Academic Travel: Journey into France

Digne-les-Bains, France

19 October 2009

    By eight thirty, we boarding the Cosmos bus yet again, winding through the rods of Geneva and out, into the countryside, into France. To Digne-les-Bains, our final destination. Having only ever visited Paris in February, I was awed by the splendor of Provence in the fall. Such vivid foliage painting the hillsides, mountains of such a unique color and shape… houses grew reminiscent of adobe styles one might expect to encounter in the desert, with simple walls and terracotta roofs. Streams and rivers were lined with beautifully round stones. Stormy clouds of purple and grey hovered over the mountains.

    After a picnic lunch in a sunny field, we pulled in to the Villa Gaia in the late afternoon. Evening sun filtered through the trees, dancing patterns of light among the blades of grass, dying slowly in the autumn cold. A grand chateau loomed in the twilight, delicious scents drifting from its open windows. A piece of idyllic French countryside, ours to experience. We headed to our rooms, exhausted. Adrienne and I were given an exquisite old room, furnished with intricate wallpaper and a mirrored armoire. A strange homesickness came over us. We had begun to associate our independent lives with the lesser quality found in youth hostels and student apartments. Being in such an upscale setting made the absence of our families almost startling. 

   Dinner was a decadent experience. Four-course meal, potatoes au gratin, cheese course, roast chicken, and dessert made for an unforgettable feast. Sleep became the only option after so much food…

 

Academic Travel: Days in Geneva

Geneva, CH

18 October 2009

 Adrienne and I hit our respective snooze buttons repeatedly until the threat of missing breakfast eventually forced me out of bed.

I joined Kyle for a morning walk by the lake. The city of Geneva slumbered on, not even stirring as we passed darkened shop windows, empty streets, even abandoned tram stops. The expanse of water before us tossed itself about in the wind, splashing among the swans riding its turbulent waves. The Swiss flag fluttered in the cool wind – the only sound save the rustling of the trees and the turmoil of Lake Geneva. We walked together on an otherwise deserted trail.

   A surreal feeling washed over me, flooded the landscape through my eyes. Where am I? The honest answer would have appeared absurd only months ago.

  We purchased 65 CHF worth of McDonalds food for three other people and ourselves. The cashier smiled at our American accents. The boys unpacked the food onto the floor of their hotel room, and there we had lunch, McDonalds for what seemed like the hundredth time. Unintelligent television droned in the background. I felt more American than I ever had in the United States.

   SSB once again accomplished the remarkable feat of getting all 17 of us aboard not only one, but two forms of public transportation, across the city to the Red Cross Museum. A troop of masked prisoners, carved in stone, lurked outside the entrance under gigantic flags twisted in the airspace above. “It’s supposed to resemble a prison…” someone whispered, and in that it succeeded. The towering concrete walls resonated with an aura of general unease. We entered. A stern-looking woman in matching baby blue garments approached and instantly interrogated us with a long list of angry demands. Take off your jacket! No water! No cameras! It became apparent that she would be our tour guide.

   “What do you expect to see here?” she questioned, a fierce gleam in her eyes as she scanned our faces for signs of fear. The entirety of our group flinched in terror. Neil would later state, in and impromptu attempt at haiku:

  Nazi woman makes my bones freeze

 Danger is imminent.

  I feel that this statement accurately generalizes our collective sentiments. The guide marched us down a set of stairs into a dark concrete room, demanding to know if anyone could define the Geneva Conventions. Thomas muttered something under his breath.

 “Answer me!” barked the woman. “Don’t just mumble into your nonexistent beard!” We stared in disbelief, but in truth, I was impressed. That woman could guide one efficient tour. We spent the next hour or so holding our breaths in fear of harsh rejection or humiliation, not daring to let our minds drift for even a split second. The museum itself echoed barren insensitivity, a sort of cold, perpetual numbness.

 “Why are the prisoners’ faces covered?” smirked our guide, gesturing to statues resembling the ones outside. “When they have no visible face, how can we relate? Yet they could be your husbands, your sons, your brothers, fathers or friends…”

  Walls of glass encased hundreds of thousands of faded name cards, the last documentation of soldiers slaughtered in battle. Infinite scraps of paper; the last traces of so many identities before death or disappearance caused them to fade away… the exhibition made my stomach churn as our guide proudly exclaimed its significance with a sickening smile.

  We entered a small room, its walls plastered in color photographs of African children. Their fingers clenched pieces of paper displaying a number and letter combination. “Orphans,” boomed the guide. “Some of them are too young to even know their names, their parents’ names, or their origin.” The sorrowful gazes of countless children bore into us. The question of identity struck me as intensely overwhelming. Without a name, parents, origin… who are we?

  We ended our tour shaken, whipped awake by our guide and the fear of her wrath. The museum itself left a cold, metallic taste in my mouth.Here we were, so unbelievably privileged, and my classmates were on their cell phones, taking this for granted, not paying attention… it was a sickening sight.

   What became perhaps the most nauseating experience of the entire trip for me, however, came at our next stop, Anne Deriaz’s apartment in Geneva. The tiny, aging woman welcomed us warmly into her home, beaming as we packed ourselves into the crevices of her living room. She served us tea in cups, bowls, glasses, whatever she had that could accommodate our large group, and when we all sat comfortably, tea and cookies provided, we surprised Neil with a round of Happy Birthday and a selection of cakes.

    Nestled among cushions, chairs and couches, and crammed against the wall, we celebrated and cleared the table for another writing workshop. About half of the students were already giggling, gossiping about drunken episodes from the night before. It went downhill from there.

  Anne led us through a series of the same exercises I had previously found so inspiring, and within a few minutes each of us had produced a brief text. We were then assigned the task of turning it into either a tragedy or comedy. Guess who was assigned the comedy? The results were an embarrassment to our entire group. Meaningless texts with no respect for the immediate social context, describing only “the joys of being drunk” at best… I was humiliated to even be associated with such behavior. A Swiss author had displayed the warmest hospitality of welcoming us into her home, and to see these students abusing such an experience made my heart hurt. I made sure to thank her profusely upon leaving, and to distance myself from my disrespectful classmates as soon as possible.

   Kyle, Melani, Adrienne and I had Lebanese food for dinner, lingered in a tiny restaurant for a few hours. Middle Eastern men came and went. We hurried back to our hotel in the biting wind, happy to be inside.

Academic Travel: Arrival in Geneva

 Geneva, CH

18 October 2009

   Friday morning was a sleepy one after the late night of the day before. Kyle had fallen ill and I had stayed up late making sure he was all right. After breakfast we were divided into groups by SSB (Kyle, Tara, Neil and myself) and set loose into Lausanne with a timed scavenger hunt in hand. The objective was to single-handedly locate and learn about a variety of famous and beautiful places in Lausanne, record the best answers, and be at a particular café by noon. The reward for the winning team: Dinner with Swiss writer Amelie Plume that night in Geneva. A delicious, free, non-McDonalds dinner was strong motivation.

   The first place on our list was hard to find, but thanks in part to Tara’s French skills, we were efficient from there on, briskly walking, maps in hand, through the sunny streets of morning Lausanne. Our series of destinations led us to the lakeshore, lined with museums, gardens, parks and walking paths. Such fresh, clean water, brimming with birds, lapping and sparkling in the sun, mountains rising in the hazy backdrop. I sat for a moment by the water’s edge with Kyle, gazing at the harbor. Rows of sailboats bobbed at the base of a castle, manicured trees lined the roads. So clean, so Swiss. I love Lausanne.

   The photography museum at Estate Elysee is something I’m going to need to return to. It wasn’t open yet when we passed by, but the young woman at the reception let us ask her questions anyway. I marveled at the few photos I saw, and vowed to myself that someday, I would be back.

    The Olympic museum, a dog cemetery, a dazzling golden pavilion, a crumbling castle tower, the “path of the fox”… we checked the idyllic locations off our list, snapping photos and occasionally asking passing civilians for directions. Swiss police officers helped us find the golden pavilion. The lakeside area had such a feeling of peace, of timeless elegance. Time always runs out.

     We took a tram back to the center of town. Stood in the back and watched the lake glide into the distance through the window, the tram tracks extending further and further away. Off the tram, we found the bookstore on our list and, with five minutes left, desperately maneuvered the bustling streets in search of the confiserie that was our final destination. We were the second team to arrive. One of us would win, and our answers were quite well completed… we sipped coffee from tall glasses while customers examined the exquisite selection of chocolates and decadent pastries. Waiters rushed to and fro with platters of expensive-looking food.

   Atmosphere appreciated, it was nevertheless going to be another McDonalds lunch. Once our answers were delivered to SSB with a handful of brochures we’d collected, we got McDonalds and I accompanied Kyle (who is always hungry) to a Chinese restaurant where we discovered an all-you-can-eat buffet. Kyle was overjoyed. I feasted on a delicious plate of fried rice.

   Back on the Cosmos bus, our home away from home. We resumed our usual seats and, as usual, photographs were taken of Adrienne sleeping. Although I initially viewed the photo collection as merely amusing, such an extensive variety begins to earn artistic merit. I look forward to seeing the finished product.

   Coppet, the exile home of Madame de Stael, was mentioned in the texts we read about her, and the chateau naturally demanded a visit. This home to intellectual salons, to turbulent love affairs and political exile, stood preserved, freezing cold (it was a summer house) and nicely adorned with Chinese wallpapers, golden bedposts, beautifully furnished salons… pianos stood in several rooms. Clearly, this was an enjoyable place to be, a home away from home, or at least away from Napoleon. An occasional home for a constant traveler. Frankie, Cam and Thomas gave their presentation on Madame de Stael. I feel the influences she had, and the way in which she achieved them, are somewhat a thing of the past, but one cannot help but be inspired.

   Exhausted after our tour (again, being talked at does not effectively hold my attention) we collapsed on the bus and continued to Geneva. There, in the hotel lobby, we met Amelie Plume, Swiss author, and asked her questions for over an hour. “Somewhere else is better than here” reads the title of one of her books. Can that statement even be rational, we discussed, when wherever you are immediately becomes the new ‘here’? We talked about home, what it is, and again I contemplated that strange and confusing topic. I suppose its very definition, as with most things, is open to interpretation. Amelie Plume described home not necessarily as the place you like most, but the place that you understand best, that you have a place in; a place whose issues affect you. 

   Our scavenger hunt group had won! The most eager students from the top two winning groups were allowed to come to dinner. We traversed the chilly city to a very nice Genevan restaurant – Adrienne, Melani, Kyle, Cam, Neil, SSB, Michele, Amelie Plume, and myself. Fresh mussels in cream sauce served steaming directly from the pot, fresh bread, red wine, molten chocolate cake… a decadent meal. The thought of my 2.50 CHF cheeseburger was laughable. Our tab topped over 400 CHF and Franklin paid for it all. How amazing is the scholastic life that provides such bonuses?

   Despite espresso with dessert, we were tired beyond compare after dinner. We thanked Amelie Plume for her time, her words and her company – “Bon voyage”, she wished me in parting – and returned to the hotel, where Adrienne, Kyle and I watched South Park until we fell asleep.

 

    Saturday morning in Geneva was freezing. Our group ventured into the city early for a tour of the Vieille Ville (old city) and a history of Geneva. Yet again, I was disappointed to have a guide who talked at us rather than to us, and in the early morning cold struggled to find significance in her words. Amidst the history of Geneva, of Calvinism, of bankers, conflicts and Bernese invasions, of conventions and international organizations, I was struck by the antique serenity of Geneva in the morning. I composed a text on the spot, which can be found in the attachments. We toured monuments, theatres, churches of varying religions, charming streets and enough art deco influence to overwhelm even my Norwegian media teacher Halvor, who introduced me to the style some years ago. The structural styles in Geneva are grand, classy, elegant; yet the city remains quaint, perhaps because it’s Swiss.

   Our tour ended at the waterfront, on a bridge by an illuminated purple dome – an exhibition of the Genome project: a visually dynamic display, though all in French, of human genealogy. Those in our group more educated in science scoffed a bit at the artistic renditions and simplified explanations that sometimes ignored accuracy in favor of general conveyance. I, the media student, thought it was brilliant. Most everyday people are less interested in scientific details than visual stimulation…

   A free afternoon and evening in Geneva were in store. I joined Kyle in buying a watch to replace the one he had drawn on his wrist (stuck perpetually at 03.15). We got McDonalds again (cheeseburger count: Acacia: 1 Kyle: 3) and met up with Adrienne. We found another place serving artisan beer, and sat in the warm, bustling pub, sipping from frosty glasses, chatting about nothing and the things between, about the inconsideration of some of our fellow travelers. I rarely find myself influenced by their actions, since I room with Adrienne, and spend most of my time in Kyle’s company. Both of them are excellent companions, interested in the world around us and grateful for the opportunities we have. Most of the other students are enjoyable company as well, but every now and then I overhear a comment, a complaint, a complete lack of respect of compassion… words that appall me in their indifference to what we are doing. I cannot believe it… and perhaps these things are the reasons for my skepticism to group travel. I can now thankfully say this has not been nearly as large a problem as anticipated, but that presence is there nonetheless.

   Adrienne and I were exhausted and took a nap back at the hotel. When we awoke, we joined the boys on a Coop shopping trip and spent a while in their room, watching the laughable American news and playing Never Have I Ever. Adrienne and I dressed in our nicest clothes and we all departed for town to celebrate Neil’s 18^th birthday (How young! I remember my 18^th birthday, what seems like ages ago…) We crossed the bridge to the other side of town in a blustery nighttime wind. City lights reflected off the choppy waves. A night of more McDonalds, of bitter cold and Middle Eastern culture ensued…

Academic Travel: Lausanne

Lausanne, CH

Thursday, 15 October

    Morning sunlight streams through the windows of the Cosmos bus. The scenic streets of French Lausanne roll by, the waves of Lake Geneva shining in the distance. I try and pretend it’s the ocean. The horizon is nothing but endless blue and beams of sun.

   We left Gite du Prilett yesterday morning immediately following breakfast. I was sad to leave the mountains and the tranquility of rural society, but we said our au reviors to the smiling chalet employees and once again boarded the Cosmos bus. Sat curled in our garishly upholstered seats and marveled at the world passing by. Valleys of vineyards and agriculture cultivated in stripes and rows, ancient chateaus and snow-capped mountains lining the horizon. Signs all in French and an increasing prevalence of art deco styles in architecture.

   Our first stop was the Fondation Pierre Gianadda, a small art museum with an impressive collection of Manet, Picasso, and Van Gogh. We toured a beautiful exhibition of paintings in impressionist and cubist styles, viewed an overwhelming selection of old cars, and took a walk in the outdoor sculpture garden. Such intricate, glorious representations of even the most minute details of life, so varied and full of emotion – and all gathered in small-town Switzerland, in a small, dark building. I was unsure if the location did such masterpieces justice, but was brought once again to the thought that always lingers in the back of my mind: Why not just become an artist? What better use of time than to express the joys, sorrows and transitions of life through something as unusually powerful as art? I must remind myself of the privilege of studying. The desire to create beautiful things is overpowering.

   We ate lunch at an overpriced roadside stop by an artificial lake in a shocking shade of turquoise. Sat outside in the sun and drank fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice. If only all roadside stops could be that classy… It was very Swiss. Kyle made the interesting decision of spending his 50 CHF food money on maps and starving instead, and proceeded to eat birdseed (more or less) and Nutella® with his hands on the bus. It could also be of note that Kyle has begun a trend of photographing Adrienne whenever she falls asleep on the Cosmos bus. He is assembling an entire album that he plans to later present to her as a gift. Surely the cause of much hilarity later…

    The road led our bus to the shores of Lake Geneva, which reminded me, at a glance, of the ocean – endless grey-blue water, soaring seagulls, sailboats, and crisp, cool breeze much healthier than in Lugano. A massive fortress loomed in the waters ahead. Chateau Chillon, our next destination: a huge compilation of medieval towers, spires and flags surrounded on all sides by water. We disembarked from the Cosmos bus and shuffled, shivering in the lakeside wind, inside the stony walls of the castle. A grueling 2-hour tour ensued, during which I did my best not to pass out due to fatigue, hunger, cold, or a combination of all of the above. We toured a huge variety of rooms inside the chateau and their functions – a prison/storage room, which Lord Byron engraved his name in – then a church, banquet halls, living quarters, artillery rooms, etc. The purpose of the chateau changed continuously, so its history was very complex… if only I had been more awake or interested. It was an incredible structure, but such guided tours rarely succeed in holding my attention. While I enjoy being spoken to, I have less appreciation for being talked at. I was truly delighted to once again board the bus and continue to Lausanne.

    Lausanne exceeds my expectations in every sense. It lacks the quiet, uneventful feeling present in most of Switzerland’s beautiful cities. On the contrary, I find it quite lively. Perhaps I, personally, am better suited to French culture than to German, or Italian? It encompasses all the romantic beauty of the essential Switzerland- mountains in the distance, clean streets, nature present everywhere- but also pays greater attention to fine detail and an appreciation for modern society. Buildings rise from cobblestone streets in exquisite styles and colors, every window complete with a balcony, its metal worked into intricate designs. The airspace between the buildings is cluttered with cables that carry trams throughout the city’s framework. People are everywhere, rushing from one place to another in the fresh, healthy air. I immediately love Lausanne.

   Dinner was an independent affair. I ate Chinese food with Adrienne, Kyle, Cam, Neil and Thomas, and decided to stay at the hotel in the evening (a wise choice, I feel, after the fondue experience of the night before).

    Today was absolutely brilliant. I ate breakfast with Adrienne in charming hotel restaurant. The atmosphere was hushed and all one heard was the gentle clinking of coffee cups against their saucers and the occasional crunch of a flaky croissant. Sunlight illuminated the pink tablecloths and garish flower arrangements.

   Off to a confiserie! Swiss chocolatiers led us into a laboratory, where we were presented with everything needed to make both chocolate pie and truffles! One by one, we heated cream, mixed it by hand with chocolate and butter, and poured it into butter crusts… the Swiss men strolled alongside our tables in white chef’s clothes, smiling and making gentle suggestions in French. They whisked our creations off to the refrigerator and presented us with balls of dark chocolate, which we rolled in milk chocolate smeared on our palms, and dropped into trays of bitter cocoa powder. Everyone in the group was soon covered in chocolate, licking their palms and pouring leftovers directly into their mouths. The Swiss men laughed at us as delicious aromas wafted from the doors of their workroom. They then presented a history of Swiss chocolate, which SSB translated for us. The Swiss were initially known for their chocolate because they were the first to mix it with milk. The chocolate that this confiserie uses is actually produced elsewhere, but it is the confiserie’s job to blend the different kinds to cultivate a unique flavor. Cocoa beans were broken open and spilled across the tabletop. Our entire group left in great spirits, with a bag of truffles and chocolate pie in hand.

   Adrienne and I wandered the area around the Lausanne train station in the early afternoon and bought panini from a street vendor. We munched on the steaming sandwiches on the way back to the hotel and feasted on our chocolate pies in our room. Listened to Regina Spektor. Sang along.

   SSB, in a brilliant display of group leading skills, managed to get all 17 of us aboard a tram to the Musee de la Brut – a collection of masterpieces created by outsiders of society. Those in mental institutions, mostly, created art not to seek the recognition of others, but because it was their only means of expressing themselves. SSS, explained the tour guide: Silence, Secrecy, and Solitude. Stories were told of desperate individuals locking themselves in bathroom stalls for hours or days on end with paper and colored pencils, of 40 years spent tracing figures from children’s books, of 15,000 page sagas with no sense of chronology.

     Aloise’s drawings were huge, numerous, expanding in every direction, wild with brilliant color and passionate life. Vivid scenes of human interaction, decadent, beautiful lovers with eyes unseeing. Extravagance. She lived out her sensuality in an imaginary world, they said – in her “theatre of the universe”. Colors depicted relationships in various hues and shades of brightness.

   The museum displayed, without question, the best art I have ever seen. Art created from the heart, with no consideration of culture or recognition, is truly rare. Emotionally, it was the most intense display of imagery that probably exists. Anne Deriaz said something interesting on the subject of personal and emotional involvement in creative work: “The more personal you are, the more universal you are.” People relate most strongly to personal emotions, and in the Musee de la Brut, no hesitations were made.

   Initial fascination and wonder at the museum’s works faded with time to a general unease. No pictures here were made for love – everything depicted emotional damage, frustration, and turmoil. I was slightly relieved when we left.

   Extremely satisfied with the day, we decided to make a party of our last night in Lausanne. We had been receiving 50 CHF a day for food, and discovered the economic boost this provided if we ate at McDonalds. For example: One cheeseburger costs 2.50 CHF. One cheeseburger is barely enough for a meal for me. Lunch, done. Dinner, done. 45 CHF in my pocket, every day! Needless to say, we dined at McDonalds after walking around town for a while and visiting an amazing outdoors shop with Kyle.

   Adrienne, Kyle, Thomas, Neil, Cam and I spent the evening hanging out at the hotel, at McDonalds, and at a lively pub serving artisan beer. Quite the evening.

Academic Travel: Lost in the Alps

Gite du Prilett

13 October 2009, 18.50

  Mon dieu! The mountains, the nature, Switzerland, LIFE OH EPIC LIFE!!! Today has been marvelous. A Norwegian-style breakfast started the day minutes before we departed into the cold, as bundled in warm clothing as our baggage would permit. A short hike, promised SSB. Up into the sunlight to get a view of the Matterhorn. Unlike the blustery nature of the day before, not a single cloud marred the untouched blue of the heavens, and the frosted vegetation splintered under our shoes with a satisfying crunch.

      Kyle and I were assigned to the task of keeping track of the slowest members of our group, and here, group travel proved difficult as we fought the temptation to run up into the mountains as far as our feet would carry us. We lingered, we meandered, we lagged behind in an impressive display of patience. After some considerable time shuffling slowly through Chandolin, St. Luc and under a funicular, we arrived at the top of a hill. Incredible panoramic views of the Alps lay before us. SSB deemed us free from our duties. Soon enough, the less motivated students were far behind, and locating our new destination, the road home, became of growing importance. Together with SSB, Thomas, Cam, Kyle and Adrienne, I bounded up the mountain path with surprising energy despite the altitude. SSB had done the hike before, but we wandered in circles, lapping the non-outdoorsmen among us, who nibbled on cookies as they trudged onwards in their fatigue. We tried another trail. The clock was ticking, and our writing workshop with Anne Deriaz, author of Cher Ella, drew closer with each passing second. Where were we? Adrienne seemed tired and pensive, but the boys and I were full of excited energy and begged SSB to let us continue upwards, finding the trail down in the next valley instead of turning back and retracing our steps.

 “It’s really steep,” warned SSB. “Like fall-on-your-ass steep.” We should look for a sign reading ‘Le Prilet par les cascades’ or something to that effect. We skipped up the path with even more energy than before. Kyle proclaimed that his goal, no matter how far our detour took us, was to make it home before Stefania. (Stefania had attempted to depart on a hike in heels the day before). Up and up the path wound, through forests of golden pine needles, through pastures speckled with wildflowers, over glacial streams trickling over mossy rocks – all with the majestic peaks of the Alps rising around us in the ultimate backdrop. I began to doubt our plan, and halfheartedly suggested we turn around, but the three young men outnumbered my weak attempt, and we continued towards the Weisshorn.

   Suddenly, the trees cleared, and we stood awestruck in a wide, snowy valley marking the base of the palisades towering over us. The pristine white snow, the fiery yellow trees, and the stark blue of the sky contrasted in a brilliant display of nature’s colorful beauty. I experienced a wave of intense euphoria taking over me, and upon prancing joyfully ahead, found the sign directing us back to Gite du Prilett! Saved! The ‘par les cascades’ sign was there as well, and we descended from the valley down a series of steep alpine ski slopes. Throwing caution aside (and fearing the ice that could send me sliding if my feet were to linger too long in one place), I ran almost the entire way down the mountain, talking with the guys and watching amusedly as Thomas surfed the slope boarder-style on the traction-free soles of his skater shoes. The sensation of the icy air tousling my hair and numbing my face, the snow crunching under my feet and the adrenaline of the alpine scenery flying by as I sprinted down the mountain – nothing could be more beautiful in that moment, and I laughed in disbelief at how amazing an experience life had brought me, yet again.

    Back at the Gite du Prilett, we waited for the rest of our group (who, yes, we had beat to the bottom!) and met Anne Deriaz, the writer conducting our writing workshop. Although her English was intermediate, the 70-year-old woman led us through a series of exercises designed to let loose a stream of creativity surely hiding somewhere in our minds. It proved effective, and it was with great interest that I listened to the overwhelming differences present among my fellow students’ writing.

   Three forty-five arrived with a disappointing suddenness, ending our workshop. We walked to an ancient bakery where, years ago, the people of St. Luc would bake bread 3 times a year. In hand-carved wooden troughs, we had the opportunity to knead, shape, and design individual loaves of rustic alpine rye bread. I used a knife to carve a swirling spiral into the rough dough, and handed it to a smiling baker, who shoveled it into a stone oven outside. Late afternoon sun illuminated the quaint rooftops and flowering window boxes of St. Luc, drawing the focus, for one second, away from the famous mountains looming behind it.

    While our bread baked, we assembled in a sun-filled room above the bakery, walls lined with golden wood and rows of windows. Some girls in our group gave a presentation on Anne Deriaz – made a bit more nerve-wracking, I would assume, by the fact that she was there herself, listening intently and making corrections where needed. They gave a brief summary of her life, how she escaped from home at 16 to study, later winning a prize for literature – her relationship with Ella Maillart in the last years of her life, and her insight gained from a lifetime as a writer.

   “It is in the little things- to bake bread, to drink wine- in the little things are great truths,” she said slowly, forming sentences carefully through her thick Swiss accent. I considered this as I sipped the white wine poured to me by the smiling baker. I thought of Anne and Ella’s relationship – how the smallest shifts in a daily routine spoke the loudest. In the fast-paced American life I grew up in, we have perhaps lost this simplicity. The feeling of contentment there, breathing alpine air between sips of wine while bread baked below – was unparalleled. I shuddered at the thought of returning to Lugano – to the day-to-day mess of schoolwork, of caffeine and late nights, of stress and frustration. If only life could be as pure, as simple, as there in Chandolin.

   After being served our bread steaming hot from the oven, we returned home and began to prepare for fondue – according to SSB, an all-night affair. Drinking water would make us sick, she claimed. Only white wine and hot tea would be served. We took our seats and were served great steaming pots of cheese, which we dipped bread and potatoes in for hours. A more delicious dinner cannot be imagined, and with all luck, such a quantity of cheese will never again be consumed. After a blueberry pie dessert featuring legitimate alpine blueberries, we returned upstairs and enjoyed a 3-franc bottle of wine Kyle had purchased at Coop. The rest of the night was a happy blur of incredible stargazing, of a limited Norwegian vocabulary, of stories from our childhoods and old TV shows.

   The fondue, however, plagued my stomach all night, and several times threatened to drive me to legitimate sickness.