Andermatt: Opening day in the Swiss Alps

I awoke panicked at 03.00. Then at 03.30, and again at 04.00. My dreams were plagued with the thought of missing the train; of failing to get out of Greg’s bed in time to run to the train station with all my ski gear. When my iPod finally decided to play Kobojsarna’s “Saang om ingenting” as a wake-up call at 05.05, I lurched out of bed to the frantic pace of the Swedish techno and checked the weather report. Andermatt, Switzerland, opening day: High of 46 degrees Fahrenheit, low of 33. Good enough.

Finally, the chance to wear my beloved winter clothing had presented itself. I layered on my favorite articles of Craft and Patagonia winter wear while Kyle made eggs for breakfast. Sleepily, we fastened our helmets to our packs and departed into the wet Sorengo morning, ski boots slung around our necks and skis balanced precariously on our shoulders. As we passed the penthouses rented by the wealthier of the student population, drunken classmates called obnoxiously to us from open windows. What a waste of time, I thought. Our day was about to be infinitely more enjoyable than their hangovers.

We met up with 4 other guys at the train station and hovered hesitantly at the platform, debating purchasing a group ticket. At 06.40, with the ticket office closed, I saw this as impossible anyway, and tried not to panic as I watched the clock tick closer and closer to departure time. My fears were confirmed when the train came speeding into view as the guys were in the chaotic process of pushing individual coins into the ticket machine. Our collective entry into the train car was a violent one, involving much tossing about of ski gear, yelling, and sprinting to the doors seconds before they closed. Note to self while traveling with men: keep an eye on the clock. I collapsed in my seat and was asleep within minutes, Switzerland rolling by outside my window.

Another note to self while traveling with men: Reinforce the concept of “preparation time”. This is to say that I awoke to shouts of “HURRY! WE HAVE TO GET OFF!” and the train slowing to a stop. Upon opening my eyes, I discovered that every square inch of space in our train car was now entirely packed with members of the Swiss military, babbling away in Swiss German. My travel companions had failed to take any preparative measures whatsoever, and our skis still lay scattered among various luggage racks, our bags unpacked all over the floor. A mad scramble ensued, during which we truly discovered our collective inability to speak any German whatsoever while whacking Swiss army guys in the head with various articles of ski gear. Falling haphazardly onto the platform, we shuffled hurriedly through the labyrinth of the transfer station and jumped on a local train to Andermatt. I made sure to stay awake this time, bags packed and ready for spontaneous departure.

Mountains rolled by, semi-covered in a light dusting of snow. Jagged rocks and green grass were more prevalent than the snow itself. I pondered the wisdom of skiing the current conditions with rented skis. We disembarked in Andermatt into a pile of slush and made our way through town to the tram.

Andermatt is unique in its quaintness. It lacks the super-modern, corporate resort-town feel of many other popular ski mountains. The town lays relatively untouched, small, and quiet, still very traditional in its Swiss ways. Skiers are carried up the slopes by slow, simple lifts and dine in tiny restaurants with a limited menu, yet the entire experience maintains an air of classic nostalgia often forgotten in the whirlwind of monster ski resorts. Only one slope was skiable on opening day, and as uneven, inconsistent and downright bizarre as it was, remained absolutely packed with people. Swiss teenagers crowded the hill in gigantic neon jackets, smoking cigarettes on every lift ride. The Alps loomed in every direction.

We skied all day, pausing only once for a picnic of bread and cheese. We had brought water in Kyle’s CamelBak, but it had gone bad, and tasted exactly like the days-old dishwater in his sink. The sickening flavor, in combination with our lunch, is impossible to erase from my memory. Besides that, it was delicious. We skied the same run time and time again, trying off-piste only a handful of times, which resulted in deep scratches in the bottoms of everyone’s skis. One of our companions, another Alaskan, managed to break one ski tip, both his tails, a binding, and a pole basket – on rental gear. By some miracle, the people in the rental shop seemed more astounded than anything, and didn’t ask him to pay for it.
No better place or time to experience firsthand what apres-ski really means! Hot soup, fresh bread, and Swiss beer were waiting for us at a cozy pub in town, at a table with a handful of other college students. We rode the trian home in the dark, thoroughly satisfied with opening day in the Alps.

On the horrors of Mac-to-PC transition

A couple things have happened recently which has made updating my blog increasingly difficult. Behold, the saga of Acacia’s Technological Meltdown.
First, my beloved computer, which I’ve had for over two and a half years, with over 22,000 photographs on its hard disk – died a sudden death in the form of a shattered screen. Yes, I will be able to eventually recover my files, but until Christmas break, I am still a full-time college student without a working laptop. By “working” I do not suggest that I have no computer at all, however: the immense generosity of Adrienne Blaine has bestowed me with a brand new Dell somethingrather, a gigantic beast of a machine functioning in the nostalgic ways of Windows XP. Not only does it weigh what feels like 20 pounds, it refuses to connect to the internet – anywhere- and freezes up in fits of hysteria if I so much as attempt to compose a word document. Oh, Windows. How you nauseate me in your startling incompetence.
This said, I find myself entirely dependent upon the computers in the school computer lab (also ancient Windows machines that can’t accomplish anything with an ounce of efficiency), which is a 20-minute uphill walk from my apartment. The school, for that matter, holds the computer lab open at irregular and inconvenient hours, and when it is open, fails to use any form of ventilation. The school computer lab is therefore reduced to a stuffy, windowless box reeking of sweat and overheated, outdated technology. How I am expected to produce anything worth reading in that environment, I’ll never know.
I am lost at what course of action to take. Should I revive my weary MacBook with an expensive repair, and thus reunite with Photoshop, InDesign, Illustrator and iStopMotion, even though the lifespan of my computer is potentially rather short thereafter, or should I part with my beloved software in favor of a new laptop that will probably last a lot longer? I’m torn. I feel slightly incomplete without my entire iPhoto library a click away.

Resurface!

Ahoy dear readers! It would seem that my blog has undergone a metamorphosis, from Where is Acacia to Where Was Acacia, A Few Weeks Ago. Reassuming the everyday life of a student has been far from linguistically inspiring, and being required to type a detailed journal of my travels anyway, I decided to share it with you piece by piece instead of, say, enlightening you about the tragedies of my Game Theory class or describing the way in which our dirty dishes have compiled to reach alarming heights. The life of a student leaves little time for extracurricular creativity these days. However, a new adventure begins tomorrow morning. Kyle and I, along with a large number of students from our school, are going to Andermatt for opening day of the ski season!
I have spent the day a sleep-deprived, stressed, nervous wreck. Today presented an unfortunate combination of deadlines, which, when occurring on the same day, bore utter mental catastrophe. Until recently, I had been functioning solely on a jittery mix of caffeine and sugar. After much anticipation, the tranquility of Friday night has finally set in. Though littered with an explosion of schoolwork and general chaos, our apartment is quiet and peaceful. Kayla has not stirred since I arrived home some hours ago, slumbering unstoppably in the direction of rejuvenation. Quinn and I chatter about anything not related to schoolwork, doing whatever possible to free our minds from the weight of research papers and upcoming exams. Life is good.

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.