I have seen Geneva, I have seen Budapest. I will now rank them.

1. Budapest

2. Placeholder to further separate Budapest from Geneva

3. Geneva

Geneva sucks. It is the international city, housing the UN, UNICEF, the WTO, and the WIPO, granted. It has many fine museums, all of which offer free admissions, granted. The people there are polite and the watches attractive, granted. But there is simply no excuse for charging $14 for a fast food lunch and refusing to serve liquor after 9.

There were highlights: while I was allowed nowhere near the UN or UNICEF building, which is, strangely, the only one guarded with assault rifles, I was able to convince security guards to let me see the WTO and WIPO. I am ashamed to say that I rewarded their trust by stealing from a stack of policy papers outside the conference room, knowing full well they were for the delegates. I regret only not being bold enough to order something from the delegate bar.

I musn't forget the botanical gardens; Geneva is the only place in world where landscaping has brought me to tears. And I saw the Swissest watchmaker in existence: in a closet-size shop off the main drag he sits surrounded by ticking and clicking clocks, watches, and gears, quietly assembling a pocket watch with tweezers and pricing me out of his shop.

So, Geneva is someplace you can go to be inspired, to open your mind, and to marvel at what a unified Europe can look like, even if they are the hole in the European Union. Stubborn Swiss. Geneva is not, however, someplace you go to have fun. The second night, I went out with an Aussie and a Kiwi and our attempts to enjoy ourselves put us at odds with the fundamental nature of the city; we fought Geneva and Geneva won.

Budapest is another beast entirely, and one which I believe warrants an entry all its own. So I will close this, invite you to comment and encourage you to declare yourself an onlooker to my blog because it would feed my self-esteem.

Fort de la Motte Giron

When Americans no longer need a military base, they condemn it, then pave over it.

When the Russians no longer need a military base, they allow the low grade iron to decay and hope that the low level radiation will keep away thrill seekers.

When the French no longer need a military base, they keep goats in it.

La Fort de la Motte Giron is a military base dating from the middle of the 19th century through 1950. Curiously enough, though during this period Dijon was attacked three times, twice by Germans and once by Allied forces, the fort has never been used, as none of the three armies saw any point in engaging the fort and instead contented themselves with occupying the town. Also worth noting that, despite extensive military construction, Dijon has not once held out against an invading army, though they have earned a number of medals for trying.

Today, the fort has bare walls, grafitti, no lights, and goat crap everywhere. The goats, while pleasant enough, are such tenacious poopers that unscalable heights and unplombable depths have been enshittened, thus limiting the fort's potential as a paint ball arena.

Connecting the fort to its satellites - small machine gun posts that today look and, thanks to the goats, smell like sewers outlets - are a series of underground tunnels which are almost cave-dark. French graffiti artists have, nonetheless, followed the frankly frightening furrows to their end; they are to be commended for their bravery but not their originality as their work is clearly derivative of American artists.

There was a HUGE dent in the fender

Walking along the rue de la liberté, a car is passing us slowly when a biclyclist flies down the road, straight into the front bumper. The biker is thrown off his seat and audibly smacks his face against the front windshield. The driver is understandably alarmed. The cyclist pushes himself off the hood of the car, climbs back onto his bike, waves 'My bad' at the driver, and pedals off. He didn't even raise an eyebrow.

Now, from this we can derive that France makes both bikes and cyclists better than it makes cars, because there was like a foot missing off the front of that fender. Only very slightly exagerrating

Also, I learned today how words are made. There is a council of learned men - I assume they are men - which carefully monitors the development of new concepts to apply labels to, particularly in the States. Thus, when we invented email, they invented 'courriel.'

They are assiduous; before the american word can cross the ocean, they have already
1. Created the word and
2. Instructed all government personnel, including all media, to use the French word in place of the English word and
3. Patted themselves on the back. Job well done.

Frustratingly, the learned council has discovered that 'couriel' is much less appealing to the French then is 'email.' Their solution to this has been to issue a synonym -

Mail electronique becomes 'Mel,' which is conveniently exactly how the French pronounce 'Mail,' so that when they hear the peuple dans la rue discussing their correspondence, the council can be assured that their authority is respected.

My First Weekend

So, my computer has made the sweeping decision not to recognize certain capital letters, regardless of context or program. This does not affect all letters – 'C' for example, is fine – but any hopes I had of beginning a sentence with 'you' went out the window with my capital y. This also means that I can neither put things in quotations nor use a colon though, for reasons that are unfathomable to me, my question mark is still operational. Thus handicapped, I still update.

Last night, I went to class, then to an antique show, then to see Bob Sinclair in concert, then to a night club where I danced and drank until 4 in the morning before finally getting 4 hours sleep on the floor of a german exchange student's dorm room. The antique show was amazing.

Literally every fantasy I have ever had about antiquing was realized. There was one table with surgeon's tools that looked like Victorian torture implements; there was a another table that I'm fairly was selling actual Victorian torture implements. There was a row of small bottles full of 20-70 year old liquor at 3 euros apiece. Next to the booze, something I thought was a bottle opener – nope, somethings from the gynecologist's.

There were delicate porcelain figurines forever engaged in sexual exploits. There were sets of ivory shaving kits next to binoculars and rifles that I'm fairly certain were used to hunt the elephant the shaving kits came from. There was a pale faced doll with a cracked wooden smile and dead eyes standing in a crib. They didn't have a sword cane that I saw, which could mean they only stocked really good sword canes, but they did have a sword inside a bucket of canes. Also inside the bucket was a cane with a vicious iron hook on the end and a rifle which apparently doubled as a cane, so, innovation there.

None of these, however, are things I would want to bring through customs, so they will stay here and in our collective memory. I left with a small metal imprint of Joan d'Arc and the happy thought that antiquing was cool again.

The preceding was a weak, weak post. I apologize: I was tired and I rushed it so I could catch a bus. I know that's not excuse and will try to do better tomorrow.

Thank you for understanding.

Terrible, terrible news: I'm losing my American accent. Just today, a large group of people was unable to tell my region of origin after I unleashed a stream of flawless French; when I unleash a stream, I want people to know where it came from.

Consider it this way: you meet, let's say a Russian, with a thick, thick accent, who sometimes can't think of a word, or who periodically misconjugates something. Bottom line, he's Russian, which automatically makes him cool in the states; good for him.

Now consider you meet a guy in the street who says, "When my father built our house, he look often for, eh, in the, eh...what do you call the thing that is where the, eh, [mimes for hammer] is put in?" Without an accent, this man is mentally retarded.

And not only is an thick, thick accent the only thing that makes an inability to form a sentence cool, it also means you get bonus points for everything you say correctly: when I, as mentioned earlier, let loose with a 3 sentence long, clause-laden, tense-jumping masterpiece of bilingualism, I should have had like a 5x multiplier, Such was not the case - they nodded and responded.

If anyone has suggestions for how to keep or even thicken an American accent, I will be more than happy to hear them; for now, I plan on listening to more Johnny Cash and hoping.

This will be a typical travelogue. I will start with a description of the scenery, move on to a personal anecdote, and conclude with description of a cultural practice. I am told that by adhering to this format I can both tug at heart strings and change minds, which are things I enjoy doing. Let's begin.

Dijon is a small town of 150,000. The streets, which boldy ignore every known method of organization, are full of people and cover the valley. Despite this, people are constantly and accidentally running into friends and lovers (France is very open-minded, it's difficult to tell). This happens with such frequency and against such odds that I wouldn't rule out some kind of conspiracy – probably government organized to make the tourists feel welcome. All the buildings, new and old, fit into an architectural motif found in the middle ages; I know this because ye old tanner's workshop is perfectly situated for a side-by-side comparison with the apartment complex finished in '98. Each an every building here would be a curiosity in the states – the row of gift shops at Six Flags is actually modeled after a street here in Dijon, hand to god.

My first day here in Dijon – note the shift in tone, the personal anecdote is more low key than the mise en scene – I got lost. Being the adventurous spirit that I am, I decided to wake up early to visit the weekly market scene. Finding it was no problem, and once there I blended seamlessly in with the crowd and bought a wallet in which to put the bills that are no apparent reason a quarter-inch taller. Then, being the adventurous spirit that I am, I decided to explore a bit further. Then a bit further. Then a bit further.

I did, however, have plan: once finished, I would set my left side to the sun and head south to the central road in Dijon, from which I could reach my rendez-vous. It was a good plan, and like all good plans it should have worked. What I did not know was that the Rue de la Liberte ends, quite suddenly and with little fanfare. And so I walked past it, all the way down to the souther corner of the centre ville. And then, then I thought, “The greatest generals make opportunities: I know where I am, I shall north-west until I reach my goal.” Unfortunately, this was also a good plan. With a skill that wish I could wield against someone other than myself, I deftly chose the route around and between each and every landmark I knew, including, most unfortunately, La Rue de la Liberte, which ends, quite suddenly and with little fanfare, on the western tip as well. All told I made two complete circuits of the road before I finally was able to follow the directions I asked of 3 different people and have since resolved to carry a bus map with me at all times; it is unfortunate in the extreme that the French make such bulky bus maps and such tight pants.

I do enjoy America. I feel we do many things very well – processed food, for example, is available at prices and in quantities unmatched by the Old World. There is, however, at least one aspect of our culture that the French do better, and it is a practice I will detail here and encourage everyone to adopt. When the French throw a party, the host and/or the guests buy a selections of booze and food, clip the receipts, and throw them into a jar. Once all is tallied, the sum is divided by the number of guests and everyone, no questions asked, no complaints listened to, pays an equal share. I am not a communist. I believe the tragedy of the commons. But this works.

I also wrote a tribute to the flip-down trays, but that one's private

Always illuminated, never appreciated, No smoking sign, I thank you.

So little air to go around, and it won't be replenished until touchdown. For keeping breath clear instead of brown, No smoking sign, I thank you.

Shining lonely when the buckle's shut off, the one rule that runs from landing since take-off, All so I sigh instead of cough, no smoking sign, I thank you.

A subtle reminder that we're still flying it, a quiet notice that no one's buying it, for letting us know that we're not dying yet, No smoking sign, I thank you.

You're an icon, world famous, our response: I'll make it plainest. Circle-slash cigarette - can you blame us? - We love you.

I discover DoubleTime, wish I hadn't

We left Logan Airport at 5:30PM and will be arriving in France 12 hours later after a 6 hour plane ride. I have experienced DoubleTime, that most pernicious of time zone oddities. I am frankly disappointed.

I was expecting my smartwatch to recognize the time zone gradients so I could get a neat spinning effect, but of course the lazy timepiece only updates once a day. I tried to compensate by moving the hands forward at ten minute intervals, but it wasn't the same. It also turns out that even when it's happening twice as fast as normal, watching the sky dim is even less exciting than it sounds, especially when the sun's completely gone and your just watching black turn to dark black.

Really it seems like DoubleTime is just a trick to con naïve travelers out of sleep: convince them that running from the sun will have some kind of drama so that they stay up for the six hours they do have and just when they start feeling drowsy, flash on the cabin lights and brace them for the sunrise. Time zones have a mean streak.

So, the expected thrill was a letdown, my internal clock is set to midnight, and the day is about to begin.

Travel and Racism

It's 3 hours to boarding; 10 hours to Paris; 1 more to the hotel. And I've got a sunburn on my back that would make a baboon's ass jealous. Still, I'll be in good company, assuming I see anyone else from Colby. And, though my iPod is dead, the voice in the ceilings is suggesting I “enjoy the sounds of Logan Airport;” I think I'll do just that. At least until I can convince Wok & Roll Sushi to give me access to their WiFi. For the record, Wok & Roll, I find it suspicious that you only employ people of Asian descent - people of all creeds enjoy your Sbarro-style rack of raw fish.

Whoa. I just did a quick profile of the staff in the duty free area. No joke, not only is everyone at Wok & Roll,I want to guess Korean?, but Sbarro's is exclusively white, and the three people at Starbucks are all as dark as the beans. Way to segregate, Duty Free Area; way to segregate.

Further inspection shows an exception: The Earl of Sandwich is fighting the status quo of Logan Airport Duty Free Area and employing both a young hip white girl and an older Oprah-esque black woman. The friendship that blossoms between these two as they better understand the artificiality of the boundaries between them is practically begging for a soap opera treatment. Doubtless, the entire Duty free Area is destined for a radical re-imagining.

I want to discuss the nature of fear with you, from an evolutionary standpoint.

More specifically, I want to talk about fear of the dark, which, despite inspiring the greatest show Nickelodeon ever aired, is really very inconvenient. I do not enjoy seeing vampires and rapists in every shadowed corner.

Fear of the Dark (FoD from here on) must have had a beginning: at some point in our evolutionary history, some poor prick was born with what must have seemed a laughable phobia to everyone else around at said point. While they surely teased him, his irrational fear of dark spaces (dark is an adjective here, no abbreviation) trumped their inability to work out that tigers were nocturnal, and so Johnny-FoD outlived and outbred them.

So far this makes sense - we have established how FoD better enabled Johnny to distribute and care for his world-defining semen. But Johnny and I got beef.

Before we continue, I want you to consider, for a moment, just how cool nightvision is. It is really very cool, so cool in fact that governments and hobbyists will shell out between $50 and $10,000 dollars (thank you amazon) for the pleasure of enjoying what your housecat takes for granted every day.

Johnny had the audacity to, while still pre-natal, make the game-changing decision to puss out everytime the sun went down instead of making his retinas work a little harder. Bad call, Johnny. You are the reason I'm about to blow $50.

And, for the record, owning nightvision goggles doesn't make someone a stalker; I do wish people would think for a minute before yelling accusations out their windows at 3 in the morning. People are trying to be watched sleeping.