Finishing Touches

As my imminent departure stares me in the face I am haunted with a strange sense of duty in regards to my blog. I would assume this is a similar feeling to that of someone asked to write a preface of a novel: they know what they are supposed to say, as well as what is expected, however, putting fresh words into new, romantic phrases that do the novel justice seems a more difficult feat than I would have thought. For me, I know need to say what an incredible, eye-opening, life-changing experience this was, but to simply say those words would not even begin to paint my world here.

These last few weeks leading up to today have been entirely uncomfortable for my head. I have settled so well into life here and love it so much that the thought of leaving seemed impossibly distant, however, when coupled with the intensity with which I miss my family and friends and Bozeman, time became this torturous game that I wanted both to speed up and slow down with equal passion. I was, of course, warned that this would happen, and am here to report that everyone is disgustingly right.

Here is what I have to say. In four months I have learned a new language, eaten new foods and talked to countless beautifully interesting new people, my faith in the power of the Sonicare toothbrush battery, and I've made some incredible friends whom I will never forget. I've taken on Europe alone and used trains, planes, buses, trams, and even my own two feet to take me on adventures. I feel incredibly strong and independent, as well as humbled in my realization of how much I need my family and friends at home. I wonder how long it will take me before I need my friends and family here, too.

Tomorrow I have upwards of nineteen hours of travel to do, and then I will finally be home. Home. There is something ultimately very refreshing about that. So I suppose it's until next time, Europe.

A Collision of Worlds and a Lost Turkey

This past week or so has been incredible. My mother came to visit me for a week on Wednesday the 13th, and the amount of things we packed into 7 short days should surely break some record. The first few hours were completely surreal, as if my two completely separate worlds had collided in a colossal mixture of joy and frantic hugs as I prepared to introduce my Mom to the life I've built here. As a self-centered teenager who is way too in touch with her feelings, I can say that seeing my mother for the first time in eighty days was certainly cause for some tearful celebration. To bring someone who is as much a part of my old world as is possible for one person to be into my new life where her (and the rest of my family's) prominent absence is a defining characteristic was one of the most joyful and confusing experiences I can say I've had. An interesting chapter to add to my adventure here, to be sure.

The first day I picked her up from the train station and took her home and gave her tea and held onto every word she spoke about home. On Thursday I showed her my high school. We went while classes were going on and, when no one was around, she was wont to take embarrassingly motherly pictures of me at my school. It's a good thing I am so patient. Friday I don't have school in the afternoons so we took a train and went to explore Bern, which was incredible. We wandered, drank tea, saw Einstein's house, and that night watched the coolest light show on the front of the Parliament Building. Saturday I showed her my haunts around the town and (tried to) demonstrate my newly acquired french skills. Sunday we put on a grand Thanksgiving feast for the whole family and some close friends, as a celebratory thank-you to all of the people here who have been so kind and wonderful to me. Instead of having customary turkey, however, we roasted four chickens for the meal. But the absence of the sleep-inducing poultry was not for lack of trying to acquire one. Two weeks prior, E had ordered a six kilogram turkey (huge in terms of the Swiss) from the local grocery store, had called twice to confirm it's existence, and arrived Friday before the feast with my mother expecting a bird the size of a small child, but instead found a very confused butcher. Our precious turkey was lost somewhere in Switzerland, but had entered the country and been delivered to some mystery location. I'm not sure what I enjoy more, the fact that they then gave us the chicken for free, or the image of a grocery store somewhere in Switzerland receiving an absolutely enormous turkey with no one to take it, and no explanation of it's existence. Those poor Swiss.

The last few days were spent frantically trying to make up for every hug I've missed out on, tie up loose ends on the homework and packing front, and face the imminent departure as gracefully as two people in our situations might. I won't pretend that putting my mom on a train and letting that train take her away from me was at all easy, and my day was a little rough after that, but the end of the week was lovely, and I had an exceptionally lovely weekend that made me love my life here even more. Simply being with friends, doing what we love, brought be back to realizing how charmed my life really is. Maybe its because the sun came out today and I made a new playlist on my ipod, but I can happily report that I am here, I am grateful, and I wouldn't change a thing about this trip. So far...


P.S.: Lyon this weekend. Will write with updates about that next adventure.

Back from Accidental Hiatus

Adventure is found by anyone willing to perceive its existence.  And I'm afraid I haven't been a very good adventurer of late, and therefore haven't blogged in a while. I've really begun to settle in and forge stronger relationships with my friends and classmates, and life is turning much more normal as I fill my weekends with hangouts and homework, and spend the week days on homework and cursing the ever-shortening days. All-in-all, very normal behavior for a sun-worshipping teenaged student such as myself.

But in actuality I should look at daily life as an adventure, especially since I'm a kid living in a foreign country. For Halloween last week I tried to buy the affection of my classmates with pumpkin and ghost-shaped sugar cookies that I had to shape by hand because there weren't any halloween cookie cutters. Just yesterday I cranked out a 230 word essay in french class for the writing test. The assignment was to write a 270-word objective description of an image provided, and, although 40 words short, I feel like I did fairly well. I spent the period frantically flipping through my dictionary and Bescherelle, trying to form coherent similes and personifications, as was directed. Perhaps I'm just becoming more accustomed to the weird things that happen as an exchange student, and am taking them more in stride.

My mommy is coming to visit me next week, something I'm wicked excited for. We're going to have a huge Thanksgiving feast for the whole family and some friends. I can't wait to show her my life here and have a few adventures ourselves.

So, in short, I will try to be a better adventurer and update more often, and I'm sure many upcoming events will prove bloggable..

On Being Travel Savvy

This morning I woke myself up at 5, was taken to the airport by Vince's very kind father, and dropped off at the appropriate check-in area. I then proceeded to navigate the Vienna Airport, get myself on my plane and flew back to Switzerland. I landed in Zurich and then had to find myself a train home, which I did, and arrived safe and sound. I did this entire thing on admittedly extremely low sleep due to a lack of desire to say goodbye to Vince and his friends last night when we all hung out, and as I was walking down the hill home I realized that two months ago, such a feat would have terrified me beyond belief. So now I feel relatively confident that if I learn absolutely nothing else on this journey, I will have at least learned how to get myself around and be independent using foreign public transportation. Don't worry, Mom and Dad, my going away wasn't for naught. I expect a conversation while introducing us kids in the future will go like this:
         Mom and Dad: "These are our three children. The boys are both in college and going to be brilliant engineers and doctors and all that, and our daughter can use public transportation in foreign countries on small amounts of sleep.  We are very proud."

Vienna, Vince, and Venice.

There are so many things buzzing around in my head, I don't know where to  begin. This last week has been glorious. I've found nothing but exquisite beauty everywhere I look; in the people I've met, in Vienna, and especially Venice. But I'm already getting ahead of myself.  

Vince and the entire Scharner family have been the most amazing hosts. They took me into their home for two full weeks with nothing but warmth and kindness. Every one of them has taken time out of their busy schedules to show me parts of Vienna. The city itself has stolen my heart, of course, and I, like teenaged, lovestruck tourist I am, will surely let it break over such a place. To stand in a place that has seen ages pass and dynasties rise and fall; a vast witness to sheer age and beauty, a seemingly divine backdrop to thousands tangled, human lives, is simply breathtaking. And the insane thing is every inch of Europe is like this.

Last week was filled with museums, monuments, palaces, and history. The night of my arrival just happened to be the night that all of the public museums were open until the wee hours of the morning, so Vince, Clara (A friend I met when their class came to Bozeman) and I went into town directly from the airport and toured a bit of the city and a museum first thing. Vince and his mother took me to see the Spanish Riding School on Sunday, which is a world-famous dressage show that features a very specific breed of hot-blooded horses who spend their entire lives learning to do impossible tricks and movements. We watched as these beautiful animals paraded and performed, trying to subtly take illegal pictures and craning our necks rather than tear our eyes away from the impeccable grace and talent of the horses. Later in the week I was taken by Vince's mother to Schonbrunn Palace, the imperial summer residence of the Hapsburgs. That was incredible, and almost humbling, in a way, to see not only the home of an extremely impressive dynasty but the intricate work of architects and variously influenced decor slammed together in one great building. For the remainder of the week I was left mostly to my own devices, with the exception of Sophie, Vince's sister, and her boyfriend Alex taking me into town one day to see some modern art and a lively market. I was actually fairly proud of myself for successfully navigating the public transportation system, as a small town girl whose second language is nothing even similar to german, and whose first is still too far away to be incredibly useful. I took myself to countless museums and sights as well, and took a ridiculous amount of pictures, shamelessly filling out my tourist profile.

And then the weekend brought Venice. Vince, Clara and I took an overnight bus, a nine-hour ride, to the city on Friday night. The bus was just like a Karst Stage and upon entering, I felt I could very well be on the way to a Track or Cross Country meet; everyone was bringing too much luggage on and no one was ever quite comfortable, so the sound of shifting bodies and rustling luggage was almost as non-stop as the growling drone of the bus' engine. We arrived at 5:30 in the morning, when the sun was barely even hinting an appearance by dusting the furthest corners of the horizon grey. Wandering the streets of Venice when there wasn't a soul around was, I later learned, an extremely unique and tantalizingly romantic experience. The ratio of actual inhabitants to the number of tourists that flood the city each day is almost laughable, and causes uncontrolled crowds with no where to go but the street for the duration of the day, so as the streets filled up and we wandered, waiting for things to open, I realized how lucky I had been to have, just for a moment, the city to myself. We then spent the day touring St. Mark's Basilica, the Doge's Palace, and later went by Vaporetto to Murano and watched the famous glass blowing. That evening we planned to meet up with my friends, Sumner and Pat, who are fellow Bozemanites and just happened to both be in the city and exactly the same time as us. It was completely surreal, to find myself with people I grew up with in an iconic European city, five thousand miles away from home. We went to dinner at a seafood place that was completely off the beaten track and took us several tries to find with faulty smartphone coverage. I ordered cuttlefish with ink sauce, and found it was, in fact, pitch black. Our waiter was the sassiest Italian man, who seemed to take it upon himself to educate this little group of obviously American tourists (Again, sorry Vince and Clara for getting grouped in with the Americans). We met up with them again on Sunday and went to one final museum, and then spent the rest of the day wandering and talking and falling more and more deeply in love with yet another city. Then it was back on the bus, a groggy ride home, and my weekend of bliss had concluded. It was simply perfect, there is no other way to describe it.

I don't know if I will be writing next from Switzerland or Austria, but I will update about the rest of my adventures this week at some point. For now, here is one happy kid signing off.

Thoughts in My Head: Airports and Board Games

So I had a lot of down time at the airport yesterday, waiting to be  flown off to my next adventure. I just want to make it clear, you've been warned, this is going to be a weird post.

I took the train to the Zurich airport yesterday, and I arrived pretty early so I had some time to buy a muffin to snack on. I guess after almost six weeks here I still must look blatantly American because when I got up to the register to pay for my food the cashier automatically spoke to me in English. This caused me to lift my chin defiantly, and speak right back in French, asking her to repeat the price. She looked extremely confused, but did so. For a while I was very proud of myself for taking a step towards breaking down stereotypes but then I realized that my french is still thickly accented and screams "American", a fact that could hardly go unnoticed by the cashier. Suddenly my triumph at her supposed embarrassment waned as it donned on me that she was only confused why this obviously American tourist had switched to another language that wasn't even the local tongue, especially when she had already addressed me in my own tongue. So much for trying to be impressive.

I am eternally grateful to the board game Ticket to Ride: Europe. It has been extremely helpful for both entertainment and clarification purposes on this trip. In the game, the object is to build trains that connect major cities all over Europe, but all of the trains in and out of Switzerland are tunnels. As I've been traveling around with my host family and on trains by myself, I've been struck by the sheer number of tunnels that actually exist here. It seems instead of winding around drainages and up mountains like we do in Montana, the swiss just tunnel right through everything. I love it. The game also came in handy when I forgot that Vienna is called Wien in German, and this overlook caused me to stand stupidly at the departure screen for many, many minutes before I realized that I had seen the name "Wien" on the board game, and it was probably where I was supposed to fly.

I've arrived in Klosterneuburg now, and the adventures have already started. But I'll save them for another post. :)

Fête des vendanges: Inebriated Sardines in an Ocean of Color

This past weekend there was a huge festival in Neuchâtel, called Fête des vendanges. It is a huge tradition for the town, celebrating the vineyard harvest. Basically it's a huge three-day party and the whole town goes completely insane. It was great. The first night I went out with Meline and some of her friends, and we just explored and ate cart food and rode the carnival rides. It was incredibly fun. There were various stages set up all over downtown, and DJ's, bands, and performers filled them with music and entertainment. The festival officially ended at 4 each morning, so buses pulled through the streets hauling packed, intoxicated people for the entire night. The inebriated sardines would pile out, pushing themselves into a crowd that reached for blocks and had no visible end. The city's old streets became a sea of color, carpeted with confetti that children and adults alike threw at each other and at common sense, banishing it for an entire weekend. Saturday night I met up with some friends from school who are in a band together, and who were performing that night. We hung out until the performance and then I watched and cheered with the crowd of other high schoolers, and enjoyed watching them suck their cigarettes and rock out. Music, food, fireworks, and most importantly alcohol filled the hours for the first two nights for the town of Neuchâtel. On Sunday there was a parade. Huge floats made of flowers and more confetti cruised by us, offering free bread, cheese, wine, and chocolate and carrots instead of the candy that my American up-bringing led me to expect.

On Saturday I am leaving to spend two weeks in Austria with my friend Vince (it is Autumn Break at school). He claims to have already planned many adventures for us, and I promise to faithfully document them as much as possible. See you in Austria!

Doppelgängers and Smoke: High School Life

Life in the high school is pretty normal. The scheduling is different, and the language is different, but it's still a compilation of busy hallways and lazy classrooms, hidden cell phones, self-absorbed teenagers, and a thermostat that is never right. The almost homely effect of this atmosphere has caused my subconscious to assume I am back in Bozeman High. That's my guess, anyways. In the first few weeks I started to notice how many double takes I was doing at various students in the halls, thinking they were a friend from Bozeman. At first, I marveled at the fact that there could be so many doppelgangers of my high school attending DDR. However, as time passed I began looking more closely at the faces of me look-alikes, and realized that most of them look nothing like the people I mistook them for. I even mistook a boy for a girl once. That was an uncomfortable moment for everyone. I haven't figured out if I am missing home, or just having trouble adapting to the fact that I am in a completely different world from Bozeman High, and my brain is stubbornly refusing to be Swiss. How American of it.

There are some distinct differences between BHS and DDR, however. The biggest one is the smoking. Somehow, a country that is notorious for health consideration and cleanliness didn't get the memo about pumping tar and chemical-infused smoke into your lungs. I would be willing to bet that over half of my class smokes, and they are all 14 and 15 year olds. There is a 20-minute break in the morning, and the entire school, including teachers, leaves the building and lights up. Today we had a fire drill, and as the buzzer went off, the entire class, like the lazy teenagers we are, breathed a sigh of relief and began filing out, our books closing faster than what would have previously been thought possible. The hallways filled up with teachers, irritated by their interrupted lessons and sudden call to responsibility of surly teenagers, and loud, happy kids checking their smuggled phones and plugging their ears to drown out the sirens. In Bozeman, fire drills are a way of  wasting class time while mostly likely freezing and longing for that coat we stuffed into our tiny lockers that morning. In Switzerland, however, it is another smoke break. We had barely left the doors of the alleged flaming building when the entire student body lit up and left a trail of glowing ash in its wake as we were herded to safety by smoking teachers. The irony of such an event was enough to make me, once again, that weird exchange student who laughs at the jokes in her head but doesn't have the language skills to explain herself. I think my classmates think I'm pretty strange.

To Blog: Two Weekends, Too Swiss.

I apologize for the painful word play in the title of this post. I don't even know.

It's been a while since I last updated, and I have two weekend adventures to record. Last weekend was a lovely adventure in the Alps. Hans Peter, Elisabeth, and I drove up to a cabin owned by a family friend of theirs, and we stayed for two nights in an adorable Alpine village, hiking and exploring. The couple we stayed with, Claire and Michel, were very kind and welcoming. Claire is the kind of person who begins mothering you the moment you enter her adorable, wood stove warmed cabin. Both she and Michel were so kind. The first day we went on a trail called The Ibex Trail, which started by a huge dam (the biggest one in Switzerland, actually) and circled around a small mountain, summited the saddle between it and another, and took you back down around the other side, making a loop of twelve kilometers. According to the signs, there were breathtaking vistas of Mont Blanc and surrounding Alps, however, thick fog was our constant companion throughout the hike, and though we did manage to see some of the famous Ibex, the rugged peaks that carry as much history as snow were kept hidden from us. The weather only worsened as the hike went on, and snowed for the final few kilometers. The second day we spent exploring tiny Alpine villages, indulging the tourist franchise, and thoroughly enjoying ourselves.

Today we had a surprise picnic birthday party for Hans Peter. My host father turned, er, 40 again, and E made plans to have a traditional Swiss picnic in the mountains and roast sausages over a fire. So, joined by a friend of mine from school, our family drove up to a lovely place in the mountains that had a stunning view of the Alps, a place for a fire, and cows ranging around, their bells clanging cheerfully. I made several cow friends on this trip. One licked my hair, mistaking it for delicious food. I assured it this was a common mistake, and to not feel too bad. We ate sausage and bread and salads and chips and cake and torte and even roasted marshmallows. I must admit I felt a bit of American pride when my marshmallows turned out beautifully, while the Swiss continually dropped theirs in the coals or struggled to eat them. They were also the weirdest marshmallows I've ever seen, multicolored and twisted together. Luckily my many years of camping have trained me to take on any challenge, and my marshmallow roasting was nothing short of stellar, if I may say so. All in all a very pleasing day, and full of many laughs and smiles. I later found out that among those who attended the party was my school principle, and that I had engaged in a game of frisbee with him. My life is so weird.

American Yawns

I have choir class on Mondays at lunch, and this week I found that one of my fellow exchange students, a boy from Denver, CO, is also in choir. We sat next to each other, and the music teacher (who is big, loud, and boisterous as music teachers should be) gave a huge yawn in the middle of a speech. Denver and I both proceeded to yawn, because, as everyone knows, those are very contagious things. However, I noticed that not a single Swiss student in the room seemed to be affected by the yawns given off by both our teacher and us. Thus began my experiment. Hypothesis: Only Americans find yawns contagious. I began pointedly exclaiming how tired I am and yawning in front of my host family, and have yet to find any results. They've noticed nothing, and have had no reactions to my yawns. I will continue this experiment and perhaps branch out to more test subjects, such as my fellow students. I will follow up this post with the results.

P.S. How many times did you guys yawn while reading this?

Tractor Pulling, and Triathlons in the Rain

My weekend was one adventure after the next.

 When I last signed off, I was about to leave for something called "Tractor Pulling", to which I had been invited by my new friend, Meline. Having no idea what this was, Elizabeth and I drove out to the country where I met Meline and we walked up to a large farm. Here, I saw pastures of cows with their necks clanging with swiss cow bells, out buildings, and a muddy area that had been closed off, where several tractors were driving around in all different directions. When learning rudimentary french, tractor terminology is often neglected, and as such, I had literally no idea what I was watching. For the first hour, it actually seemed like a bunch of tractors driving around for no reason as Swiss farmers tried to be country with "cowboy" hats that looked more like fedoras. Don't get me wrong, I found this to be very enjoyable, but was even more excited when I figured out the rules. My first hint was finally noticing the markers on the side of the track that measured how many meters the tractor had gone. It turns out that the point is to take a small tractor whose engine has been modified and hook it up to a very heavy block, which it then has to pull as far as it can before it ruts itself out and can't move any further. What I have previously perceived as a  bunch of tractors spinning their wheels to make a pile of mud which was then smoothed over by other tractors and re-conditioned by spraying water and rolling it, turned out to be the process by which small tractors pulling weights far heavier than the machines themselves, with their front wheels rearing up and their engines busting out thick, black smoke. It was hilarious, and wonderful.

The next day Elisabeth, David, and Hans Peter all competed in a triathlon, making me feel like the lazy, slacking exchange student that I secretly am. E had a team and only did the swimming leg, but both boys did the whole thing, making our little family team a very impressive one, because Hans Peter was the oldest person to compete and did excellently, and David won the whole damn thing. I reserve partial credit for this win on account of my incredible American-style cheerleading skills. Also, I have found that when you are in a foreign country and have limited knowledge of literally everything around you, you find yourself in strange situations with people you don't know and will never see again, but I've found its best to just roll with it. I spent this particular day roaming the tiny Swiss town that the triathlon took place in with the extended family of David's friend and biking buddy, Jeremy. I knew none of them and today I doubt I could pick them out of a crowd, but for the time we spent together they were all very nice and smiled at me a lot. Come to think of it, I actually have no way of knowing if they were the people Elisabeth directed me towards, or if I was once again that confused exchange student who just picked a group of people to follow around one day.  I'm okay with either option.

Merlin, Arthur, and Hans Peter

It's Saturday evening, about a quarter to six. I have returned from a little village called Valangine, about twenty minutes from Neuchâtel, where Hans Peter, Elisabeth and I spent the day at a Medieval Festival. I loved it. The town itself is a quaint compilation of about six streets with buildings that were built in the 1500's, grouped around a hill that leads to an impressive castle that has been converted into a museum. There is a stunning church in the center of the town, and it was the only building that had doorways tall enough for me to walk through without ducking. I have never seen a more perfect town. We wandered up to the castle and were met by crusaders, knights, horses, forges, candle makers, and people roasting food on fires.

We went on a scavenger hunt all over the town, trying to find specific places and write down our names in the booklets that were hidden at each location. Our team name was Merlin, Arthur, and Hans Peter. Probably the best thing I've ever thought up. I got to be Merlin.

We ate traditional local food, called Gâteau au Beurre, which was basically a very thin pizza crust with lots of butter and the toppings, but no tomato sauce and no cheese. It was delicious.

Later tonight I am being taken "tractor pulling". I have no idea what it will be. I will follow up with more later.

Internationally Trained: High Jump and Palette

This week has been phenomenal.

 Saturday night, Elisabeth, Hans Peter, David, Mel, Maya and her fiancee and I all went to Hotel du Peyrou, a very fancy establishment near downtown, and had dinner to honor David getting his Masters. It was this incredible experience of tastes, sights, and culture like I'd never experienced before. We spent six hours eating exotic foods and struggling to use the right silverware, trying everything from raw fish to vegetable flavored sorbet. It was incredible. My entire host family has been so welcoming and kind, I couldn't be luckier.

I started track and field this week with a local club. They have been very welcoming and offer insightful help on my jumping, as well as providing challenging workouts. It's perfect. On Monday we went to a track that is about 10 minutes outside of Neuchatel, and is right on the water front. It was the most stunning place I've ever seen. It was clear enough to see the rugged Alps from across the water, and vineyards snaked up the hillside behind. Everywhere I looked was beauty. Tuesday and Wednesday were at a different, more traditional track (this one wasn't woodchip, had a pit, and a grandstand), but the same kids met and I felt very good to be working out. I was also asked by a man if he had seen me in the Olympics, and if he could I have my autograph. I gave my best "confused tourist" face (one I have been perfecting), and trotted off.

My online classes began this week, and I am just beginning to figure out how to work it. So far we have had assignments like "tell us about yourself" and "why history is important", but I'm sure I'll be very busy with them in no time. In addition, we had our first "French as a second language" french class on Thursday. It is a very long class that ends at a quarter to 6, but I met several of the kids there and they were all very nice. It was a relief to finally be able to connect with people that I could engage with on a deeper level than my rudimentary french skills. My comprehension is increasingly better, and I can now follow along in class (with a little concentration), but my speaking still lags. "How are you", "What did you do this weekend", and "Do you like this class" are all very wonderful things to talk about, I'm sure, but I've found its a bit easier to get to know people when you can respond and participate in conversation a bit further.

Guys this place is indescribable.

Ick.

I miss American toothpaste.

Finding Memories

Our minds are so weird. When I arrived here in Neuchatel I had no memory of where we had lived, what our house looked like, etc. But I am finding as I explore the town that my brain did, in fact, hold some of Neuchatel in it, and all it needs is a trigger to surface into my conscious thought.

Today my classes ended at 11:50, because they were nice enough to cut me out of German. So, after a lovely picnic with Hans Peter and Elisabeth, I had the afternoon to myself to explore and get to know the town. I decided to walk downtown and see the castle. As I walked through the narrow cobblestone streets bustling with busy activity, I noticed a watch shop, near this stunning fountain. I found myself on a snowy December evening, waiting as my incredibly thoughtful and precise father mused over his options of watches to purchase, while my childish patience waned. I, of course, have heard the story of our family promenading around the town that night singing Christmas carols and carrying on, but that specific scene has never been described to me, not from my point of view.

Sometimes the memories I've been finding are simply emotions, the color of my thoughts all those years ago. Also on the way to the Chateau, there is a specific chocolate shop. At this window I just stopped and let the emotions of longing, hope, and joy wash over me. I wanted a hand to tug on, to beg the owner of it to take me inside.

The street leading to the castle is on a very steep hill, and there are steps you can take that duck behind a row of apartments, becoming a shortcut that, by the third or fourth landing, feels like it was still the way harder option. When I finally reached the top, I realized that this was the castle my imagination has used for every Shakespeare play I've ever read. (Which, okay, is only two, but the point still stands.) The steps near the entrance to the courtyard became the platform Macbeth used to mount his horse, and upon entering the courtyard I saw the tower Juliet called to her Romeo from. Until today, I could never have told you where that castle had come from, I would have probably claimed that the great architectural prowess of my subconscious had simply conjured it up.  

One final thing: On the hill of the castle, where a wall and towers sort of cut off the land and make the whole thing rise from the town, some Swiss men were playing Bocce Ball. I knew our family was cultured.

Tummy Issues

My stomach is having a hard time adjusting to the whole, "big meal in the middle of the day and small meals on either end of it" thing, and I get really hungry at odd times of the day. Especially in the middle of the night, when I'm being kept awake by my annoyingly loyal Circadian rhythm. (That loyalty being to the Mountain Time Zone). So today I decided to resolve that issue, and bought a box of biscuits which now live in my desk. I'd better tell Elisabeth to sign me up for sports as soon as possible.  

Universal Profiles

Today was my first day of school. I learned many things, including the fact that smiling really is the same in every language, I can understand way more French than I can speak, which is frustrating as hell, and that no matter where you are, it seems to me that the same kinds of people teach the same kinds of subjects. Of course, in order to be willing to be a teacher in a public school full of moody, pubescent high schoolers, one would have to be a specific kind of person anyways. But my discovery of the day went even deeper, to the personality types of each person and how it reflects their subject. My Economics teacher, a Mme. Tack, was extremely energetic and convinced that her subject would change our lives. She had Ms. Frizzle hair and I half expected her to march us all down the four flights of stairs and take us on a magically educational field trip. Our Math teacher wore glasses that framed his focused, thoughtful eyes and wrote in near capital letters on the board. He attempted to make a joke about the fact that I am American, but in the end was the only one laughing; the rest of us just looked confused. For my final class of the morning, we had Francais, which is just grammar, spelling, writing, etc. Exactly like an English class at home. Our teacher for French had on a bright hot pink button-down shirt and had bulging knuckles on his hands from holding pens tightly. He wandered aimlessly around the room, taking to us about whatever digression came to mind, satisfying his Attention Deficit Disorder by opening and closing the windows over and over again.

I was introduced at the beginning of the first period, and during the break after that class two of my new friends came and introduced themselves. Two more came the period after that, and soon we were all hanging out together. I love friendly people. It made my day so much easier. After school, I went downtown and touristed it up for a few hours, wandering and taking pictures of various beautiful buildings and of the crepe I enjoyed in the park. It was perfect.

Guys, I think I might actually be able to do this.

Final Stop, Leave Please.

Upon arriving at our little Bozeman airport, laden with too much luggage and not enough control to keep the stinging tears from pooling in my sleepy eyes,  I didn't know what to expect. I certainly didn't expect the numerous strapping young men who all offered to help me with my suitcase as I attempted to lift it over my head into the bins. (I politely declined the offered assistance, and needed only to  demonstrate my angry feminist grunts a few times to get the message across to some of the, er, gentlemen.) I have now arrived in my new home, having taken car, plane, train, and my own two tired feet as I dragged my oversized luggage towards a place I was promised to have a memory of, but as of yet have drawn blank. Funnily enough, what I do remember is the sidewalk. From this I can only assume that as a young, blossoming child of 9, I either had a magnificent eye for detail, or decided it was best to spend my European experience staring at my feet. Either way I still feel I was prodigious at heart.

The people have been amazing. I haven't met a single person who hasn't been smiley, welcoming, and patient as I struggle my way through their language. Except for this one French lady on the plane who just squinted around at everyone and sucked on her e-cigarette. And the flight attendants.

Well, I'm here. Its gorgeous. Welcome home, Kate?