There's a plane, and I am flying

Because Paris was made into a cluster-fuck of people trying to escape the city, and because we really, really wanted to see the Flower Clock, Allison and I hopped a train to Geneva three Friday’s ago. By hopped, I mean forcefully threw ourselves into a box car that was unattended and hid in the corner.

We arrived in the dark. Stepping into Geneva air was, well, not much different than stepping into Paris air. Except that it lacked the lukewarm piss stench we had grown so accustomed to. No complaints from us, as we were promptly grabbed and hugged by our soon-to-be new best (Swiss!) friend, Nina.

I hope Nina wanted a shout out.

Now, because of the spontaneous eruption of Iceland’s now famous volcano, I had expected my European expedition to be derailed, and it was. Literally, there wasn’t a train, boat, plane, or twinkly-eyed fucker driving back to the UK or Ireland anytime soon. It was assumed this would not be a good thing. I had bread to eat in Venice, after all.

Things that did not go as planned (they went better):

-7 days of schedules and tours turned into 12 days of uncertainty and happiness

-meeting Jurek, Uta, Inka, Amelie and Nina became living with them. Including one dance recital and a cookie-baking day

-experiencing Geneva’s nightlife unfolded into BEING Geneva’s nightlife, at a club where a bottle of vodka costs more than my IC education, and a British/ Australian man is shared amongst us American girls

-Sunday morning started with Florence and the Machine singing us to the town bakery

There’s this little house. It’s in between Gland and Nyon, on the shore of Geneva Lake. And there’s a long wooden table with at least 10 chairs around it, it faces out the back towards the garden and lake and mountains. And I ate there, a part of a family, every morning and evening for over a week. I ate homemade German dishes; Uta is incredible with herbs from her garden. And I had traditional Polish food, Jurek grilled ostrich over the fireplace. But every evening, they brought home fresh loaves of bread for us.

Some loaves had grains of sugar stuck to the top; another was shaped like a sunflower. I bought that one in a store. And then there were the French baguettes we used to sop up the dressing from the mozzarella caprese salad. We had brown bread and nutella and jams. And I just can’t justify myself deserving it all.

Last Tuesday I had decided I wanted to be a doctor. I want to help people; I want to know people better than they know themselves.

Thursday, I convinced myself the only real profession for me was a baker. It just makes sense. I’d be a damn good baker.

By Friday, I knew the inescapable truth was that I would write. And write and write. Forever. And maybe get paid for it.

I’m not sure what I’d really like to DO. But I know now, it has something to do with that lake. And the dancing. And Sunday mornings with Focaccia.