Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose

(Janis Joplin)

I've enjoyed my bike immensely. Last Saturday, Dasha (who pointed out that her name is not spelled the German way with a C) and I took the train to Lausanne and then biked to Montreux with a couple of stops in Clarens, and a difficult, uphill, brief detour through some vineyards. Here's the bike path we did (22.65 miles, 36.5 km).

They call it the Swiss Riviera and it's listed on UNESCO's most beautiful places in the world. But it's no Cinque Terre, let me tell you. Far too many cars and not enough wild. Regardless, it was a great GREAT bike ride.

We stopped in Vevey and considered going to the photo museum there (since we're both photographers) but the day was too nice to hide inside. We had gigantic pizzas instead and pushed on to Clarens to pilgrimage to Vladimir Nabokov's grave. Some old lady, who thought she was being nice and knew a thing or two, told us (after we had climbed a steep hill to get to the cemetery) that he was actually buried in Vevey and wasn't it funny how so many people made this confusion, driving up here in their cars and driving back. Ha. Ha. Not funny.

We biked down the hill and off to Montreux, which someone likened to Florida and I'd agree. Lots of palm trees, old people, and slow walkers. It's a south-facing city and so it's sunny hot and really steamy hot in the afternoon. The tourist office informed us that Nabokov was indeed buried back in Clarens, along with 22 other famous people. I cursed that old lady with my fist in the air. Curses!!! We stopped by monument to Freddy Mercury and paid tribute to him, as well as a weird mime dressed in a glittery gold sheet. (I've never understood the fascination with them.)

Then, we had a coffee across the street from the casino (which sold Lagerfeld men's suits - to give you context versus the casinos on reservations in Wisconsin) and, since we weren't going to bike the extra miles to the Chateau de Chillon, I read Byron's "The Prisoner of Chillon" to her there, in the middle of hot boiling sun and weird bar music in the background.

We biked back to Clarens, and up that damn hill to the cemetery. Crept inside the church, which was decked out in strange pastel-colored stained glass, and found no guide to find Nabokov. We started walking and passed the newer graves heading to a building in the center of the cemetery, thinking it might have maps. As we were walking, I thought, this is just like the moment when my sister and I were driving into Modena, Italy, and couldn't find the damn hotel, driving in circles around the city. And just when my sister and I were entering the old town and were frantically looking for street signs amid busy pedestrians, she spotted the street name and led us to the hotel. And, then, just like that, Dasha spotted Vladimir and Vera's grave. Huzzah.

I had a bit of mental connection and for the first time in my life, watered someone's grave.

We cruised down the hill from the cemetery and turned to the train station and trained it back to Geneva.

It was a great day.

(Photos forthcoming)

I think I can, I think I can

map

idea


We'll see if I can get a ride.


(for you, mom and dad)

Selle que j'aime

It's raining and raining and raining. I thought I knew how rain was produced. Big body of water, hot hot sun, clouds make precip, precip builds, falls in form of rain. If this is indeed the case, then the whole Lac Leman should be a desert by now.

Friday was the 4th. I went to a tame expat event in the park near my apartment, and brought my infiltrating Russian friend, Daria. We had cupcakes, which I haven't had in years. I got photos with a guy dressed as Uncle Sam and with a cardboard cut-out of Obama.

Saturday morning I got up and my flatmate read my tarot to the question: What will I be when I grow up? She turned the question to: What traits do I have now that will help me to the future job? My cards: the traveling magician, the lover, the devil. Hmmm. That reads horribly on paper, but a deeper discussion / reading proves that there are some good lessons and guides. Then, we did positive thinking: "I have a bicycle" -- instead of "I'm up early to go to this random bike shop in Carouge owned by some Scottish dude in hopes that I'll get a bike today so I can go bike 50km round-trip to Nyon. Please let there be a bike!"

I also need a bike for the summer, because basically Geneva is a bike town. I'm on a straight-shot bus line to my internship, which is excellent. But the bus is 2chf (=2$) for essentially what they call "a short trip" of 3 stops or less. My ride is 20 minutes, but more than 3 stops. An hour ride is 3chf (=3$), a 9am-9pm is 5chf, and a 24-hour is 7chf. Ridiculous. If I were to get a monthly pass it would be 50chf if I was under 28. For us old fogies, it's 70chf. So, I figure, July and August = 140chf, if I can get a bike, helmet, basket, kick-stand, night light, bell for 140chf I'm much better off. Plus, the added freedom since the buses run every 7-10 minutes and the stores close at 6pm, 6:30pm, 6:45pm. Add to it, this is bicycle country, man! And, I don't live at the top of the steep Veille Ville hill either.

So, I went over to the bike shop on the tram (haven't ridden a tram since Berlin). The morning was sunny, the old lady who gave me directions was sweet, the market at Marché in Carouge was colorful and beautiful and natural, and the bike shop was supercalifragilistic fantastic. I fell in love with a bike and a bike shop owner. This Scottish guy is too much, so unique, so cool. Everything was in the stars and the air, and I felt good.

I found the store by the line of bikes out front. Store-front window and small space. A bike upside-down, clamped down and, standing over it, a guy in black sleeveless shirt and black shorts (I forgot to note his shoes - a crucial telltale of personality). He looked up and I knew I'd find my bicycle here. Great smile, great personality. I tried my horrible French (but I already knew he was Scottish c/o one of my intern colleagues who pointed me to the store to begin with) and then kicked into English. He replied at first in French and then switched to his scratchy Scottish English.

"I'd like a bike, not for road cycling or mountain biking but for going about town, something around 140chf, is it possible?" I asked.

He scoffed a little, moved around, turned his back to me to put a tool down, and mumbled that most of the bikes in view right now were going for 260, but he didn't turn down the beginning of our bargaining. "It's possible, I mean what kind of bike do you want? A man's frame? A woman's frame?"

"It doesn't matter so much. A bike that needs a little repair but something I can have soon since I'm only here for 2 months. Nothing too new. Nothing too shiny. A little character would be great. It'd match me. A bike that's been loved."

He turned back around and looked up. "Loved? How am I supposed to know if it's been loved?" He asked me a bit smiling, a bit sarcastic.

"Well, we don't know how the owners treated the bike, but I'm sure you love each one of them as you work on them."

He showed me a couple of bikes that basically need a bit of repair. Depending on the price and time it would take to repair leads us to the final bidding price. Some gorgeous 1950s bodies. One was a possibility but the other needed too much work/time. "Well, I guess you want to see the back then?" he half-asked, half-said. "I don't know. Do I? What's back there?" I mean, how was I supposed to know. I didn't know the place. He went outside, around to the back of the building where there were 3 bikes laying around the walls surrounding the yard - he pointed to each and told its brief story and how much work / too much work. Then, we walked further back through the yard to a storage / garage, he opened the door and the whole thing was filled with bikes: bikes with rusty chains, bodies on twisted tires, bodies with handle bars that needed adjusting, bikes with crooked whatever, rusty this, broken that. But anyone who saw this could tell that he was a master of his trade and wouldn't mess around with quality. He'd do what you paid for and he'd do just enough but he'd do it well.

I didn't spot anything in the garage, turned around to go back to the front of the store, and it clicked. That one. Against the wall. The one that needed some work, but not too much, the one that survived a fire, was a bit blackened, a bit in need of fixing up, but the survivor. That's one hell of a tough bike. It's not ready to give up and it needs some love.

It's a Swiss-made bike, which he said meant it was well-made. It has a woman's frame, bell, light - all that need a bit of work, along with the chain and needing new, second-hand tires. "So, when can I pick her up?" I asked. He offered a week, I offered 10 days (since I won't be in town next Saturday). This will give more time for more attention, I hope. He grabbed a pad of receipts. "Can I have your name and number?" I gave it to him and then asked him, "And, what's your name?" Eddie. "And, can I have your number?" I was just poking a bit of fun. He gave me his business card, "I've prepared for that question." He smirked.

Selle que j'aime
pedalo ergo sum
Atelier de vélo
Réparation, vente d'occasion
11, rue de Veyrier
Carouge
076/534.09.45

Report will follow next week.