A German Tale

This is a story about a girl, a boy, and a castle. Now before you go getting the idea that this is a romantic tale, let me set you straight on the matter. There is no romance in this story. There is a good deal of insanity, bravery, death, and pain involved, but no romance. The girl and the boy were sister and brother, you see, and they were touring Europe in the summer, as sometimes brothers and sisters like to do. If you haven't tried it yourself, you might think of doing so. Just pick a sibling and off you go, and I shouldn't wonder if you will find yourself having a fantastically good time.

This girl and her brother were having a fantastically good time. They had already seen a good bit of Europe by the time that this story takes place. In Venice, Italy, they had seen a great many boats and a great deal of water but not very much grass.


They had also seen the Piazza San Marco, which was over one thousand years old. The girl found that this piazza was a popular destination for both tourists and pigeons, and she wasn't sure which of the two she liked least.


In Salzburg, Austria, in the very room in which the famous composer Mozart had been born, the boy had been yelled at by a tour guide not to take pictures, although the girl had sneaked some pictures anyway.


High in the Austrian Alps near a tiny town called Obertraun, they had gone to the very top of a mountain and seen caves full of ice, and they had taken pictures with glaciers and mountain lakes and scenery almost too good to be true.






In the beautiful city of Prague in the Czech Republic, they had, almost unbelievably, found the first Starbucks of their journey, and so had taken great delight in the overpriced coffee while waiting for the right sunlight in which to get good pictures of the Charles Bridge.


The girl's brother was a photographer, you see, and that point is crucial to this story. If you don't understand that, you might not understand the rest of this story, and then what is the point in reading it at all? You may as well stop reading right now if you skip over the fact that the thing this girl's brother liked most in the world was to stand very still in one spot with his camera perched neatly on its tripod and take pictures of huge landscapes or famous buildings or old bridges. Sometimes he would stand in the same spot for hours on end, doing nothing but stare into that end of the camera into which it is appropriate to stare, if you aren't the subject of the picture. And while he did this, the boy's sister would sit patiently, no matter how high the sun, or how drizzly the rain, or how badly she needed to find a restroom.


Sometimes the girl would find things she wanted to photograph as well. She had a smaller camera than her brother's, with not so many buttons on it, which was fine with her. Over time she had found that she loved taking pictures of the very small things of the world, things like flowers and bees and rocks.




But on the whole, the girl didn't love photography quite as much as her brother did, and so naturally she sometimes didn't quite share the same level of eagerness to climb mountains or to locate the very highest point of every city, or to wake up before the sun.


She sometimes thought that if she didn't count the exercise she was getting out of the deal, it would all be a bit pointless. But overall, she was very content to follow her brother through rain and shine, to carry his coffee, and to hold his camera lenses, because she knew that doing these things made her brother happy.

On the particular day that this story takes place, the brother and sister had gone to a small town in Germany named Füssen. Füssen was a beautiful town that had a monastery which was nearly twelve hundred years old, lot's of curvy roads that went either up or down hills, depending upon your perspective, and parks and scenery that would make you want to stand very still on the top of a hill, close your eyes and breathe it all in.

Very near Füssen stood two castles. One of these castles was called Hohenschwangau, which was where the German royal family sometimes spent weekends.


The other castle's name was Neuschwanstein. This castle was famous for two reasons: firstly, because it had been built in the 1800's by a king who was later declared insane; and secondly, because a very long time after it had been built, it's beautiful design had inspired a man named Walt Disney to make a castle just like it in another country. The girl thought that both of these things were fascinating, especially the bit about the insane king, and so she was very happy to be visiting the castle on the day that this story takes place. She and her brother were both excited to see the unbelievable view and to take some incredible photos.

But after a very long, hot walk up a hill that never seemed to stop, both the girl and her brother were disappointed to find that the best view of the castle wasn't much of a view at all. To be sure, it was a very pretty castle, at least what could be seen of it from below on the road, but even if you strained your eyes all day, you couldn't even hope to see all of the castle, and no matter how you turned your camera, it wouldn't all fit into the frame.


The girl and her brother took a tour of the castle. They hadn't come all this way to see only one wall of the castle, after all. It was a very interesting tour. The guide spoke an enchanting mixture of German and English, and she seemed to say "ja" quite often. The girl was entranced by the sheer loveliness of each room. The girl's brother, on the other hand, learned more than he had hoped to about the German composer Richard Wagner, to whom the castle had been dedicated. Each room was painted with ethereal scenes from different Wagner operas, and the girl had trouble sorting out which paintings she liked most.

Everything was going well until the brother looked out of one of the high castle windows. They had looked out of several windows of the same sort and the view was always spectacular! The girl often thought after it was all over that if she had been the insane king, she would have chosen to build a castle in exactly the same spot, just for the view.


But from this particular window, a high mountain ridge loomed up in front of the girl and the boy. All of a sudden, the boy exclaimed, "There's somebody there!"

"Where?" the girl inquired.

"Look!" said the brother, pointing. "Do you see that person in the red shirt high up on the ridge? We have to figure out how to get up there! That's where I'll get the best shots of this place!"

He was so excited that the girl merely nodded in agreement, although the idea of trekking up an obviously dangerous ridge didn't sound so appealing to her.

Soon the two siblings exited the castle and began their search for the trail up the ridge. They climbed up a road that led to steps, and those steps led to a bridge, and that bridge crossed a deep gorge through which a small river ran, and across that gorge, the ridge rose up, claiming the sky for its own on that sunny afternoon. Just across the bridge, the road turned into a narrow bumpy path which wound it's way up the hill.

The girl and her brother had just begun their walk down this path when the girl spotted a very tiny something on the edge of the trail. This very tiny something may or may not be called a trail itself, for it led directly up the incline. It was littered with slippery tree roots upon which to hold, precariously balanced rocks upon which to step, and very small bits of loose rock that looked like it might make the going very bad. A wooden sign posted on a tree at the bottom of the trail read "Danger! Do not leave marked path!"

And so of course, as fate would have it, the boy decided that this path, though clearly not the marked path mentioned on the sign, would be the one to take them and their cameras up to the very tip top of the ridge. He took off at a steady clip and the girl thoughtfully stared after him for a moment before setting off herself.

They climbed on for awhile in silence. It was hard to climb straight upwards, stepping onto shaky rocks and grabbing muddy roots, all the while trying to stay upright and safe. The view down wasn't helpful either, as it made the girl feel very anxious for her safety.


The girl began to imagine what it would be like to fall over the edge of the cliff. She wondered if she would land on rocks or if she would crash against a tree. She imagined her brother running for help. She finally made up her mind that if she fell over the edge, she would prefer death to the humiliation of being air lifted out of the trees while hundreds of spectators gaped from the castle walls.

It wasn't too long, or too far up the hill either, for that matter, before the girl tripped on a particularly slippery stone and began to fall. With a hard crack, her knee struck the very rock upon which she had just tripped, and she gasped as the pain shot both ways, up and down, her leg. Grabbing onto the closest tree root, the girl held on for dear life.

The pain was so distracting that she didn't even notice how her chin crashed into a tree root, and it wasn't until later that she realized she had acquired a good layer of dirt on her cheek. In fact, it wasn't until after she'd had a chance to wash off the dirt that she found a nice-sized gash just on the bottom of her chin, and even later in the evening before she discovered a lovely tennis-ball-shaped bruise darkening over an equally tennis-ball-shaped lump on her leg. More than a month later, this lump was still causing her problems, but for now we'll stick to the story.

"I wonder," thought the girl, "if anyone has died while climbing this ridge. I wonder if anyone has ever just...lost their footing and slipped right over the edge." She was thinking these things over as she climbed shakily and painfully upwards, and she soon found the answer to her question, for she came abruptly to the top of the incline. There in front of her the path made a sharp turn to the right, and straight ahead the hill dropped off a steep cliff. On the very edge of the cliff was planted a small metal cross with a name and date clearly engraved on a plaque, which was fixed to the center of the cross.


"Gudrun Böse, 27.8.1966," the girl read silently. She looked to where her brother was moving away up the path. "Look," she called, "someone died here. Maybe this path isn't safe."

The boy turned around and ambled back down the path to where the girl stood looking at the cross. He gazed at the cross for a moment himself.

"No, of course this path is safe," he said at last. "That person probably wasn't being careful. Just don't be stupid and you'll be fine."

After pausing momentarily to consider Gudrun's feelings over having his death labeled as "stupid," the girl turned to continue the climb, all the while praying the top of the ridge was near.

At this point what a poetic end it would make to this story if the girl lost her footing, just as apparently Gudrun Böse had forty-three years earlier, and as she fell she managed to catch hold of poor Gudrun's cross and pull herself back up, thereby both living and turning Gudrun's death into something a little more worthwhile than it had been. But that isn't how this story ends. In fact, it has such a non-eventful ending that maybe you will just want to stop reading here. The truth is that, despite the girl's fears, both girl and boy successfully made it to the top of the ridge. They were careful not to trip over the many tree roots which created small obstacles in their pathway. They were equally careful not to step where the mud was too slick or the rocks too shaky.

In time, the boy called over his shoulder, "I think we're close to the top!"


And it was true! Just as the girl, with her leg throbbing, had just about had enough, the steep climb ended. The small upwards trail joined with the larger path which all the time had been winding up the hill in a safer route, and the ground leveled out to an only-slightly inclined, easier walk. Now that she didn't need to use her hands for climbing, the girl stopped to take a few pictures and have a drink of water.


Very soon, the brother and sister arrived at a beautiful little clearing on the very edge of the ridge. They were high enough to see countless kilometers of landscape. The could see two lakes and both castles, Hohenschwangau and Neuschwanstein, not to mention a blue sky with puffy white clouds that the girl felt sure God designed just to take her breath away.

The boy immediately unpacked him photography equipment and began doing what he loved most.

The girl sat down to catch her breath, pulled down her ponytail and shook her hair out to blow in the wind.


Presently, she picked up her own camera and began taking pictures too, of very small things as usual, although she eventually asked her brother to take some pictures of her and the castle for which they had climbed all the way up the ridge.




The siblings took quite a few pictures before they made their way back down the mountain. On the decent, they took the longer, winding path, and the limping girl felt much safer for it.

The boy and the girl went on to have many other adventures on their European summer vacation, and the girl was very glad to get on with it now that she felt the scariest part of her summer was over.

They biked the lovely Lauterbrunnen Valley in Switzerland.


They paid a visit to the highest train station in Europe and saw an incredible amount of ice and snow.




And they both eventually returned to America where they had a happy reunion with their family and friends. After some time, the girl wrote a blog post about the journey that she and her brother had taken. It was fun to look at the pictures and imagine she was in all of those places again, but it made her happy to know that she was finished with the muddy, ridge-climbing day and all of the injuries that had come with it. And she was very glad that she hadn't died in Germany.

Happy Reading!
That girl in Switzerland

Juliet

Where are your fears, my dear?
Where the shaky hand, the sweaty brow?
Where the idea that maybe - just maybe, perhaps -
All will not go smoothly?
Can you not look forward to view
The rapidly fading heartbeat and
The life snuffed out?

Were I you, dainty miss,
I would read the signs -
The foreshadowing, the hints -
I would know this plan could never work,
And (following my head, not my heart)
I would uncross the stars that
Entangle you and me
And chase the creamy darkness back
To my own side of the sky.

But then (were I you
And you simply me, an onlooker)
There could be no tragedy, no saga,
No epic tears and untimely deaths.
Were I you, my friend,
The poison would remain in the phial
And Shakespeare would be out of his job.

Cheers, Readers,
That girl in Switzerland

Coming Around Again

It's the very picture of loneliness -
Me by the lake,
Pen and small moleskin journal in hand,
As the evening sun waves goodnight to the sky.
But I'm not really alone -
There are a million thoughts in my head,
Mostly in the form of Carly Simon lyrics.
And really, I think, who better
To keep me company on a night like this?
I hunch a little lower into my
Thick, warm scarf -
It's the one that I bought for five euro
From that little Romanian vendeur in Paris
Very near the Sacré Cœur -
And I'm transported to a time
When the sun was a little brighter,
The wind a little less biting,
The pain a bit fresher,
Yet a bit further away.
"You have to hurt to understand,"
Carly croons in her friendly voice
To a girl known only to her -
A girl convinced true love will be easy -
"We laugh and lose."
The itsy bitsy spider dutifully crawls
Up the water spout,
Verse after verse,
Though I'm sure his mood has deteriorated
By the end of the song,
He having been nearly drowned so many times now.
There must be something at
The top of that spout
Worth all his attention and persistence.
All of a sudden I don't mind falling apart -
There really is more room in a broken heart.
Then the sun is gone,
And with it the day,
And I'm left shivering in my green scarf.
Falling asleep tonight will be easy -
Maybe I'll visit the City of Love again
In my dreams, and maybe
The sun will come up over the Eiffel Tower,
And maybe -
Maybe tomorrow nothing will be like today,
But it will be new, and perfect.
As I sit by the lake in the dark,
I am the spider,
That sordid thing called Life
Is the water spout,
And it's raining.
And Carly whispers in my ear,
"Nothing stays the same,
Scream a lullaby,
It's all coming around again."

With Love,
That girl (still) in Switzerland

In Honor of the Recent Graduation at God's Bible School and College

I've been thinking about the graduation at GBS...seeing pictures on Facebook...thinking back over my own memories...realizing that this is the first graduation I've missed in six years... So I decided to post my favorite bit of writing from my own five years there. Not very scholarly, but then, it was just a rather short personal essay. My essay, "On Clumsiness," was written in 2006 for Aaron Profitt's Advanced Composition class (personal favorite class and personal favorite professor ever). I tweaked it a tad because my writing style has evolved slightly in the last three years, but essentially, here is the single piece of writing from GBS of which I am most proud.

“Awkwardness is a more real disadvantage than it is generally thought to be; it often occasions ridicule, it always lessens dignity.”
Fourth Earl of Chesterfield, Philip Dormer Stanhope

I knocked over three perfume bottles this morning, one right after the other, in a sort of thoughtless process that hinted at my lack of skill in navigating a dresser top. My hand hit the first, and as it toppled, I just barely managed to catch it with all the ease and gracefulness of a three-toed sloth dancing the polka. Upon my retrieval of this bottle, the back of my hand brushed another, which managed to fling itself headlong from the dresser in an attempt to escape me. The third bottle was just caught by my elbow as I leaned down to pick up the suicidal one. As I placed the bottles back in their proper places the thought struck me that one may view my actions as clumsy.

I have always been clumsy in some way, it seems. Even as a very small child the age of three, I managed to trip while attempting to carry my father’s briefcase up two flights of stairs. After landing at the bottom of the stairs at the feet of my astonished mother, I established that I was uninjured and laughed about my lack of coordination.

In other cases I was not so fortunate, like the time when I smashed my bicycle into a very large cactus, broke my arm, and had to live in misery for weeks until it had almost healed, at which point I somehow managed to injure it again while it was still in the cast and had to spend an extra time recovering.

I’ve been clumsy in other areas of my life, as well. Throughout grade school, before the time when most kids reach the age of extreme clumsiness, I had a tendency to trip over my shoelaces on a regular basis. I was also the one who accidentally stepped on the backs of people’s shoes as I followed them in the lunch line at school, or when I walked behind my mom at the grocery store. Usually these mishaps were followed by an aggravated, “Heather, stop!” or a, “Quit being so clumsy!”

I was clumsy. I’m still clumsy. When I was in high school, my clumsiness on the volleyball court landed me in the hospital, where I soaked up the leisure while wearing a backless hospital gown and thin footies. This particular bit of clumsiness had long-term effects. With three torn tendons and shredded cartilage, my wrist sometimes causes me to do interesting things. Often it gives way as I am holding a glass filled with liquid. The glass tumbles to the floor, spilling every drop, and my hand dangles uselessly for a moment before I can get it back under control. I have broken more than one glass this way. It is accidental clumsiness, and involuntary, to be sure, but still a sloppy way to handle glassware.

Recently I’ve been thinking about clumsiness as it applies to a life. Could there be other ways in which a person can be considered clumsy – other factors and character traits that could allow a person to fall under that categorization? I think there can.

What about a person who is lazy? A lazy person, by definition, is someone who enjoys slothfulness and inactivity more than work or physical exertion. Prone to idleness, this person enjoys doing nothing, or doing things that qualify as non-important. It seems to me that a lazy person lives in a clumsy way.

Let us examine a lazy life. Slothfulness is more than just staying comfortable and cozy in bed each morning. It is a way of life, a pattern of thinking, which a person has embedded into his existence. There may be more to it than not caring about living life to the fullest; he may actually think he is living life to the fullest by lying around and not working.

It may seem to this person that idleness is the stuff good living is made of, but I stop to wonder how his pursuit of immediate pleasure affects other people in his life. Surely the people closest to the lazy one, the people who sustain his way of living, cannot help but feel rather frustrated with life themselves, knowing that while they work hard to keep food on the table, this lazy (and shall we say “clumsy”?) person does not seem to care that his idleness and greed cause stress for the people he says he cares about.

I cannot help but think that the lazy person feels no true joy in his lifestyle. For where does one obtain joy other than by working with one’s hands to achieve self-reliance and by fulfilling the command of God to “go to the ant, you sluggard; consider her ways and be wise”? Gandhi said that “indolence is a delightful but distressing state. We must be doing something to be happy.” I agree with him.

True laziness is akin to failure, or at least stumbling, for the lazy can learn to “be wise” and to make amends for his slothful ways. Just like a child fails to tie his shoelaces and stumbles over them, so the lazy man fails to tie up the loose ends of his life, and ends up stumbling in and out of ventures into which he doesn’t care to put much effort. Such is the life of a lazy man.

Laziness stems from other bad character traits, I think, and a lack of self-control is not least among them. When I consider a person with no self-control, I see a person who is stumbling, just like the lazy man. Ben Franklin, a man of no little wisdom, said that to teach your children self-control is to abolish much misery from their futures and much crime from society.

Self-control, and more specifically a control over your attitudes and temperment, is a virtue all people need to cultivate when they are young in order to help them in their future relationships. II Peter 1:5-6 says to add self-control to your faith. The book of Proverbs says over and over that a person who is slow to anger is better than the mighty, and that a soft answer turns away the wrath of others. I think that God cares about the relationships we have with other people, just like He cares about the relationships we have with Him. Could the person with no willpower and no self-restraint be living in a clumsy way when he refuses to curb the temper with which he angers and attempts to manipulate others?

What else can create a clumsy life? What about poor communication skills? When I was younger, my father always told me, “Communication is key! Always communicate effectively, and you will have a much smoother life.” During my teenage years when my mom and I argued, as we often did, somebody, usually my younger sister, would point out to me that perhaps Mom didn’t mean exactly what she said (or exactly what I thought she said). When I began to think about it, I would usually find that I was in the wrong. Because Mom and I did not say exactly what we meant, but only used angry words and bitter statements, we caused problems for ourselves. We did not communicate effectively.

But sometimes poor communication may be saying exactly what you mean. When I was twelve years old, a close family member angrily told me that I was “single-handedly ruining the entire family.” Crushed and feeling a burden no girl on the threshold of her teenage years should feel, I carried the weight of that comment for years. I found that I could trace every family problem back to myself. If my parents argued, I felt like it was my fault. I was shy; I didn't like revealing myself to people; I cried more than I can explain - but I never went to that person and told him how his lack of discernment had affected me.

That family member communicated poorly. Instead of saying that he was disappointed with my behavior or attitude, he made accusations that he probably did feel and think about me, but ones that shouldn’t have been stated. That statement has caused me no little grief, and that person still has no idea that what he said causes me to this day to question my relationships with other people, with God, and with myself. I came to realize that he was simply having a very human moment, and it reiterates to me that poor communication can result in years of heartache. Saying exactly what you think may not always be the best way of getting across the desired information! Saying hurtful things causes others to “stumble,” and will most certainly damage a person’s relationships with other people.

So now I’m wondering: have I been living in a clumsy way? Have I said unkind things? Have I caused others to work harder than they should simply because I failed to do my best and to work my hardest? Have I had the proper amount of willpower needed to “turn away the wrath” of others? How else could I be living clumsily? By not being dependable or by being dishonest? Through a lack of gratitude or by poor stewardship?

I wonder if, just like stepping on the heels of my classmates in the lunch line at school, I could be stepping on the heels of the characters and spirits of the people God has placed in my path. My thoughtful journey through clumsiness has been a hard one, to be sure. I now have more questions and loose ends than answers. But I want to make sure to live in a way that is not clumsy.

I have the distinct feeling that my perfume bottles are not the last I shall knock over. I feel with certainty that I shall drop at least one more glass in the future. And while I surely hope that I shall never again repeat the experience of falling down two flights of stairs while carrying a briefcase that is too large for me, I cannot absolutely know that. But if I can live in a way that is not hurtful to me or to others, I shall be content in knowing that physical clumsiness is only temporary. Spiritual, mental and emotional clumsiness are different things altogether!

Thanks for reading!!

xoxoo That girl in Switzerland

Freedom Meant To Be

We should comfort our hearts with the belief -
Stop the disbelief for one moment in time -
That all this is not in vain,
These days upon days,
One after another,
Piled in stacks (our lives,
yet who can predict how tall our stacks of days,
each so different?)
Swaying to a soulful tune
(saxophone, perhaps)
That winds along - a slow dance.

We can believe (in truth -
never in despair)
That these myrrh-drenched
Days and thoughts and hours
Were not placed in disgust -
Nor were even mindlessly thrown -
Here into existence.
The Creator who thought it all -
Planned each note and sigh -
Loved each heart into lives,
Carefully stacked each day - mine, yours -
And, with precision, placed them
As He wished.

We can believe -
Not with anxious breath held tightly inside,
But freely -
That we are not colossal
Mistakes of a godless universe,
That the love placed in our hearts is good.
That we ourselves can be loved.
The daisy-flowers by the wayside -
They too were placed with care, each one,
And the wind that blows our wayward hair
Breathes sighs of relief for
Freedom meant to be.

I, too, love the daisy-flowers,
The life-dance, the unplanned sighs,
The soulful tune that sways 'round
My feet with the clover,
And the plump hyacinth
Which eventually fades
(as does all earthly life),
Turning grey with age.
Mystery fills my days,
And I breathe it in -
Breathe along with my Creator
Who planned it all, loved it all,
Gives me the breath,
And - as the wind fills the earth -
Fills my life with
Freedom meant to be.

Love,
That girl in Switzerland

Lego Play

Today Jules and I played with Legos for what seemed like hours. I was commissioned to build two Star Wars spacecrafts. The first picture is the first one I made. It isn't really for Star Wars. It's actually for Indiana Jones and his sidekick, a very happy two-headed skeleton. Indiana is taking his dog and pet spider along for the ride too.


And here is the second one I made...This one looks more space-crafty. It was supposed to be Star Wars, until we put it to better use - carting around Indiana Jones' spare head (which is for holding his spare hat).


Here are the four spaceships that Jules made...


And finally - here is the payment I received for my hard work - you can see I was paid quite handsomely with several colorful gemstones, a pile of money, some priceless gold nuggets, and a fierce crocodile that sadly has no tail.


By tomorrow these will all be taken apart, and we'll be building new ones from the pieces. Thought you might like seeing the pictures!

Cheers!
That girl in Switzerland

Anzère Weekend with TNT!!

Just thought I'd write a quick post about the recent TNT (twenties and thirties church group) weekend in Anzère. We've just arrived back tonight. Here's a picture of where we were (a picture which, btw, I think nicely captures God's obvious love of both the majestic and the detailed):



Absolutely beautiful weekend - took my breath away more than once. I think we were twenty-one people altogether staying in the chalet, with a few other people driving up to join in the hiking and fondue on Saturday.

Here's a huge shout out to BETHANY, who organized the entire weekend for us. *WAHOO!!* Bethany is awesome - very selfless with her time. As Matthias would say..."Bethany ROCKS!" *pumps fist in the air*

We really packed a lot into our weekend - a Bible study each morning (reading the book The Reason for God)...big hiking on Saturday...a few movies...card games (I beat Brad!! YAY!!)...lasagna, fondue, too many loaves of bread to count...pancake bakeoffs...a "farting machine" (I hate that word...and the dumb thing was absolutely sickening and immature, but ok, funny because of the men's jubilance at the girls' reaction - though not at all funny the time of night at which they chose to use it - one in the morning - which should tell you our reaction and why they thought it was funny...)...a lot of worshipping God in song...some special times of prayer...and basically the most laughing I've ever done in my life.

So here are a few "Best of" scenarios from our weekend in Anzère...Enjoy!!


Best laugh of the weekend: Saturday night as we were having the biggest fondue party ever (picture includes not even half the group), somebody decided that we should sing all the national anthems of the countries represented in our group. (I think it started with the three UK guys singing "God Save Our Noble Queen"...)

Let's see if I can name all the nationalities we had...American, British, Swiss, German, Portugese, Greek, South African, Swedish...aaaannd...I think that might be all...

Anyway, the majority of us were American, with the British following up a (not so) close second (they had three). So our little Sing-Along-In-Between-Bites-Of-Fondue ended up turning into an Epic-Battle-of-Patriotic-Songs between our two countries, with the UK'ers shouting that we Americans had stolen their tunes, and we Americans yelling out our songs until the roof almost collapsed (not really, but it was loud, which was the intended imagery). The climax of this impromptu contest took place when the Americans sang "My Country, 'Tis of Thee" and the Brits sang "God Save the Queen" (same tune) - all at the same time at the top of our lungs. WHAT the people in the surrounding chalets MUST have thought!

The Americans won, BTW - Iain, Ben, and Richard finally gave in and admitted that Americans are more patriotic than the British...but they were also firm in their opinion that all our songs are the same words, just with different tunes ("God bless America" seems to be a frequent theme).

BUT - the part where I finally lost it and laughed until tears were literally dripping off my chin was when the Brits were being particularly loud, and Kevin (New Jersey) stood straight up, put his hand on his heart, and started loudly reciting, "I PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE TO THE FLAG OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA..." Our group is so much fun! It wouldn't half so great if we didn't have so many nationalities represented.

Also as we were singing out patriotic tunes - Brad (or Kevin??...hmm...I don't really remember) suggested the three Germans sing some WWII songs about Hitler...I couldn't help laughing when Matthias looked around sideways, lowered his voice, and said, "I actually know some of those..."

Best brownies: Ben's - a WHOLE POUND of sugar, baby, YEAH! I ate three...brownies, that is, not pounds of sugar.

Best long conversation: Laurent, Melody and I stayed up till about 3:30 Sat. night/Sun. morning debating several ideas involving God's wisdom/perspective versus Christian perspective/world's perspective. Well...Laurent and I were debating...Melody was mostly just laughing at how stubborn Laurent and I were both being. In the end, after nearly two hours of heated discussion, we realized we were basically agreeing, the problem was just in our definitions of a couple key words. (Or maybe he just came around to my point of view...haha...) All three of us were dead tired on Sunday morning.

Best time of connection: After our Sunday morning Bible study when our small groups got together to pray for each other...Devon, Katie, Jessica, Melody, Julie and I had a really open time talking about what has been on our minds lately and the areas in which we feel we need God's help. It's amazing to be able to pray for each other. It's what we as Christians should be doing daily.

Winner of the Pancake BakeOff: Brad, for his stellar achievements with buttermilk and cinnamon.

Best back massage of the weekend: Richard. THANK YOU! I OWE YOU! (or wait...no I don't...you owed me...and now you don't.)

Best Running Joke: Matthias and his speed dating - "I only have two questions for you...what are your hobbies and how many children do you want?" It was also Matthias' idea to do "speed dating" during our fondue Saturday night - so we were randomly changing seats every five minutes, taking plates, cutlery, and glasses with us...the "speed dating," along with the fondue confusion and the loud singing of national anthems, made for one very interesting evening.

Best movie of the weekend: Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina. (Brad refused to watch it. Apparently it isn't a manly movie. Here's to Ian B. for sticking it out. *raises glass*)

My personal favorite bit of the weekend: Saturday evening - Brad played the guitar for us and we just sang to God for about an hour. I started crying at one point because it was clear that every single person in the room was craving God's presence. It's been rare in my life to be with a group of young people who are only thinking about worshiping God, not being embarrassed of raising their voices to Him or thinking about other people - just closing their eyes and embracing the awe. God was with us, I know He was - He was right there in the room saying, "This is why you were created - to praise and glorify me without a thought to yourself."

It's so cool...that we all came together, from different countries to the same place, with the most important thing in our hearts a desire to focus our lives on God...I'm so blessed to have been given my time with TNT...I wouldn't trade it for anything. These are friends for a lifetime, and hopefully longer than that.

So I'm signing off now, dear Readers. I've got a smile on my face and a bigger one in my heart. I'm relaxed, refreshed, and rejoicing.


Love and Peace,
That girl in Switzerland

Heart of Darkness

Reread Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness the other day. Fascinating little book - quite possibly the first great 20th-century novel - that tells of one man's journey into the heart of the African continent. If you haven't read it, I highly suggest you do. I love Conrad's style of writing. My four favorite Heart of Darkness quotes are:

1. Concerning sunset: "The day was ending in a serenity of still and exquisite brilliance. The water shone pacifically; the sky, without a speck, was a benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist of the Essex marshes was like a gauzy and radiant fabric, hung from the wooded rises inland, and draping the low shores in diaphanous folds. Only the gloom to the west, brooding over the upper reaches, became more sombre every minute, as if angered by the approach of the sun."

2. Concerning life: "It is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence - that which makes truth, its meaning - its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream - alone..."

3. Concerning cannibals: "Fine fellows - cannibals - in their place. They were men one could work with, and I am grateful to them. And, after all, they did not eat each other before my face: they had brought along a provision of hippo-meat which went rotten, and made the mystery of the wilderness stink in my nostrils."

4. Concerning death: "I have wrestled with death. It is the most unexciting contest you can imagine. It takes place in an impalpable greyness, with nothing underfoot, with nothing around, without spectators, without clamour, without glory, without the great desire of victory, without the great fear of defeat, in a sickly atmosphere of tepid skepticism, without much belief in your own right, and still less in that of your adversary...I was within a hair's-breadth of the last opportunity for pronouncement, and I found with humiliation that probably I would have nothing to say."

Oh, to be able to write like Joseph Conrad!! One can only dream...

Cheers, Readers,
That girl in Switzerland

London (being part the late, and also the second, and the last)

Well, this post is about a month overdue. The draft has been sitting on file for weeks now - I do apologize. My week in London was super interesting! Here are a few of the things I did while I was there, along with a few pictures:

Tower of London:
This is namely the place where 1) several queens lost their heads; and 2) you are absolutely not allowed to take pictures of the crown jewels. This is also the place where 1) I learned how to make four different types of arrow heads from a man who's pet topic is arrows (and though not an idea left previously unconsidered, I myself might now begin to channel Robin Hood) and who got distracted from the big weapons about which I was more interesting in learning (catapult demonstration, etc.); and 2) I took pictures of the crown jewels. (They were so preeeeety, I just couldn't help it...we're talking about the world's largest diamond...and you see that teeeny crown?? That is the one Queen Victoria wore for those famous portraits after she became a widow...how could I not sneak pictures??)


Westminster Abbey:
This is the place where you pay £14.50 to walk on and around the graves of hundreds of famous dead people - a lot of queens and kings, writers and rich people, mostly. This is also the place of the Coronation Chair that has been used in British coronations since that of William the Conquerer in 1066 (UK readers, don't be haters...I was very impressed...1066 is a good date in my book...this is when the French began to really influence the English language and started it on it's journey to what it is today). The Abbey is also where Edward the Confessor is enshrined and secluded away for private prayer services, and the place Livingstone (minus his heart), Tennyson!!, and Handel (among others) are buried. Westminster Abbey is also the place where I had a miniature breakdown, cried my eyes during the prayer at the top of the hour (for people who had recently lost loved ones, and my uncle Albert had just died the day before), and where a very busy, yet friendly, rector kindly asked me if I was alright as I bawled, "Yes, of course," and waved him on.

Southwark Cathedral:
The oldest gothic cathedral in town where Shakespeare probably attended services, though who knows how regularly. It is also the burial place of Shakespeare's brother Edmund. (Yeah, I know you didn't know he had a brother. Dummy. As a matter of fact, he had seven siblings, including two sisters named Joan. And dear William wasn't the oldest either, or even the youngest...which proves that even middle children can achieve things in life *said the middle child without a trace of bitterness...or sarcasm.*)


Kensington Gardens:
The place where I saw no fairies, even though it is the setting of the 1903 English opera A Princess of Kensington (which has fairies in it, as you might have guessed from the context of the sentence). There is, however, a delightful statue of Peter Pan, with which I did not manage to get a picture. I did manage to get a delightful phone call, though, so that was ok (if that person is reading this...you know who you are...). Kensington Garden is also the location of Kensington Palace (who would have figured?) and a very cool, terraced, sunken garden (which, on second thought, is where the fairies were probably in hibernation...and I would have been too, were I a fairy, which sadly, I am not).


The London Underground (Mind the Gap):
This is where you see way too many people waaaaay too closely, all of whom happen to be heading for exactly the same stop as you, and all of whom seem to be more than happy to give you a nice rough jostle whilst stepping on your toes in the mad rush out the door. I had to literally undergo a personality transformation, thereby becoming mean enough to step on other people's toes as well, or risk riding the tube for life. The London Underground is also where I saw, among others, a woman who dyes her hair too much (evidence: freshly-cut hair that had already begun to fray at the ends, though not yet to work its way up the hair shaft), a man who has a cat (evidence: four veeeery tiny scratches just out of eye-reach on the right shoulder of his sports jacket, along with a few hairs that his lint roller apparently missed), and a man with poor circulation (evidence: he had white white white hands that he kept rubbing together, even after he'd been on the fairly-warm metro at least seven stops). I felt that my personal space was invaded on numerous occassions, and I'll bet if the woman with bad hair had realized I was close enough to count split ends, she would have felt invaded as well.


FACT - I saw not one badly-dressed person playing ear-wrenching violin or accordian for money on the London tube. In Paris, it was impossible not to see them every last time you used the metro - the pleasures of mass transit, sickly cords of Carman wafting through the corridors, drifting from stop to stop like the smells emanating from the people manning the broken strings or shaking the paper cups.

Shakespeare's Globe Theatre:
This just may be the biggest bloody disappointment in all of London. I was perfectly aware, as should be all decent, self-respecting readers of Shakespeare, that the original Globe Theatre burned down on 29 June of 1613 after a spark from a prop cannon caught the thatched roof on fire during a performance. I also knew that the second Globe was closed by the Puritans in 1642, along with every other theatre in London. What I didn't realise, or had completely overlooked, was the smallish fact that that second Globe had been pulled down - yes, to the ground - only two years after its closing, and that the current Globe - erroneously (I believe) called Shakespeare's Globe - was only just built twelve years ago. Not to mention - it isn't even built in the same spot as the previous one...it's a good two minutes walk from the original location. But of course they don't tell you these things before you pay for the tour...anyway, I went, I looked, I took the tour, but I shall never again return to this "Shakespeare's Globe Theatre." Darling William would be quite appalled. Not even in the same spot. Bah.


British Museum:
This is the very cool place where I spent a rainy afternoon looking at things like a manuscript of the Egyptian Book of the Dead and too many mummies to count, and peering over the heads of school children to get a glimpse of the Rosetta Stone. This is also where I fulfilled a very old wish to see artifacts from the Anglo-Saxon ship-burial at Sutton Hoo. Very, very awesome! I managed to feel a great deal of pride in myself for making it from NC to Switzerland to London to see these things I've been reading about for so long.


Leicester Square:
This is where I accidentily ended up at the world premier of the new movie "Young Victoria." It was also the place where I took pictures of Sarah Ferguson, Duchess of York, and her daughters (see below), along with various other royal people and actresses...and also the place where the batteries in my camera went dead just as the Princes William and Harry arrived. Bugger! Life-long regret, that.


Piccadilly Circus:
This is the apparently London's very own Times Square...flashing lights...huge billboards, etc...but for me it was basically the place where I renewed my long-term love affair with Cinnabon's massive, gooey cinnamon rolls.

Covent Garden:
This is the very neat market/series-of-stores/not-sure-exactly-how-to-describe-it where I saw a guy balance a full-size bicycle on his forehead. And that's pretty much the end of that story.

Whitechapel District:
This is where I took myself on a four-hour, meandering, walking tour of Jack the Ripper's home turf. I had the A-Z, I marked the trail, and I followed it in the order of the victims, down every last dark alley, past every dimly-lit pub, until I had a picture of myself at each place where Jack mutilated one of his victims. You might think I'm weird, but I don't care - I have a morbid fascination with the story of Jack the Ripper - have had for about fifteen years - and it was a free way to spend an afternoon. Not to mention I got some great exercise, discovered a couple of really cool old churches (another fascination - I go in every one that isn't locked), and explored a bit of London that otherwise I would have had no reason to see.

I went to a lot of other places I haven't mentioned...lots of museums, lots of parks, lots of little coffee shops...and overall had a really amazing time. Cannot WAIT to go back!!

In LOVE with London,
That girl in Switzerland

For Kerara - a Poem about Your Shopping Addiction

For K -

I am haunted by the ghosts
Of clothes I didn't buy.
The image of that spectacular
Black dress from Zara
Floats above my bed at night,
Like a dark apparition
Here only to incite night terrors.
And those gray crochet boots from Globus -
Oh why didn't I buy them?
They could have provided so many cozy days -
Just me and my boots hanging 'round the house,
So comfortable in our togetherness.
It is as if my shopping addiction has finally
Gotten the better of me,
And I wholeheartedly embrace the sacrifices -
The canceled European weekends,
The periods of starvation,
The self-styled hair,
The lies told to parents -
"I only need a couple hundred," I tell them,
"to pay the bill for all those times I called you" -
But really I'm eyeing those black suede ankle boots -
Forty percent off at that store near the train station.
Those have been on my mind for awhile now.
But I can live with these spectres -
They remind me to make better choices next time -
Slap down the money for those styles I so desperately need.
And I am comforted by the fact that there are at least
One or two fashions I refuse to wear,
Simply out of slight abhorrence -
There are no ballet flats, for example,
Twirling on the edges of my memory,
Or thin belts that snake their stealthy way into my dreams.
And these are no horrific ghosts of my past
Come to claim my soul -
I gave it to them long ago -
And I will dance with them now
As they laugh and persuade me once more
Into the nearest store, where I might buy -
As credit allows -
That pair of washed-out jeans that has been beckoning -
Slyly calling out my name.

Ta, daahlings,
That girl in Switzerland