Genf

My first attempt at international travel could not have gone any worse. It started out okay. My parents dropped me off at the train station and sent me on my way to Newark. I check in, got on to the plane, and prepared myself to sleep the entire way to Frankfurt. I ordered a few cocktails, and proceeded to stare at the ceiling for the next 8 hours, incapable of sleep. It was torturous.

Speaking little French or German, I disembarked my first flight, and rushed to the next gate that was written on my boarding pass. I’d missed my connection, and would have to go find the next departing plane. The only trouble was, I couldn’t find Geneva listed anywhere on the departures screen. I sat there staring at it for nearly 15 minutes before it finally clicked that “Genf” was Geneva in German. Gate located—now I just had to explain that I’d missed my connection to the nice german-speaking gate attendant. That process took a mere 45 minutes to resolve.

Frustrated by my unexpected layover, I decided to try calling home, only to discover that the calling card my mother had purchased for me didn’t work. At all. So I spent $15 dollars to use my credit card to call the states and let them know I was still alive, albeit stuck in Germany for the next two hours. . . My father assured me that my day would only get better.

Oh how wrong he was.

My luggage arrived safely with me in Geneva, and I was able to locate my railpass, get it validated at the ticket counter, and hop on the train into town. Success! When I arrived at the station, my goal was to do two things—first, buy a calling card that actually worked. I found one easily at the Migro market in the station. Second, I thought I’d better get some cash out of an ATM to supplement the 100 Swiss Francs I’d brought will me from home. I tried three different machines, and NONE of them would take my PNC atm card. Hmm. Well, I’ll figure this out later, I thought, and headed out to find the bus to my dorm.

I walked out on the curb, and realized that I needed to actually go across the street to get to my bus. The only problem was you had to go UNDER the street to get across, so I proceeded back into the station, towing both of my large suitcases, and ventured across the street. It was at this point that I started to wonder if it wouldn’t have been smarter to mail my clothes across the ocean for the summer. But I was a big girl, I could do this on my own, I thought to myself as I heaved the larger of the two suitcases ahead of me on the escalator.

I don’t know if it was exhaustion, stupidity, or the fact that Europeans are much better at packing lightly, but halfway up the escalator the weight of my suitcase gave in, and it came tumbling backwards, and I went along with it, head over heals backward into a poor, unsuspecting French-speaking man. He caught me and kept me from a much worse fate, but I couldn’t even muster a mere merci; what came out of my mouth was some combination of gracias, I’m so sorry, and a dumbfounded look of sheer shock and embarrassment. I didn’t know an escalator ride could feel so long.

At the top of the escalator, after my tumble, I was convinced that I needed to get away from that station as fast as possible. Having determined that, I flagged a taxi, rather than try to find my bus stop. Only problem was, I couldn’t, for the life of me, explain how it was that I needed to get to my dorm. I gave the driver my address, and he didn’t know where it was. I wrote it down, and he still wasn’t sure. “Cite Universitaire” I said. He finally understood. Thank GOD.

I can’t even remember how long I’d been traveling by the time I arrived at the back door of the dorm where he dropped me off. I dragged my godforsaken bags through the restaurant that connected the two towers of my dorm and finally found the check in counter. I introduced myself in broken French, completed the necessary paperwork, and looked down to realize that my pen had exploded all over my hands. Not just a little bit, like when you get a spot or two on your index finger. I’m talking a full-fledged black mess, everywhere. Including on the skirt I had worn for my travels.

This is just getting laughable, I thought to myself.

The woman behind the desk took pity on me and brought me into the office to wash my hands. I tried, but the cheap soap and lack of paper towels left me soggy, ink stained, and desperately seeking the comfort of my own bed. I grabbed my key from her with a soggy hand, collected my belongings, found my room, called home briefly to say I was still alive, and got into bed for the next three hours.

I awoke, groggy and confused, and went to open the door and venture out in search of my friends who should have arrived by now. Only I couldn’t get the door to open. I tried locking and unlocking it. I tried kicking, pulling, pushing, and screaming. Nothing worked. Finally, I resorted to panic, and began pounding, desperately, until a neighbor came by. I shoved my key under the door and asked him to unlock it for me, please. He looked at me like I had lost my mind when he got me out. This time I was able to say merci, but entirely unable to explain to him that I had thought I’d locked my self in. I say thought because the well-rested version of myself later realized that if you turned the lock too far it would go slack, and I simply needed to tighten it in order to unlock the door and leave on my own accord. . .

I never did get my ATM card to work; I tried every ATM on the east and west banks of the city, and finally resorted to having my dad wire me cash and then fed-ex me a Wachovia ATM from a new account that he opened on my behalf. On my way home at the end of the summer, I watched a robot explode a bag someone had left behind, and the airline lost my largest piece of luggage. I arrived home with a small suitcase full of dirty laundry and flip flops, and a new sense of independence. I didn’t get a chance to properly thank the man who saved me from breaking my neck on the escalator, and I didn’t make it to at least two or three of the cities I’d hoped. But I did manage to survive the single worst first 24 hours out of the country that I could have imagined. And I can’t wait to go back.