My Semester Abroad

Last Saturday, I traveled two hours to find a protest in the capital of Switzerland, outfitted in journalist attire, microphone, professional pen and pad.

I left, miffed, that no one wanted the story.

The protest was over the bloody conflict in the Occupied Palestinian Territory. As the protest organizers were supportive of the Palestinians, they jointly called for the cessation of Israel's aggression in Gaza.

According to International Coordinator of the World Council of Churches, Rifat Odeh Kassis, "We should not be patient against aggressive occupation." Instead, Kassis urged "All free people should write to put pressure on Israel."

I marched along (but not quite in tandem, so I could remain "objective") up the street a mile or so, until we stopped in front of the Israeli Embassy. Five guards in bullet-proof vests with serious weaponry stood waiting to greet us.

I mumbled something about not wanting to die by massive firepower, and a protester on my right chuckled softly.

As this was a peaceful protest — shouting and demonstrating, without physical violence — I reasoned that it was safe to stay.

After jotting notes and taking pictures of the 400+ sized crowd around me, I returned to the car.

Little did I know another story was waiting upon my return.

With a camping stove's transient flame, two drug users were squatting by the driver's seat of the car, melting white powder to liquid form. Others, in groups of two and three, were also crouched over their drugs. Although I was taken aback by this open-air consumption of what appeared to be crack cocaine, others around me were taking it in stride.

In fact, an eight-person movie crew was filming a bedraggled, drug-addict actor as he stumbled hazily through set-up piles of trash. The director, standing nearby, told me he was filming a scene for a short German film about loss.

Observing the many lost individuals squatting pitifully around me, I realized that another, closer-to-Bern protest ought to have happened.

Unfortunately for them, their voices were not heard.

I am sitting in a comfortable, romantic haunt I stumbled upon my first week here in Geneva. The family-owned Remor is known for its refreshingly juicy sorbets, served on chilled silver platters. 1920's jazz music washes through the room, transporting the common customer into a genteel black and white film, where romantic love still exists and happy endings never fail. C'est bon.

I never thought intensive French class could be cathartic. Yet it is.

I'll admit it is difficult having French phrases drilled shrilly into my brain in the early morning — drilled so securely in fact, that I often find my teacher's voice screaming, "Où habitez-vous? Où??!!" piercing my idle thoughts during the train ride home.

Yet it is also satisfying to know I am finally, finally, learning the common language of Geneva. Rather than becoming tense when addressed in French, I am calm in response because I know that, although currently incapable of conversation, I am at least not totally lost. And I can prey on people's sympathy.

I'm back in Seattle, found a Frisbee pick-up team to join--and am desperately missing London. No more Caffe Nero, no University College London, no quick rides on the tube. And it's so odd how easily I've transitioned into being back in the States. I don't have the call the bathroom a toilet anymore and I won't be embarrassed if I call trousers pants.

(That always lead to an awkward pause in conversation. Once, at a Frisbee tournament I heard that we were supposed to wear shorts, which sounded absurd since it was cold, windy and hailing off and on.
"Do you think it would matter if we wore pants instead?" I asked some of the girls.
"What??!!" they said, horrified.
I suddenly remembered that pants means underwear.
"I mean..."
"Trousers, yes. We figured.")

I crammed as much as I could into my last day in London. As I walked back from Sainbury's, I suddenly stopped and looked at everything I would miss: Tottenham Court Road, the traffic, the shops, the construction. Yasemin and I took a walk to bid adieu to our adopted turf. We strolled down to Covent Garden and continued to the Strand. Visited the National Gallery at Trafalgar Square and popped in to see Monet's curvy bridge and Van Gogh's textured sunflowers one last time.

London, I must say this: Bravo! Bravo! Bravississimo!

It is currently 12:30 a.m. I had planned on going to bed a half hour ago. That was before the attack of the bugs.

It's been hot here. Really hot. So I opened my windows to air things out, and went to go brush my teeth.

When I returned, my room was crawling with bugs. Literally. Hundreds of green winged things were flying and crawling about, pushing other bugs out of the way to get closer to the light. It was sick. The bigger mosquitoes were playing hard to get, intent on showing their greatness by claiming the center ceiling light.

I decided to let the obnoxious creatures be, vainly hoping they would fly toward the window, entranced by the moonlight. But not ten seconds after I turned out the light, I heard a distinct humming. A bone-rattling type of distinct humming. I tried hiding, burrowing, bribing--all for nothing.

Not to be defeated, however, I called upon all the jumping muscles varsity volleyball exercises had instilled in me, and attacked the critters creatures right and left. Not caring about the shape of my bag once the killing was through, I took another glance at the ceiling. To my dismay, it was littered with bug bits, thoroughly dismembered. Hoping to remain on good terms with my lovely host mom, I vowed to clean the ceiling in the morning.

I spent my last week in Buenos Aires trying to do everything I had wanted to do all semester, which wasn't possible; I guess I will just have to return. I did do better than I expected on my exams and papers, and my Spanish greatly improved.

My exchange program officially ended with a fancy dinner and student skits. My friends and I jokingly offered to perform and were forced to, even after we explained that the song we wanted to dance to was "inappropriate." We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, closing out the night with an interpretative dance to, yes, the Divines' "I Touch Myself."

Yesterday Charles and I took off on what will be, we hope, the longest bus ride of our journey. We left Buenos Aires in the morning and arrived at the Bolivian border nearly 27 hours later! We managed to find our way across the border despite warnings that it might be closed because of the elections. We had planned to take the train today to a smaller town nearby, but we were informed that the train doesn't run Sundays; the bus terminal was also closed--due to both it being Sunday and election day.
In Bolivia, apparently, people are not allowed to leave town on election days, tourists included!

A small border town is not the ideal place to be stranded, especially when The Lonely Planet´s "South America on a Shoestring" recommends going to the Argentine side for food. Ah, well, Charles and I have managed to work everything out so far. We're a good team -- and we're even ahead of schedule on our whirlwind three-week tour of Bolivia. Stay tuned.

It's a balmy 72 degrees as the sun begins to set. Eighteen people are gathered around a table brimming with delicious treats. I am at my first Swiss block party. I now live in Coppet, a sweet, quaint town, 10 minutes from downtown Geneva. An elderly community inhabits these apartments, but as fit and active elders as you have seen. I am by far the youngest at 21, but am soon joined by a 35-year-old Belgium man who is interested in me, until he realizes I have yet to graduate university.

I stand awkwardly; uncomprehending the fast, fluent French swirling around me. As I valiantly try not to look out of place or feel uncomfortable, people approach with warm smiles, open hands and French pleasantries, I respond in kind, carefully pronouncing, "Bonsoir." As the wine begins to flow, conversation becomes increasingly comfortable.

Slowly sipping my wine and surveying the scene, I am suddenly struck by the similarities to home. Three little girls run about and are soon joined by a Portuguese boy. All four children ask their parents to play with them, but after faced with the all-too-familiar parental protest of fatigue, they quickly become bored and play with one another instead, laughing with wild energy and acting rambunctiously.

I soon make friends with the Belgian, who tells me of the first time he visited the United States. Plopped into an East Coast middle school at age 11, he was forced to put aside Flemish and French for English. Although he learned the language in the brutal and ruthless atmosphere characteristic of junior high, he seems to have survived unscathed.

Besides the attentions of the Belgian, I found I was being eyeballed by an elderly Italian man, who, had he been thirty years younger, would have been quite the catch. He was good-looking, expressive (naturally) and funny. I caught some of what the Italian man was saying, and even felt confident (three glasses in) to add my own broken-Italian quips. Roaring with laughter, he complimented me on my attempts. His kind words, however, were owing to the bubbly and not my pronunciation.

I moved on from the intoxicated Italian to a French-speaking man who told me he had been born in America. He seemed reticent, so I began peppering him with questions like the journalist I hope to be. He finally admitted he was a former journalist, who cynically proclaimed he didn't even follow the news anymore.