Clouds, Croissants, and Claustrophobia
When you've only partially recovered from the flu, getting up at 4:00am for a 7:30 flight to Geneva isn't particularly appealing. But it's a bit easier to do when you were never asleep in the first place.
The night before my trip, I tossed and turned and literally never fell asleep. I want to emphasize the no sleep part as well as the still recovering from the flu part. It wasn't an ideal circumstance—and yet, there I was, walking in the still-dark morning hours to the train station.
At Leiden Centraal, I found out that the next train to the airport wasn't for another 45 minutes. So I backtracked to McDonald's, which is the only place still lively that early in the morning (or late at night). This is a state-of-the-art, colossal McDonald's. I'm talking touch-screen kiosks for ordering and a dining room large enough to fit all of the young riff-raff from last night's clubbing.
I ordered a healthy breakfast of chicken nuggets and fries, then headed back to the station. I made it to the airport just fine, and since I traveled with only a carry-on, I went straight to security. Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam has the process down to a science; everything moved super quickly—too quickly for me. After clearing the metal detectors, I had to hastily cram electronics back into my backpack while a British man huffed past me and snatched his bag from the conveyor. I guess I was taking too long.
My flight was with EasyJet, and the boarding process was like nothing I've experienced before. First of all, they have you wait in this hallway until your gate number is determined at the last minute. Once that happens, you head through a door and down some stairs into this weird holding room. They scan your boarding pass, check your passport, and then you go out the door onto the tarmac and up "airstairs" into the plane. I felt like a celebrity or a president...or a celebrity president.
The trip to Geneva was only an hour and a half but full of gorgeous sites. As we were ascending, the rising sun painted a beautiful picture atop the pillow of clouds. Then, closer to Geneva, mountains began jutting through the clouds, something you'd see in a fantasy movie.
My first meal in Switzerland was in the airport. If that was the case in Kansas City, it would have consisted of cold, flimsy Chicken Fries from Burger King. Here in Geneva, I had a chocolate-filled croissant with hot chocolate. Délicieux! Maybe I should casually dine at airports in Europe more often.
After a quick train ride into Geneva and a stroll through the city center, I made it to my hotel. It wasn't even noon, and I wondered whether I'd be allowed to check in this early. But I was exhausted, so I gave it a shot anyway. My wish was granted, and I took a glorious four-hour nap on my king bed.
For dinner, I went to an authentic Cantonese restaurant, which was absolutely delicious. I ordered two different things because I couldn't decide what I wanted. When the waitress brought me my two plates of food—stir-fried noodles and chicken with spicy black bean sauce—I could feel the subtle judgment. But I've gotten used to that feeling here in Europe. Americans just like a lot of food. That's all there is to it.
The next day, I took a bus to Chamonix, France. The ride was less than three hours, and I was treated to incredible views the whole way. The first thing I do when I arrive somewhere new is eat something—and that's what I did. The town was absolutely beautiful, surrounded by mountains and covered in snow. But it was much colder than in Geneva, so I hurried to a café to get warm.
There, I purchased jasmine tea and flan. Let me talk about this flan for a minute. In America, flan is usually served in a small ramekin for one or two people. Here, I was given a slice of flan bigger than a traditional slice of pie. And thick, too—ooh, she was thick. It filled me right up, just in time to stand in line for mountain cable cars.
If you are the slightest bit claustrophobic or afraid of heights, I wouldn't recommend the cable car experience; they pack you in like sardines, elblow-to-elbow with Jaques and Joséphine (or at least that's what their names could have been). The cable car moved quickly up the mountain and swayed back in forth, eliciting gasps and shrieks. I had to take two cable cars to reach the highest point, the pièce de résistance: Aiguille Du Midi.
Nearly 13,000 feet high, I was greeted with breathtaking panoramas of France, Switzerland, and Italy. (Literally, my breath was taken away at that altitude.) It was cold but brilliantly sunny. Across the snowy slopes, I could see the bright coats of skiers. Just standing on a look-out deck at such altitude gave me shaky legs, so I really cannot imagine being brave enough to ski on this steep, snowy behemoth.
When I returned to the base of the mountain, my next mission was to find dinner before my bus ride back to Geneva. Luckily for me, I found wifi for just long enough to consult Yelp, my trusty sidekick. It brought me to an Italian place that looked promising. I'm close to Italy, so maybe the Italian food is better here than in the Netherlands, I thought. I walked into the restaurant, and it's entirely empty. Literally just me and a waiter. He begins to say something to me in French, and I ask him if I he speaks English. "A little bit," he responds.
He sits me down on the other side of the restaurant and brings me a menu. If you know me, you know I'm a picky eater; when it comes to pizza, I'm an only cheese type of guy. In the Netherlands (and all of Europe, I'm guessing), a cheese pizza is given the fancier label of "Margherita." I find something on the menu that resembles that. The description (offered in English) says something about tomato sauce and some added herbs. Okay, so a fancy cheese pizza. I order that.
A second man emerges from a back room and passes by me. He's the pizza-maker, awoken from deep hibernation. He makes my pizza about 15 feet away from me as I awkwardly sit in this empty restaurant by myself. Solo traveling certainly has its perks (freedom to choose what you want to do and what you want to eat, for example)—but it has its drawbacks, as well. Dining on your own might be peaceful, but it's also something that makes me feel self-conscious. It's like a first date where no one shows up and you munch on tiny packaged breadsticks by yourself.
Anyway, my pizza arrives quickly. I look down at my plate, and there is absolutely zero cheese on this pizza. Like, it is literally just tomato sauce and tomatoes. I don't even like tomatoes! So I scrape the gross red specimens away from me and begin to cut the pizza with a knife. (In Europe, pizzas are almost never pre-cut for you; I look at it as an art project, something I've never excelled in. Thanks, Mom, for always reminding me of my failures.) I dig into this cheese-less pizza, and I'm not even impressed by the tomato sauce. As bland as a frozen pizza from Aldi. No offense, Aldi.
The waiter must have felt my negative aura from across the restaurant and lingers toward my table. I make eye contact with him, and in a moment of sheer awkwardness, I explain to this non-English-speaking waiter my not-so-cheesy dilemma. He obviously doesn't know what I'm saying (duh, Isaac), so he sulks into the back room to send out a third person.
A young lady approaches me and asks what's was the matter. I explain that I meant to order a pizza with cheese but got this one instead. She smiles at me—you sad, dumb American—and says a new pizza will be brought to me momentarily. The pizza-maker goes back into his corner to prepare me a pizza with cheese, and a few minutes later, I have a half-eaten tomato pizza and a full cheese pizza in front of me.
Now you must be thinking, after so much trouble, this cheese pizza must have been molto delizioso. Well, I'm sorry to break it to you...but I've had much better cheese pizzas in America.
Next time on the blog, I'll be sure to bring you more awkward Isaac stories as I continue to explore Europe. Thanks for reading and cringing along with me!
