Silence and Solitude

Children of Younger Time

Lost in Translation: When Travel Plans Go Awry

Genève, Switzerland Saturday, August 25, 1990

Guten Morgen!

We’ve been traveling since 10:40pm, departing Paris from Gare de l'Est. I’m catching my first glimpse of the Swiss countryside — hills like the Blue Ridge Mountains.

A morning mist covers the farm fields. I couldn’t sleep. For most of the trip, uncomfortable. Laura slept some. An awful man in our compartment smelled like rotten Limburger.

Saturday, August 25, 1990 Genève, Switzerland

I’m writing now in 5-star luxury near the Genève-Lausanne Aeroport. Two huge beds, not one queen to share, a private, stocked refrigerator, a deluxe bathroom, a TV, and ultra-modern furniture.

The price is usually 250 Swiss francs. Through my Holiday Inn employee discount, however, the room only cost 40!

The VIP treatment included fruit, bottles of Evian, and a note from the general manager. Swiss chocolates arrived later.

We viewed Lac Léman from the opposite side of the town near Laussane. Our view of the Alps was inhibited, but we still caught the mountains rising from Lac Léman — a crescent-shaped lake. It lives as legend — my Romantic heroes — Byron and Shelley and Mary Shelley.

The homes are how I pictured — boxed homes with square-ledged windows with brown, severe slanting roofs (for the snow), and fine cut lawns and gardens.

After Laura and I showered, we left by catered minibus and caught the “10 Bus” to the city. We stopped for picnic supplies. It started raining. Laura worried about finding a dry place to eat.

I find unknowns exciting, but she finds unknowns threatening.

Ah, yes! Laura does not like me writing about her. She wants to read the journal. Isn’t it natural to write about the trip? How would I feel if she kept a journal?

Anyway.

We found a place in Rousseau Park — the guy who created “childhood.” The Jet d Eau shot water 390 feet above the lake. Although it was drizzling, a tree protected us. We fed the birds and swatted bees.

As we finished, it rained harder. We took the bus in the wrong direction and went full circle. An hour lost. We were not happy campers.

We were tired, and I longed for a bed. It was 5:45 pm. As I said, we were shocked to receive the VIP gift, ate most of the fruit, and fell asleep around 10:30. We woke up, gobbled the delicious Swiss chocolate, and Laura talked about her sister’s husband and complained about her “cramps.”

Sorry, Laura. That made the journal. You’re the first woman I’ve spent this much time with — other than mother and sister — so I don’t know. She fell asleep.

Bonne nuit!

Sunday, August 26, 1990 Genève, Switzerland

Last night — I slept on a cloud. I woke around 9:30, took a bath, and yes, man-boys take baths, hot baths, and relaxed. Would a cold shower have been better?

The weather was not cheerful. We still didn’t make it to the mountains or to the lake. Why not a tour around the old city of Genève where John Calvin and John Jacque Rousseau taught and preached? Voltaire and Lord Byron, for a while, also called Genève home.

But there was laundry — a day good for the mundane.

It’s now 10:30. I’m listening to Pete Townsend. Laura’s doing wash in the bathtub. I did mine earlier, and I’m drying socks in the trouser press. I’ll have wrinkle-free socks!

I’m in a damn good mood. I wrote a letter to Grandpa, and I have lots of others to pen. Will I use those to compose a future memoir? During the evening, I danced on my bed, listening to R.E.M.

An Asian woman knocked. Wrong room. Or did she? A new face — a fresh voice — were very much in order!

Today we went into Genève. A map provided ideas. The sky was clearing.

At Rue de Mont Blanc we got off the bus and walked across the bridge. Things were tense between us. I noticed I like this word, thing.

We walked along Lac Léman to Jardin Anglais where we took a short cruise. It was nice. Nice — another vague, useless word — and The Great Writers Should Never Use the Word Nice. From the lake, we saw Shelley and Byron’s rental villa where Frankenstein was imagined — Villa Diodati — the Rothschild Castle — Château de Pregny.

The water is a lovely blue-green. A cool breeze blew the clouds to hover over the not-too-distant mountains. The 45-minute boat ride only cost 65 francs or about $4.25. Not a bad deal. Like Mum, I kept track of every farthing and sou.

Since we could not tolerate another picnic, we found an Italian restaurant. I had pizza and a Coke and she had spaghetti and a Diet Coke. For both, the cost was 31 Swiss Francs. Again, is this detail even relevant to you, future reader?

We strolled the old section, filled with narrow streets and little shops and cobblestones galore. Most of the shops were closed. We entered St. Pierre Cathedral. I love old places. Originally built as a Roman Catholic Church, it was “reformed” and “reclaimed” by John Calvin in 1536.

We spent time in the park, on the grass, talking — watching people. The sun appeared. The temperature — cooled. I was hot, though, in my turtleneck and a blue and black Oxford University rugby shirt. The park had large checkers and chess boards painted on the pavement. People played with child-sized pieces.

People sat on benches and watched. Why didn’t I play? Why didn’t Laura and I play a game? Am I really just a spectator?

Around 6, we took the “10 Bus” home. While I clowned around like a madman, Laura called her folks. If anything happens before I go to bed, I’ll let you know. By the way, nothing will happen.

Would that pretty Asian woman be in the hotel lobby? Was she married? Happy? Would she like a drink?

August 27 Genève, Switzerland

Laura and I woke up late. We missed any chance of taking an all-day boat ride or train ride. I’ll visit Château de Chillon another time. We left around noon and went into town hungry. At that same Italian restaurant, I had tortellini ala creme with a beer and a flan caramel.

Laura and I took the bus to Veyrier, just outside Geneva on the border of France. The town was quaint and old and quiet. It was nice just to walk around. A cable car — Téléphérique du Salève — lifted us up a 4500-foot cliff that overlooked Genève and the lake. Laura and I and three other people, one lady with hairy armpits, rode the cable car. Laura was scared — her fear of heights, not pits.

The view was fantastic. The entire town of Genève could be seen as well as the Jet d’Eau and the Juro Mountains — or Massif du Jura — and the crescent-shaped Lac Léman. It was cooler there — a slight breeze. I walked behind the restaurant through a beautiful wooded slope, with patches of fields and wildflowers.

Mont Blanc could barely be seen — damn clouds! I love being in Nature. So much of this trip has been in major European centers, London, Paris, Genève, and I would love to spend more time in the wilderness. Laura is not a wilderness gal. What would she say I’m not? Walter is not really much of a . . . ?

By just crossing over an invisible line, we were in France— as if countries exist as seen from space. New currency. New rules. A new culture. According to the guidebooks, the best restaurant was up the hill. Some French dudes were working on the yard. Nobody seemed to be at the restaurant — a home.

A young French woman welcomed us in French. The restaurant was closed, but would we like beers? Oui! She brought out two Heinekens. Laura and I sat outside and talked. On such a beautiful day, I felt relaxed. As every day passes, I feel more comfortable with Laura — or was that just my imagination running away with me?

And yes, Walter, please stop bull shitting yourself. I predict we will not last the next three weeks.

I cannot tolerate those not ready for fun. It brings me down. When I’m with someone low, I go low. I’m a chameleon. I wanted to have the time of my life!

If things continue downhill, I’m going to say, “See ya! Laura!” The feeling will be mutual.

I’m going insane! She thinks I’m so cultured and intellectual! I’m so different than anyone she’s ever met. Yeah, I’m not your typical stuck-up, muscle-bound douchebag.

I wish my real friends were here — Tim, Alec, Steve, and Dan — roaming around, talking, causing commotion. And I’ve had wild times — just not now.

I feed off the energy of others.

If she knew how fucking homesick she’d be, why come? What did she expect? What did I expect? Why didn’t anyone talk me out of this? Could anyone get me to listen to reason? Why did her parents allow this?

And can you, Walter, be less of a snob? Intellectual? Is that some damn defense mechanism?

I cried as I gazed out of the window into the darkness of the Genevan night. Then I cried because I know it will never be not like this — at least how I built this trip up so all summer long! I even sold my Nissan 200SX to afford this trip and put in extra hours at the Holiday Inn.

I colored the lines of Laura to be a different person — a person for me — and not her. I projected what I wanted. Is that her fault? That’s my innocence and inexperience with women.

Outside of the professor’s office, while planning the trip as exchange students, I said I was planning to travel before heading to Newcastle. “I would love to do something like that!”

So this “pretty” girl wanted to do something “fun” with me, and I had zero experience. Practically zero.

My buddies thought I was crazy, but you know how fixated I get — obsessed when I have a vision — like Don Quixote! I had Dulcinea — a woman Quixote never even met! But he had his dream, and Sancho!

I’ll let you know what the fuck develops.

Anyway.

We paid for the beers, cable-carred-it down, and then back to the hotel. We each bought a six-pack of beer. We stayed in all night drinking and talking and getting drunk. It was a good time. Laura is so strange. She’ll never open — even with all those beers to loosen her tongue. Can’t she trust me? Why would she? Who am I to her? Perhaps this is just you — Bowne — just as closed, but aren’t I an open novel?

I would open up my veins to anybody — even a stranger on a train.

Tuesday, August 28, 1990 Genève, Switzerland

I’m in Salzburg, Austria, the home of Mozart and The Sound of Music. I’ve missed three days. I better catch up with writing.

So here it goes.

I’ve undergone emotional seesaws. But one thing is for sure — I’m jealous and envious. I’m insecure. Let me confess, dear reader, if you’re curious about the mind of a 21-year-old boy, how I stumbled upon “This Not So Surprising Revelation.”

But just wait, okay?

On Tuesday, Laura and I wanted to take a train to the French Alps. We got up early. Laura was not happy, but she got ready.

The bus ride took forever. It was well past 8:30 a.m. when we reached Eaux-Vives on the westside of Genève. Laura knew we missed the train, but I said we could catch a later one. It wouldn’t leave much time in Chamonix. I wanted to see Mont Blanc, you know for the Romantic poetry of Byron and all.

Well, Laura decided “no.” She would shop. So we split up — neither happy nor depressed. I was to catch the train at Cornavin at 9:47 a.m. When I read the pamphlet the train lady gave me, I noticed the train left from St. Gervais. Was that in Genève? Were there two stations?

I got upset. Was I at the wrong station? Was Saint-Gervais only a few blocks away? However, after trying to locate the mysterious “ghost” station, I realize after the 9:47 left that my train did leave from Cornavin. It arrived at Saint Gervais le Fayet. It was actually a train station in France by Mont Blanc!

Do you follow? Consider yourself lucky! With the language barrier, I was lost. Why didn’t I ask for help? Was my French that bad? Oui.

I’m a bonehead. I decided against a later train at 11:45 a.m. That would only give me an hour or two in Chamonix. I was Mount Blanc-less and Laura-less. I walked to a park on the Rhône river. Weighed my options. I was pissed off. I have to learn to compromise.

I took the train back to the hotel. Would Laura be back to rest or freshen up? Luckily, she was there.

“I expected you back,” she told me. “I knew something would go wrong.”

Never argue with a female intuition — especially an Italian woman!

Well, Laura and I spent the day walking around Genève. We didn’t talk much. Things — still strange. It would get worse later that night. We ate lunch a Le Pizza Hut — such great Swiss cuisine, right? I had a whole medium-pan pizza.

Laura and I walked back along the Rue de Rive, crossed the Rhône, and then followed the Rhône. We stopped at every watch shop. When you’re in Switzerland — there are three watch shops on every block! Laura wanted Swiss, but not Swiss prices. She finally settled upon a watch. I was happy to see her smile.

In the late afternoon, we rested. I took a long bath and wrote postcards. I watched CNN. We were both worried about the Iraq crisis.

Around 8 p.m., we left the hotel and went into town. Laura was hungry. For the third time, we went to that same Italian restaurant. She had a pizza. I wasn’t too hungry. I had a salad and a Cardinal bier.

The tension was intense.

“Why am I so upset?” she replied. “I have never gone this long without laughing . . .”

We finished our meal and walked towards the Jardin Anglais. It was getting dark. The sun dabbled the sky with fire over the Jura Mountains. It was beautiful. I thought of Deep Purple’s “fire in the sky” from “Smoke on the Water.”

We said little.

We walked out onto the concrete pier which led to the Jet d’Eau. It was fascinating to watch the jet shoot towards the sky and fall back onto the lake, making waves and vales of mist. Was I shooting too high? Only to collapse due to gravity?

The lights around Lac Léman sparkled — the harbor so pretty! I saw “The Maiden of the Lake” arrive back. While sitting down, I confessed I’d always wanted my trip to Europe to be romantic.

She was sorry to disappoint me. Did I have any intentions romantically in the beginning?

“I’d be a liar if I said no,” I replied.

I wanted to wrap my arms around her. It was difficult for me — all these romantic places without a romantic face. Very difficult. I wasn’t Lord Byron or Percy Shelley. More like monkish Thoreau in his lonely man cabin. She sympathized with me. I felt like the Prisoner of Chillon — from Byron’s poem — imprisoned in a castle dungeon on the shores of Lac Léman.

I talked about the Romantic Poets and their flagrant contradictions. Did I reveal my own contradictions?

“My heart feels like a black hole.”

I said many stupid things. I’m not going to lie and blame the drinking. I walked to the end of the pier and stared across the lake and gazed at the bright lights of the harbor. Laura sat behind. When I got back, I sat beside her, smiled, and said, “Things will be okay.”

“Did anyone talk to you up there?”

“No.”

“Well, you came back so different.”

We walked to our bus. I felt more relaxed and started telling her story after story. That’s what I do. I bought an ice cream cone. In the morning we would leave Genève for Munich, Germany. Who knows where this is going, but we still have Germany, Austria, Italy, and the South of France left to explore before heading back to England for school.

The title for this story comes from Percy Shelley’s poem “Mont Blanc: Lines Written in the Vale of Chamouni.”

Thank you for reading!

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