long and nearly life threatening wait for the plane. Walking out of the WC, I took notice of the vending machine. Can someone here please tell me why they sold condoms in the vending machine in the bathroom of an airport? Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't it illegal to have sex on an airplane? Otherwise we'd all be card carrying members of the MHC. And I'm fairly certain that sex in the bathroom of an airport (ignoring how icky that is germ-wise) is frowned upon as well. So why in God's name are they selling raspberry flavored Durex's in the bathroom of Gatwick Airport? One of life's great mysteries.

4. Gatwick blows at keeping their passengers informed. I got into Gatwick around 2. I flew into the South terminal, and I had to catch my connecting flight in the North terminal. I made my way to the free tram thingy that would take me to the other terminal, and saw that there was the option of a Pedestrian path. You all know how obnoxious I am about walking whenever possible, and I had 5 hours to kill until my flight left, so it seemed like a brilliant idea. Down the stairs I went and out the door. I walked out into a fairly sketchy area underneath the airport. Ok, weird. I kind of thought it would be a little more bright and shiny for passengers, but whatevs. I walked down the path that seemed to be the way out. Wrong. I walked back in the other direction and down one path of a fork. Wrong. Back to the fork and down the other path. Wrong. Eventually I had to go back inside and catch the damn tram thingy and it was only then that I realized that the other terminal was like a mile away and there was no way that I could've found it on my own. Obnoxious. Next up on the list: Once I actually got to the right terminal, I couldn't check in for my flight to Geneva until 5:55. No worries. I sat around, read my book, had the bizarre aforementioned encounter in the bathroom, and then wandered upstairs to get my ticket and get through security. I looked up on the monitor and it said that I had to go to zone C to check in. Groovy. A big sign said Zones A-D, thataway. I followed the directions. Zones B and D were right next to each other. Umm. Evidently the British alphabet is different than the American one? I wandered back and forth for a couple minutes and finally had to ask a woman where the hell Zone C was. 'There is no zone C'. Uhhh. Sweet? I pointed to the monitor and she seemed very surprised and informed me that easyJet flights are always in Zone D. Good to know. So I got my ticket and went to security. Being the sweet EuroTrash that I am, I was wearing my AMAZING new boots this weekend. And being the intelligent person that I am, I took them off before anyone had to ask me when I went through security. I thought I was on top of my game. Once I got myself put back together, I walked down the hall, turned the corner, and the good folks at Gatwick had set up a mini scanner for everyone to put JUST THEIR SHOES through. Are you fucking kidding me? So off go the boots again and I spend another 3 minutes putting them back on. Obnoxious. I finally got to the waiting area and thought the worst was behind me. I pulled out my book, chatted with a couple of the girls around me, and waited for the monitor to tell me what gate to go to for my flight. The flight left at 7:55. It got to be 7:15 and they hadn't told us. Weird...7:30 rolls around and suddenly the flight is delayed until 8:25. Balls, but at least I'm just going to Geneva and it doesn't much matter what time I get in as long as I can still catch a train. 8:00...8:10...8:15...8:24...nada. There is no change on the monitor. Even at 8:26, it still says that the flight is delayed until 8:25. Groovy. A guy got up and went over to the info desk where they informed him that the flight was delayed again until 9:45. Eff. That was not an ok delay. It was an hour and a half flight, and there was another hour time difference. That put us getting in at like 12:30, most certainly past train times. And they didn't tell us what gate to go to until 9:30. And the delay time never did change. Angry.

5. Think about the last time that you had male flight attendants. Now think about the last time that they were moderately attractive. Now think about the last time there were two of them on the same flight... It certainly made me feel better about life, and wish that I had put some money in the vending machine...

6. While up in the air, the pilot tells us that the reason the flight was so late was because the easyJet computers in Geneva and London decided to shit the bed today, so a whole bunch of them went down. Super. Then he adds that the Geneva airport closes at 12:30. As in, everyone goes home but the janitors. Ok...so that means...Right. If we don't land by 12:30, we're going to have to double back around and land in Lyon, unless the pilot can sweet talk the Geneva folks into staying late. He also mentioned that in order to land before 12:30, he was flying faster than normal. Cue the turbulence. I had vivid images of the plane going down at a higher rate of speed because we were late and all of us dying in a firey pit of doom. Not pleasant.

7. You can all say what you want about me not being friendly, but I always seem to make the right friends in exactly the right situation when it's a matter of travel logistics. Like the old lady who took me home in Cannes so that I didn't sleep in the train station. Well, because the plane was just barely going to make it to the airport while it was still open, it most certainly meant that all of Geneva was shut down, including buses and trams and trains. AKA, my way home. I only had about 10 Euro on me, and less than 10 Francs, neither of which would get me a taxi home. It was raining in Geneva. It's a good 40 minute walk from the airport. It would also be 1 in the morning. Sketchy much? Yes. This is where my friend making ability scored. One of the girls I talked to in the waiting area told myself and the other girl (because we had no way of getting home) that she and her dad could drop us off. Complete stranger. Drove me home. Which is why I am sitting in my nice toasty room right now, and not being mugged on the dark, rainy streets of Geneva. 

That's all.