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.

This is the strangest life I've ever known.

Today I hallucinated that there were 2 boxes of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese in my kitchen.

They were waiting for me, and I had branded them mine with a sharpie already the day before. I just couldn’t remember where they were. At about 1pm, when I should have been studying for a psychology final for Trinity, I was crawling on my kitchen counters looking for a non-existent box of artificial coloring and bleached noodles.

It was at this point that I started considering that I may have a hinge loose. Or a marble rolling around a bit. But either way, I had 6 slices of bread today. And that helped matters.

It’s gotten harder to keep up on my bread reflections. Ever since Easter, I have systematically returned to a blessed and simple life of bread. My days are effortless, and without a care. It’s almost like the bread hiatus never occurred. And going to Paris didn’t help my motivation.

It was my dream and Mecca for countless years. The city of light. And accordions. And smelly metros and people. What happens when you get your dream?

You find yourself standing in front of James Douglas Morrison’s gravesite. Except when you envisioned it, you were alone and free to sit idly by and ponder his music and sexual appeal all to your peaceful self. I stood in front of his ‘gently loved’ gravesite, with a few dozen other tourists in Pere Lachaise as cigarettes were thrown and middle-aged women speaking French asked me who the dead guy was.

I can’t cry, because then they’ll think I’m crazy.

I can’t yell at them, because they won’t understand my American gibberish anyhow. And I will prove their suspicions correct that I am, in fact, crazy.

I said, He was a Poet. They don’t understand.

So I just looked on. I considered hopping the gate to hump his headstone, but I know for a fact that has been happening for 40 years, and I’m not about to start copying 3 generations of groupies.

I realized there was still half a loaf of bread in my shoulder bag. As I strolled away, stronger and wiser than before, I nibbled at the French baguette. It was one of the only things that morning that lived up to the hype.

Sometimes, dreams aren’t as good as reality.

But I guess, maybe, that’s when you find a new dream.

After Paris, my travels (and a volcano in Iceland), stranded me and Allison in Geneva, Switzerland. But that’s another story.

I found my new dream.

Christianity, allergies, love, and other inconvenient things.

I was told, “Spring happened last night.”

To the untrained eye, there wouldn’t be a noticeable difference. Luckily, after over 3 months in this kooky, backwards city, I have started to catch on.

For example, the typical wardrobe of Dublin girls includes a see-thru shirt, a few over-sized and tattered accessories, and near to non-existent skirts. Today, I have passed by many a lasses that all together forgot their pants. But that’s alright; no one seems to be complaining.

In addition to the wardrobe changes, the St Stephen’s Green park etiquette has shifted. As I lay here in the grass with the Irish sun breathing down my back and a hanky in my hand to blow my allergy-stricken nose on, I notice the numerous couples that have settled around me. Most containing older men and younger women, few consisting of acceptable conversation topics for 2 pm near a playground, and all comprised of a massive amount of public affection.

There is something in the air. And it’s making me sneeze.

I blame the dubiousness of my recent decisions on the recent turn in weather here in the Fair City. Today is Sunday, and I am thinking about all my last Sundays since February. Today is Sunday and I am so happy I am not a catholic.

But that doesn’t mean I didn’t have a magical Easter experience. I did. I just choose to take matters into my own hands 2 days before.

Maybe you thought I had found contentness and virtue in my lent journey. Perhaps I lead on that my determination and self-will was truly growing and proving me to be a worthy individual.

Maybe you should have looked harder.

I have learned many things on this long and strange trip:

1. Chips after Guinness isn’t worth it. You’re only going to regret it the next morning.
2. There are few substitutions for good Focaccia bread, and there are few things I wouldn’t do for one.
3. It’s not a good thing to find yourself in a hole-in-the-wall deli in Dun Laoghaire, being served undercooked eggs and ham chunks after a questionable night, unable to make eye contact across the grease stained table. But sometimes they are cutting fresh bread for toast. And sometimes, that’s exactly where you should be.

For these few reasons briefly stated above, I chose to forfeit my bread lent 2 days before Easter. Yeah. And you know what? It’s okay. Once you know what you want, you know what you want I suppose.

On Easter morning my apartment woke up and dressed in our finest to walk down Haddington Rd to St. Mary’s Church for mass. Yes, we were clueless. No, we were not all-together sober. But we were there, and we sang.

The first piece of bread I had on Easter was from the priest, I’d never had it before. I’ll probably never have it again, either. But that’s okay. That’s what this city has shown me. It’s here today and gone tomorrow. It’s a field or a sculpture or a man or a croissant that I have never encountered, that I never will again.

Once you know what you want, every moment is fleeting. And every fleeting moment is worth it.