Hi, Mom. next time i stay somewhere for a prolonged period, i'm going to stay put. i am so sick of logistics. i can't believe the amount of mental and emotional space i've devoted to decision-making over cities, hotels, people, and especially transportation over the last 3 months. i am really sick of it. lessons i've learned:
1- less is more
2- pick a few top places or people and enjoy them
3- for every 12 hours of travel you need 24 hours to recover
4- night trains are not trains
5- home really is where the heart is, so if you don't have or won't make an emotional attachment to the place you're visiting, then don't go
6- use the rail/travel officials. they do much of your work for you; but ask questions because if they're lazy they won't find you shorter ways or discounts, etc.
and big ol
7- get rich and hire a travel agent. scheise, man!
Friday, June 6, 2008
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Random Story
so... i was sitting in another lecture which i couldn't pay attention to (newsflash: suzanna is NOT a medical or epidemiological theorist!!!!!!) and I wrote this little poetic story...
One boy rides his bike. Pedals so fast his feet are a blur. hits a hill and sweat breaks out, one drop clinging to the tip of his ear, waiting for its chance to break free. he hits a bump and the drop is gone, falling, falling, to the ground. Downhill, back the way it had come when still in the pores of a boy. Down and down it meets a gush once it falls through the grates of a street, pushed and jostled by its brothers ansd sisters flowing quickly below the city. Expansion. The drop is merged into a vast current moving to its source. The current moves through filters and filters, the drop is, for a moment, unique again, then suddenly, it overcomes its resistance and dives again into its friends. A dark journey, longer and longer, then sudden light emerging as a gush of water, churning, boiling, flowing, the river Aare. It regards itself: greeny-white: and warms as it clings to the ear of a swimming boy, his bike overturned on the bank of the river.
One boy rides his bike. Pedals so fast his feet are a blur. hits a hill and sweat breaks out, one drop clinging to the tip of his ear, waiting for its chance to break free. he hits a bump and the drop is gone, falling, falling, to the ground. Downhill, back the way it had come when still in the pores of a boy. Down and down it meets a gush once it falls through the grates of a street, pushed and jostled by its brothers ansd sisters flowing quickly below the city. Expansion. The drop is merged into a vast current moving to its source. The current moves through filters and filters, the drop is, for a moment, unique again, then suddenly, it overcomes its resistance and dives again into its friends. A dark journey, longer and longer, then sudden light emerging as a gush of water, churning, boiling, flowing, the river Aare. It regards itself: greeny-white: and warms as it clings to the ear of a swimming boy, his bike overturned on the bank of the river.
Monday, June 2, 2008
the river of Bern
Die Aare
swish.gurgle. green glass chalky turbulently smooth. the old chunk of bottle washed up on shore smoothed from jagged and whitened from green. primal water of moving stone. formingreforming. a green cold lava flow. my aare.
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