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.

I'm not sure I can live without Swiss chocolate

but I think it's exciting my asthma in a bad way. I'm eating so much of it and it's so richly made of real milk, which I rarely eat or drink. Hmmm. This might be a problem.

Anyway.

Have photos, will travel.

New albums (not all photos are labelled mind you):

buildings and places random (paris - new photos)
Paris sky
Paris metro (the last metro at night)
Sarnowskis do Paris (friends visit)
Madeleing the MPA baby (a grad school colleague had her baby)
Metro station Alexandre Dumas
#68 bus ride (short ride over Seine)
From Seine to 20eme (a walk at sunset)
Bangalore (from back in February!)

My eye

"The inside of your eye is one thing you're guaranteed never to get a good look at. Even if you could, the pupil is far too small an aperture to allow you to see the entire interior. University of Michigan ophthalmologic photographer Richard Hackel compares the problem to taking a picture of a room through a keyhole. To overcome this hurdle, Hackel uses a computer program to stitch together images taken from 20 different angles by a special digital camera. The result is an unusual, fully detailed map of the inside of a healthy 26-year-old's eye."

I was afraid to look into this image at first. It's the first time my eye would be able to see itself, or an image of a similarity to itself. How would it react? Would it rejoice in seeing its insides? Would it reflect like a mirror looking at a mirror, infinitely seeing itself seeing itself? Would it recognize similarities and feel at home? Would it be curious, frightened, disgusted? Would it shatter my sight by the mere revelation?

Well, I looked. And it was okay. No explosions or implosions. It's pretty cool.

Banking in Switzerland

The U.N. has almost everything one needs in case of earthquake or mass disaster or living in Switzerland.

There are like 6 sections to the UN Geneva complex. (Fret not, I'm not revealing anything that you wouldn't learn on the public tour.) There's Pregny Gate, through which every visitor or newbie must pass for security purposes. There can be many minutes of hold-up if it's a conference day, so I'm told as I escaped with great luck somehow and made it through in 20 minutes. Once the paperwork was all settled and my horrible photo taken, I haven't been back since, now I get to enter the main gate, the Nations gate, the one in all the photos with the rows of flags.

After Pregny, there's the Salle des Assemblées (Assembly Hall). I went through on the first day as I was lost and trying to cut across the grounds to get to the UNECE building. Nice people gave me bad directions. And I was shocked at how much French was required to ask for these directions and how good my French must be since they answered me in slurred, friendly French instead of clear, "you're obviously a foreigner" French. Anyway. I've been back to this complex a few times since as it houses main conference rooms, art displays, the lunch cafeteria in the basement, and the grand Delegates' Restaurant on the roof.

After the Assembly Hall, there's the Aile de Commission Assemblées-Bibliothèque (Assembly-Library Wing), which I had the pleasure of visiting the other day. Amazing library with high ceilings, the old book smell, and round, sturdy, yet cushy, leather chairs low to the ground. And, the books. Well, don't let me tell you that I wish my internship was cataloging.

After the Library is the "New Building," which I have yet to see. I can see it from my supervisor's office. I saw it from the rooftop restaurant. I have yet to enter, although we are highly encouraged to meander on breaks and explore when we have free time. I will, I will.

Then there's the Secretariat ("The department administered by a governmental secretary, especially for an international organization"), in which is housed a variety of people doing a multitude of things. I walked through it once to find a bathroom. I didn't really notice the names or titles. There are several "Portes" on these buildings and they're useful for finding the entrance to certain buildings. This one has Porte 1, which also leads to the basement shopping - watches, perfume, food, liquors, clothing, and, yes, chocolate all on discount. It's rather like back in the military days with the commissary. Not the greatest selection, but still slightly cheaper. Not the biggest room, but big enough not to die from suffocation or claustrophobia... although small enough to want to jab a few people in the back... yes, I'll have an entire entry dedicated to patience as the theme of not only my entire f'ing life, but also of this entire city of Geneva.

Finally, there's the Aile de Commission Assemblées-Conseil (Assembly-Council Wing). And behind Porte 6 is a nice world of convenience and where I work. Ground floor has a travel agent, tourist office, bookstore/kiosk, post office, photo booth for passport photos (I made some damn nice ones in black and white, too), and a bank.

So, I walked in with the necessary materials, sat down and opened a UBS bank account. Since they needed a safe, official address for delivery of documents I gave them the UN one and picked up all the info today. And, man, is there a lot! The credit card / debit card, the pin for that, the how-to do e-banking book, the access card to do e-banking, the pin for that, the access card e-banking machine reader, the instructions for that.

Yes, I said reader. If you've been in Europe lately, you'll notice they have these super cool wireless credit card readers that they bring to your table at the end of a meal. Now, you never have to hand over your card to the waiter/server/bartender/host. You flash it, or show it, or peek it out of the bill-bearing-book. They come over to your table, take your card, and either swipe it like this one:









or insert it like this one:





They hand you the latter and you enter your pin (as the server and your table guest kindly turn their heads), you view the "Code Bon" (I have yet to see it in English), the receipt prints, a-ok!

So, when I got my UBS reader in the mail, I started wondering how much money I could get off of unsuspecting foreigners by charging them randomly in the street or at cafes. Would it work? Could I pose as an undercover bank operations manager, checking people on the street to verify that their chips work?

So, here's the set-up:





Super security, folks. So, I only get my e-banking access if I can figure out how to insert the access card (the grey card in the photo with the gold chip; not the credit/debit card) into the reader and then log on to the website and simultaneously answer both questions from the reader and website and enter in answers from them both into the other. Now, I feel bad. I should be wiring hundreds of millions of dollars over instead of the meager amount I moved over for the summer.

Oh, and I don't get to keep the account after the internship. How could would I be? "Oh, this? It's just the monthly statement from my Swiss bank account." So Bond! But, if the UN keeps me on as a consultant until I get my first real UN job... then, I could. Yes, I'm trying to plot my whole internship around how I get to keep the Swiss bank account. If you have suggestions, send 'em over.

The roar from afar that is Euro Cup

It is 85F in Geneva. The sun has turned me a golden brown and I'm no longer burning red under it. Although at the top floor of the old building I feel hot and the breeze is not enough. It is summer...!!

Well, finished the last weeks of May in a blur and a half-assed happiness. Given more time, I would have done better in everything. Now, I just hope I passed. Grades are available this week, but they're not mailing them out. I just so happen to have to go back for a business meeting (about the Global Public Policy Network Student Conference this fall) this coming Fri-Mon so hopefully I can end the awful suspense and receive full confirmation that I did, indeed, suck this past semester. I realize now why my prof from first semester said my paper could be publishable. I spent so much more effort inside that theme and on paper. Second semester there just wasn't adequate time to delve into each subject.

Sigh.

The last three weeks were littered with days like this: Econ 1b class, 1st year meeting (review), Amartya Sen, Matt in town, dinner with Cuba group. Or, Bridget visit, Global paper due, Econ exam review, GPPN meeting with Anand, Conflict Management paper review meeting, dinner with Bridget. Now, my ex-co-workers will confirm that I thrived in our schizophrenic days where one minute it was a volunteer training, a lobby visit, hiring interns, tracking legislation, health care meetings. But this year has felt more schizo and more multi-tasked than I felt before. And many of my friends left without announcement, possibly never to be seen again - off to summer internships and then another school in our dual-degree program next fall. My heart felt torn and my mind wiped out.

So, work happened and my mind moved and friends came. Matt and I had baguette lunch with his traveling friend, Bart, down by the Seine where it was less windy and a bit more sunny. Bridget came and, after 15 years, it only took us 20 minutes to settle back intohttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif each other as friends. We let ourselves sleep late and do our own thing during the day. She visited Rimbaud and I spent quick hours at school. We met for dinner and laughed over the über American tourists. And when I was free all day on Saturday, we went through and around and into Paris. The back way to the Sacre Coeur (thank you, Josh and Sarah!), such a perfect day, into the Museum of Montmartre to see the history of absinthe but to leave wondering where to find it.

[The giant roars as Spain kills 3 goals in 5 minutes... sorry make that Spain 4 and Italy 2 .. in the last 7 minutes - good lord!]

Up the back way to the Sacre, around its outside, through a lovely garden, down a side street into the rain and scamper under the cover of an awning of a little bistro. The nicest bartender ever. I'll go back for a salad and beer sometime soon. The corner of Rue Custine, Rue Labat, and Rue Ramey.

We left after a few hours and beers (me, drinking beer in the middle of the day, in the middle of finals prep - I felt giddy and heady and ooo what fun!) and meandered through the street to all of a sudden end up in African market land. Literally, turned a corner and there were glorious bodies of shimmering fabric, hands full of sacks of groceries, children tottling before or after, the smell of chicken roasting, saffron. Bridget is more comfortable than I am, after confronting her shyness of African women (I told her I thought that it was perhaps that they carry such mystery and magic, power and essence within layers of beautiful robes; she told me that they do have the power - they do the accounting, they portion out the shares, they labor in the field but they have the purse strings). She leads me into the fabric stores to show me the multitude of designs and colors from floor to ceiling stacked high. And then, we go on a walk through the Rue de la Goutte d'Or and then to find a bathroom.

Bridget tells it better than I have:

########

"vote football (a story)"

walking through a beautiful arab and african quarter of paris, we were
in search of a bathroom - fast. past bakeries and mosques we could not
be deterred because that's how bad lauren had to go. little old men
sitting on stools in front of big city old doors. selling something or
maybe just passing the time like in the old country. kids holding
dad's hand as they strolled the narrow walkways. elegant fabrics
sneakily pouring out of the tops of storefront doorways. we walked on
in a general direction toward something on the horizon. a field of
train tracks below gave way to a space in the skeye that told us which
direction to follow to gare de l'est.

the skeyes was dimming and it wasn't looking good for umbrellaless
urban-explorers. finally we reached a choice in the path where the
decision was immediately obvious. continue down the narrow street or
take a set of steps down to a mini-courtyard that seemed to be
bouncing around a soccer ball. we took the steps and when we arrived
at the bottom, a group of young boys ignored us very well. we were in
the way of their soccer game but they weren't going to make it
obvious. they were copying some of the best moves that they saw from
their favorite footballers on t.v. and seemed to be in a hypnotic
state about it. two white ladies in search of a bathroom could not
compare to the obstacle that their defense offered them.

until... until, i without thinking ran up to them deciding i wanted to
play too. i guess i was feeling 10 years old and didn't think of
obstacles either. but when i approached the kid with the ball, his
eyes got big, he retreated from the ball and shrank in physical size
to an image i could barely see. i realized right away what happened.
being young black immigrant african boys in a mostly white parisian
culture didn't leave a lot of room for safety. they were protecting
themselves EVEN if they had to leave their probably most prized
possession behind: their soccer ball. they were ready to run from ME!
a weird white lady and leave their game - their dream...

it felt like crap. i felt like crap. such a huge worldly pain, regret,
and guilt crept over me and i too cowered away in the opposite
direction.
trying to reconcile embarrassment, racism, pain, oppression, and all
of the embedded junk that goes with it, i got lost in my head feeling
really weird and uncomfortable. lauren still had to go to the
bathroom. but she watched the whole thing happen. and by the time i
got within whispering distance to her, all i could say was: 'those
kind of experiences are important to have to.' she replied with the
obvious, that they thought i was going to beat them up or take their
ball or something like that - i don't remember exactly. but then she
said the most memorable, 'that's why you have to try again.' i think i
said 'WHAT?' still recovering and imagined being in recovery mode for
a few days or weeks... she said 'you have to try again' and
simultaneously realized that the public library just across the street
probably had a bathroom. she began to disappear in that direction as i
mulled over her comment.

hmmm. what the heck. so i went back to the game and gently, in my
nicest french, quietly asked them if i could play. they stared and me
and were of course weirded out. who is this lady? and what does she
want? i couldn't have answered the question either, so i am glad that
it was their eyes and not their mouths that asked me. they were
hesitant, but finally the leader put me in the least desirable
position on the court yard bumpy rocky 'field' that was starting to
get quite slippery from the french drizzle. i became their goalie.
which freed them to show off their best footwork even on pavement that
may as well have been ice.

with my back to the steps, i was guarding a space between a railing
and a wall. it was too big for the number of amazingly dexterous kids
running at me in the rain, but i didn't complain. i just strapped my
backpack on tight. pushed up my sleeves, and awaited the plummeting of
goals over my head, through my legs, under my arms, and too far for my
slippery reach in both directions.

eventually they started calling me madame and told me to take my
backpack off so i could be more comfortable. a few smiles started to
creep up on their pro-footballer faces and a few times their was as
much laughter falling as their was rain. we were lucky to be semi
under cover and only the ground was really getting wet - which i
repeat was NOT easy to maneuver. it felt like a game of broom ball on
the frozen over baseball field of a mid-western town. with just a
soccer ball and a bunch of friends these kids knew how to have fun
despite their surroundings. they found a field half the size of a
tennis court with buildings on two sides, steps on one, and a street
on the other. it was clear they had been playing there for awhile.
because they knew with exactly how much force they had to kick the
ball in order to pass it to a distant teammate but not kick it as far
as the street. i was the only one who ever kicked it into the street.
big faux pas. big eyes.

i have to say, i did make a few saves and got quite sweaty in the
short time that i played, but for the most part it was evident that
these boys were the football heroes, and i was not.

lauren came back at some point, but i didn't notice her for quite some
time - being so immersed in my game. when i did look up she was
smirk-smiling from behind her camera. on a high note i left the game
and joined her, watching from the sidelines. she said after she went
to the bathroom, she had a chance to vote in the library. the question
was: should immigrants be allowed to vote in local elections? an
interesting juxtaposition of experiences... it sure would be nice if
the parents of these kids could have a voice in the decision making of
their community. i can just see these boys as professional footballer
casting their ballots ten years from now.


#########


The photos are in progress. I'm right now working on the ones from my friends the Family Sarnowski visit back in the end of April. Yes, that far behind. But... now I have time, my friends!!

**this was finished on 23 June - I'm not ready to talk about the internship yet, but today was a good day at the United Nations.**