A Night at the Geneva Airport

This vignette requires me setting the context. For the previous six months, I lived with my colleagues and friends, Kyle and Sebastian. While in Ghana, the three of us shared an office. As the sun would set, our office became our bedroom, grabbing seat cushions to pad the floor. So it is fair to state that I quite literally spent every waking and non-waking moment of the past six months surrounded by Kyle and Sebastian. The running joke (or depressing realization) was that we spent more time with each other than we will spend with any future partner. Following our stay in Ghana, Kyle and I backpacked through southern Europe – continuing our streak of inseparability.

With that in mind, it was time to leave Madrid and fly home. Thankfully there was a layover in the Geneva airport. Arriving at 11pm, the flight to the United States would not be leaving until noon the next day. Unthankfully, for me, I felt unusually sick and incredibly dehydrated. With my body rejecting reality, I decided to throw down big bucks to get a hotel room. So I began calling local Geneva hotels. Not a single hotel had a single room available, so it looked like airport slumber was inevitable. Fighting ninja germs throughout the night, I was just thankful to be alive come morning.

With delirium circling my head like rain clouds, I spotted an airport pastry shop. I signaled to Kyle through inaudible mumbles that we should go there for a croissant and coffee. Staggering over to the Coffee and Friends (so very appropriately named), I turned around only to discover that Kyle was nowhere in sight. Thinking to myself that he must have stepped aside to go to the bathroom, I decided to wait for a few minutes. After about ten minutes, still with no sign of Kyle, I began to wonder whether or not Kyle thought I was pointing to the I’Arc-en-Ciel instead. Fifteen minutes into waiting, I give up my search for Kyle. I decided if worse came to worst, I’ll just proceed through security and meet him at the gate.

Well twenty minutes passes, and I finally realize that the reason I can’t find Kyle is because Kyle has never been with me in the Geneva airport. I was travelling by myself back to the United States. I was just so used to Kyle and Sebastian being in my every-minute that It didn’t occur to me to think I could be the next John Nash. Embarrassed by my delusion or onset of schizophrenia, I took my coffee and found an empty airport seat and sat in silence for the next six hours. I haven’t felt this doltish since my friend Ed.

Quadrilatero d’Oro

While travelling with my former colleague Kyle, we stopped in Milan for two nights. I didn’t have high expectations for this fashion capital. Few people we met before travelling to Milan spoke highly of it (even fewer when we arrived).

But I found Milan to be utterly fascinating. As the fashion capital of the world, the sidewalks are first used as runways, and second, for pedestrian mobility. Every week is Fashion week in Milan. I can say this with 95% confidence, since I stayed there for two nights. Also, I stayed at a Holiday Inn Express.

Suspiciously, I know nothing about fashion. That is an understatement. I hate shopping, I find malls abysmally frightening, and oh, did I mention that I despise shopping. Once, out of FOS (fear of shopping) I tried to purchase discount clothing through eBay. It could have gone better.

To take it a step further, one of the biggest challenges at my consulting job was my shirt-tie coordination. I’m permanently scarred from one particular memory of taking my last remaining starched shirt down the Mer-hall to get a female opinion. With me, I brought my dress shirt and the three tie-finalists. When I presented my selection to my female Mer-friends, it was as if I had just finished serenading them with Songify’s rendition of Double Rainbow. They were literally rolling on the floor laughing. Who ROTFLs? I thought it was only a cyber expression! Point noted: Matching, not one of my strengths.

So combine my fashion inscience with the fact that I was sporting a worn out pair of athletic shorts from American Eagle (isn’t worn out sort of hipster?) with a ragged t-shirt, donning my Jansport backpack from middle school (is that considered vintage yet? Is vintage trendy?), and I was attracting many eyes. Kyle and I sauntered around Quadrilatero d’Oro, home to top Italian designers such as Versace and Dolce & Gabbana. Our general rule: If we recognized the name, we went into the shop. I received death stares (threats, anthrax, etc.) at every store we visited. Judging this book by its cover, it was clear that my goodwill attire placed me far below the good fortune of being able to purchase $500 Ferragamo cuff links. Just a glance at the price tag and I was Ferra-gone-o.

Madonna Had a Child

If I am to be perfectly honest, I enjoy art in various forms, but if I am to be perfectly honest, I don’t know a catnip about it. And there is no better way to develop art appreciation than in places like the Uffizi in Florence, the Louvre in Paris, or the Prado in Madrid. It seemed like every city that Kyle and I travelled to had a corresponding museum obligation.

At the beginning, we indulged in the multiple course art meal served on the plates of the Renaissance. Now, my art history knowledge during the Renaissance is entirely attributed to the Ninja Turtles. Thank you Kevin Eastman and Peter Laird for starting me on my journey of cultural discovery. Although, in my humble opinion, Donatello got the better bargain by being bundled with the other three turtles (as I found the works of Leo, Raph, and Angelo to be much more impressive).

Don’t get me wrong about Donatello. It’s not that he didn’t produce some brilliant masterpieces. I was in awe of his Madonna with Child sculpture in Siena, until I walked into room after room that was entirely devoted to paintings, reliefs, and sculptures of Madonna with Child. The Madonna with Child affiliation must have been to Renessaince artists what the organic affiliation is to Whole Food yuppies.

Patronizing so many museums gave Kyle and I the opportunity to perfect our touring technique. Originally, we decided to eavesdrop on the docent’s guided tours. After spotting a tour group, we strategically trailed them until they stopped to look at some masterpiece. With our backs casually turned, we would feign admiration for the painting in front of us (likely Madonna with Child) while trying to glean the history and importance of the work being discussed. I guess the museums had been hornswoggled too many times by shrewd visitors like myself, because nearly all of the docents talked into a microphone connected to the audio set of each paying tourist, resulting in garbled cliffhangers. This fresco was the most important work of its era because…Madonna...As you can see, the…signifies… Madonna…If you remember one thing about this museum it should be that…Madonna.

After this approach backfired, we started purchasing audio guides. It started with Kyle and I splitting one audio guide. But we immediately found it too cumbersome and socially embarrassing to hold our ears up to the same muted speaker, so we began to take turns listening to the audio guide and give each other the cliff notes.

Realizing that we were being penny smart but dollar stupid (I practiced no restraint when it came to the food and wine that I consumed), we finally succumbed to throwing down the extra Euros for our own audio guides. Finally skylarking with my own audio guide at the Louvre, I found myself smugly listening to some of the contents of the Code of Hammurabi engraved on the human-sized stele, when all of a sudden, my audio guide went static. Dead battery. , when all of a sudden, my audio guide went static. Dead battery. Great. Dead battery I and I’m only at 1700 BC. Instead of working my way through the labyrinth that is the Louvre, I poached off of Kyle until we exited for the day. I’m sure it was simply museum karma.

I’ve decided that the best strategy is to just summon Splinter and have him give me a personal tour. And besides, there’s always a chance I’ll pick up some ninjustu on the side.

Il Palio

I’ll thank serendipity for bringing Kyle and I to the Palio. It just so happened that we were going to be in town for what our guidebook called Italy’s most spectacular festival event. This event, known as the Siena Palio is a twice-yearly bareback horse race around the Campo, a central plaza that draws the entire city and thousands of visitors to the city center.

The event is rather remarkable. Each of Siena’s seventeen communities, or contrades, enters a horse and jockey into the competition. Ten are selected at random to participate in the anarchistic event. The concept is simple. Each participating horse completes three laps around the Campo, the first to cross the finish line, with or without jockey, is declared the victor. The only rule is that jockeys are not permitted to interfere with the reigns of another jockey. Other than that, it’s war. In the past, communities have drugged horses and jumped jockeys on the way to the race. Our personal observation affirmed that it is, in fact, a bloodbath. We witnessed jockey’s lashing competitor horses with their switches; we witnesses jockey’s successfully pulling their fellow jockey’s off their horses. One turn in the Campo is so abrupt that they pad the side with mattresses; this cushion collision is a popular location for jockeys to be propelled from the horses’ backs.

Of course, Kyle and I (okay, me in particular) hate feeling like outsiders, so we needed to buy a bandera to support one of the contrades. Kyle admitted allegience to the pantera to which I was amenable. After all, my middle school, Rachel Carson Middle School, had elected the Panther as its mascot. Although, the final vote came down to Panther and Furry Woodland Creature, which I’m sure received the most votes, but I’m convinced that the school was embarrassed to embrace the furry woodland wonder and assumed the runner-up Panther as its official mascot. So we purchased our red, white, and blue bandanas (we’re Tea Party patriots after all) with the panther print and took our places along the Campo’s inner rail. Since we assumed our position at noon, and since the actual race didn’t begin until 7:30pm, we were able to secure front rail seats.

Front rail seats, man, they are comfortable. They were not comfortable. It was fine around lunchtime, but as more and more people tried to get closer and closer to the rail, there was less and less foot room. At times I felt like I was doing ballet because there wasn’t enough surface area for my entire foot to make love with the ground; just the tips.

The ninety second race was incredible. Well worth the seven hour wait. I mean, I’ve been to similar events before but this one is really one of a kind. The United States would never be able to replicate such an event. The main reason is because two hours before the horse race begins, everyone inside the tracks is locked in, without a bathroom. How 12,000 people can go 2.5 hours without a single one having an emergency is unfathomable. That’s a combined 30,000 weeless hours. It’s times like these that make me realize that there is such a thing as God and divine intervention.

Benedict, Where Art Thou?

Having been born and raised as a Roman Catholic, Vatican City always had a particular appeal. If for no other reason then to go to the sight of so much history that I had learned and since forgotten since my confirmation/indoctrination. Knowing that Vatican City draws some of the largest tourist crowds in the world, Kyle and I made a point to arrive before the doors opened so we would not have to wait in these exceedingly long lines.

Taking the morning metro to Ottaviano, the stop for the Vatican, I noticed our railcar was, to put it politely, lacking the spring chickens. Instead, it reminded me of a 4pm Sunday trip to Cracker Barrel. I pondered how many people in our railcar were on their way to work. When we pulled into Ottaviano station and the railcar decompressed, my question was quickly answered; no one. The generally mild mannered middle aged and elderly crowd immediately turned hostile when the gates opened, akin to the crowds at Wal-Mart on Black Friday. Frail women were throwing elbows (which I found reckless, seeing as they were far more likely to break their brittle bones than mine) while the throng of retirees briskly set off for St. Peter's Basilica. Perhaps my participation in so many 5ks had me well prepared, but I suspect it was our youth that enabled Kyle and I to casually keep pace with the rosary-carrying crowd.

Within one hour, we were inside the Vatican Museums and looking at some of the most stunning art/booty ever collected, depending on how you see it. With its trove of treasures the Vatican could have easily financed the countless bailout and rescue packages.

The one disappointment from my trip to Vatican City was that I didn't get to see Pope Benedict. I was constantly on the lookout for the papal Swiss Guards dressed in their daffy Renaissance outfits. Knowing that they are only around when the Pope is in town, I assumed that Pope Benedict must have retired to his summer place, which was fine by me, since I would be dropping in the following afternoon. Alas, when we arrived at the Pope's summer place, I still didn't see the guards. Having searched the Vatican and traveled through Italy, I saw no evidence of Pope Benedict, aside from a fifteen story blow up poster of his face that filled the Piazza San Pedro. After my failed Pope siting, I've developed a new theory. Pope Benedict was captured by Lord Voldemort and his appearances at present are simply reconstructed holograms. It's amazing what we can do with technology, or magic, these days.

Tales of a Traveller

Knowing how reliable the Ghanaian post can be, when I said my farewells to a year in Ghana, I decided to forgo shipping my years worth of accoutrements home and instead decided to take them with me to my first European destination, Rome, from where, I would ship the luggage back to the United States.

Unfortunately, my bags had other plans and decided to stay in Casablanca, from where my colleague-now-traveling-buddy Kyle and I had made a connecting flight. After talking with the Italian flight-care personnel, I was convinced I would be receiving my luggage, albeit a few days later. So Kyle and I set about shopping for some of the essentials to hold us over until our possessions arrived. For me the most difficult purchase was contact solution. Having accidentally spent the overnight flight with my contacts in, my eyes were oxygen deprived and showing signs of serious struggle.

It took a while to find the first farmacia, where I sauntered around looking at the pictures on each box to try to identify contact solution (Rosetta Stone didn't teach me this valuable word in Lesson 1, which was the only lesson I came close to completing). Somehow, while the pharmacist was restocking the shelf, I ended up behind the counter. She soon emerged on the opposite side and began chastising me in Italian. Finding it humorous that on the first day in Rome, I was able to land myself a gig as a pharmacist, I joked that we had traded places. The actual pharmacist didn't find this funny. I really think she just didn't understand. After returning to my proper place as a customer at the counter, I pantomimed the process of taking out my contacts. Either I have good acting skills, or she saw my bloodshot eyes, but she was able to direct me to the appropriate place.

A few more stops and Kyle and I had everything we needed until our luggage arrived. It arrived 48 hours later. The positive side of this luggage delay was that it gave me ample opportunity to eye-up (and I certainly needed it given how bloodshot my eyes were) an appropriate shipping center. I found a total utility store - FedEx, Western Union, fax email, all-in-one, and paraded my luggage to the store.

As it turns out, the shop was a cash-only, non-receipt-giving establishment that had me seriously questioning its legitimacy. But I was not about to spend the next four weeks lugging around two suitcases, a travel pack, and a book bag. As I handed over my luggage, I said my parting farewells and prayed that the suitcases would arrive in DC. As the saying goes, when in Rome, do as the Romans do. But I felt like dressing as a Centurion and pulling out my sword would not have been the most diplomatic approach. Instead, I did what anyone without bargaining power would do. I agreed to their terms and conditions and prayed for the best.

A few days later, I received an email titled: info. It's contents was as follows. salve, ho bisogno da sapere cosa cè nelle valigge. grazie. I enlisted the help of my Italian friend Serena, who interpreted and replied appropriately. It turns out that the company needed to know what was in the suitcases. After a series of emails, I finally received a tracking number.

Thankfully my luggage arrived safely at home. My prayers had been answered. Which I attributed to my proximity to the Vatican.

And so it Goes

It’s funny how humans have the capacity to segment their lives into chapters. By far the most unique chapter in my life has been the one titled Ghana. It seems like just the other day I was making my decision to move to Ghana – at the same time the US lost Ghana in the World Cup.

But my time in Ghana was filled with memories. And Ghana kept them coming until the very last day. I found myself at lunch with my colleagues for a final meal at a venue known as Starbites that serves coffee and pastries (with an expanded lunch and dinner menu). We asked the manager how he came up with the name. His response – it’s a big secret. Our response – Hmm..doesn’t seem like such a secret to me. (The Starbites logo also looked like that of a Seattle coffee chain.)

Anyway, it was the restaurants’ grand opening, and four of us decided to try the bacon cheeseburger. After discussing Startbites’ marketing strategy, our burgers arrived. They looked delicious. The only problem was that they were all missing the burger. Between the two halves of bun sat a slice of cheese, a slice of bacon, a slice of tomato, and some mayonnaise. It turns out, the chef didn’t know that burgers come with the beef patty. Really? Really.

Humored to be going out on comical note, I began to prepare for the next chapter. Knowing that I was going to be traveling to Italy and France for my Ghana Epilogue, I had every intention of picking up some important phrases that would help me blend into the Italian and French culture. With Rosetta Stone, I envisioned taking the cultural high-road and travelling through Europe to avoid the potential imbroglios. As it turns out, I know two phrases. In Italian, I’ve mastered the boy runs (il bambino corre). Which I’m sure has many practical uses. And my French is a paltry voulez-vous coucher avec moi (ce soir)? My derisory understanding of these Romance languages is shameful. But at least I can't be as embarrassing as the cast of the Jersey Shore…