This week marked a momentous event in this trip; Kelly and I traveled separately for the first time in 11 months. Hold the phone, nobody call People Magazine just yet. We're absolutely fine, you can get an official statement from our publicists this afternoon. Kelly's dad is currently on holiday in France and she took off to Paris, where I'd meet her later, for some quality family time. Plus, Ramey still had another week of vacation so we had some extra time to galavant about a bit. I'll admit it felt a bit strange ("a bit" = there may some serious codependency issues to deal with at a later date) being separated from my constant companion. In the End, I think we managed swimmingly.
There were six days to kill and 380,820 square miles of Western Europe to consider. Neither Ramey or I had been to Switzerland, so in a very complex desicion making process that took us precious seconds to decide, we concluded it was Switzerland ahoy! To save save time (and oddly money as it worked out) we rented a car for the travel flexibility necessitated when you are traveling several thousand kilometers in a short amount of time. In order to start our adventure we had to hop on the German Autobahn...THE Autobahn. The autobahn's fast and furious reputation nearly slipped my mind. Frankly, the autobahn itself seemed like a mythical creature, something I dreamed about speeding down as a child (I was a weird kid). The difference being I always dreamed I was ripping down the freeway in a Lamborghini Diablo instead of a Opel Astra that ended up pooping out at 160 kmh (calm down parentals, that's only kilometers). The Ford Escort that I drove in high school (and admittedly most of my adult life) went faster than that. Still it felt kind of invigorating and free. These sensations usually only felt when I wasn't getting passed by a BMW going thrice my speed.
In a few short days we rallied through Zurich; Lake Geneva; Mont Blanc in the French Alps and Chablis, France. I won't bore you with flowery words describing how gorgeous the country side is in this part of the world. You know it was fucking beautiful. After spending an interesting night couchsurfing in Zurich with a bunch of college boys who were obsessed, in a serious way, with David Hasslehoff (and I thought the Germans only had the weird fascination with the Hoff), we gradually made our way to the French Alps. We spent the day hiking to Bossons Glacier, a severely vertical climb that threatened cat-size capacity of my lungs in their current state (god knows if I'll ever fully recover from Gay Pride in Amsterdam), however, our labors turned out to be fruitful. The view was one in a billion and the sweet, ice-cold, delicious glacier water was a nice reward in the end. At one point, as we were standing at the glacier overlooking the world, we had to laugh thinking about all the people (yes, you) who were slaving away at work that day. Laugh it up we did. Imagine us on top of the picturesque French Alps manically laughing, imagining all of you at work, our voices echoing out over the pristine, snow capped mountains. Said it just to be a dick. Though this statement was made with the horrifying realization that I will be home in a short month frantically searching for one of those so-called "jobs".
After our alpine adventure we searched for accommodation in a little town nestled in the foothills of Mont Blanc. Someone forgot to tell them that the hobos were coming to town. A bustling ski resort town in the winter, Chamonix looks like every other posh resort town you've ever seen in the movies (or in real life for you non-hobo types). The lady at information was caught off guard when we inquired about a youth hostel. She told us there was indeed a hostel but it was way out of town and, "you know you have to sleep in a dorm...with other people". Well, the "out of town" hostel ended up being a seven minute walk from the city center and was nicer than a lot of places I've rested my head this year. The other problem with these resort towns is that they seem to offer an endless number of extreme sports. Somehow these towns also make these elite-priced activities seem like a wise investment in highly valued vacation memories. I guess the market valuation for paragliding must be very attractive right now because I soon found myself running off the side of a mountain.
Oddly, throwing myself off the mountainside in the French Alps wasn't even slightly scary. I had expected the same mounting anxiety and subsequent freakout I had experienced when I went skydiving. Paragliding was a much more peaceful encounter and it mostly felt like I was a soaring eagle (that is if eagles wore huge, ridiculous looking smiles on their faces while they were flying). The half hour of floating over France, including the very same glacier we had hiked the day before, was over much too soon. I could have stayed up there all day. The only way to recover from the devastating adrenaline withdrawal was, obviously, to drown our sorrows in several bottles of Chablis...in Chablis, France. Sorry, just have to squeeze in the dick comments while I can.
Look Ma, I'm flying!
I love and miss your face!
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