"hi u look great" -- Zurich Switzerland

"hi u look great" 

A couchsurfing message from Jason in Trieste. 

"Hi beautiful yoga teacher! If you want, I can host you for the three days." 

A couchsurfing message from Giacomo in Padua. 

"Hi, how are you? If you bored in Genova, let me know." 

A couchsurfing message from Ercan in Genova. 

"I can host in my sailing boat in a separate room, she is in a harbour in Genova Pegli, well connected with the very center of Genova. I can offer fabolus gorgonzola." 

A couchsurfing message from Roberto in Genova.  

I sent a thoughtful request to an artsy looking fellow in La Spezia, and he replied with a prompt, "DECLINE." No explanation whatsoever. 

I understand that people get a lot of requests, but when I take the time to send you a thoughtful message, I really would appreciate some sort of, you know, written response. 

I sent him a message back saying, "Thanks for the quick response. Appreciate it." 

He wrote, "Don't worry... when I analise a profile for decide If I will host or not someone... in your case... analysing... all the details... I decide for not..." 

"What made you not want to host me? Just curious," I replied

His response made me wish I hadn't written anything. 

"Don't be offended... but I use couchsurfing... for find girl... and then have sex with them... cause I'm sick of bar disco... bla bla bla, alcohol, drugs... and etc etc etc... so when a girl contact me... I try to understand If there are possibility to sleep with them... and have nice time toghether... I know women... in general... and when a woman talk about joga... and have the pictures you have... my experience told me... that the troubles are more of the pleasure... clear?"

FUCK. I'm glad he didn't accept me. What a fucking predator. This is when I want to buy a van, get over my loathing/fear of driving and travel the world by myself. Not have to worry about whether a host wants to get to know me or just get in my "joga" pants. 

I usually post my itinerary on couchsurfing so that hosts in the area know that I'm coming and can invite me to stay with them, if they think we'd get along. When I was traveling with Boy, I'd get maybe one invitation a week -- and they were either from people who hadn't read my post properly and thought I was a single lady, or they were from absolutely spectacular people.


Spela and Craig. Mark and Helen. Veera. Stuart. Joe. Those were all people we stayed with because they invited us to their homes.

I got eight invitations yesterday. EIGHT. Seven of them were from skeezy looking fellows with empty profiles who wrote things like, "hi u look great"

I don't think I'm going to post my itinerary anymore. 

But one of the invitations was from Fabrizio in Genoa whose references made it sound like he lives with his girlfriend and his young son.


"Oh yeah!
My kingdom for a massage :)
Just kidding, I can host u if u need."

There are good people on couchsurfing. There are fabulous  people on couchsurfing. But today, I'm feeling discouraged, saddened and angry at the people who use couchsurfing for sex. There are so many other platforms for sex.


SO FUCKING MANY. 

There are dating websites for those who want more romance, there are hookup websites for those who just want to get down, and there's everything in between.

Couchsurfing should not be used as sexsurfing. It just shouldn't. You know why?

As a massage therapist, I had to learn about a little something called a code of ethics. In this code, we're taught about a little something called a "power differential".

Ahem.

The power differential is the inherently greater power and influence that helping professionals have as compared to the people they help. Understanding both the value and the many impacts of the power differential is the core of ethical awareness. 

On sites like Tinder and Match.com, there is (hopefully) little to no power differential. Why? Because even if you're staying in someone's house, your car might be parked outside for a quick getaway. You have friends in the neighborhood you can call. Your home might even be close enough to walk to. You remain independent and have an abundance of options available to you.

On couchsurfing, I'm alone in a stranger's house. I don't have a car, I might not speak the language, I don't understand the public transportation, I probably don't have a SIM card for my phone and I certainly don't have a home that's close enough to walk to. I am entirely dependent and have limited options available to me.

In this situation, the host is the "helping professional" and I am the person being helped. And if the host uses this power to pressure me into sleeping with him, he is being unethical. Period. 

Gosh, I get fired up about this issue. 

Joy and Vajra picked us up from the bus station in Zurich on Thursday night.

I'll never get over how reassuring it feels to know that someone is going to meet me at the station. To know that my job is done and I don't have to navigate around a city right away. That I can just relax and enjoy the city lights. 

And not only did Joy and Vajra pick us up from the station after they'd had a long, strenuous day of moving house, they brought cold beers for us to drink in the car. They'd also managed to find time amidst packing boxes to prepare us a beautiful dinner and to buy red wine for Boy. And cheese for me. Even though Joy is horrifically allergic to all things dairy.

"You knew exactly what we needed," I thanked Joy -- who had also made sure to purchase a liter of whole milk because she knows how I like my coffee. 

There's nothing that can come remotely close to the comfort of knowing that you're known. Known and loved. Joy makes me feel known and loved. 

We all strolled into the city the next day, taking our time and soaking in the sun. Vajra even stripped down to his shorts and plunged into the gently rippling Zurichsee -- something I'd wanted to do many times when working on Lake Atitlan, but knew that the filthy water would not only cool me off, but gift me with giardia. 

Giardia isn't something I have to worry about in Switzerland. The water here is so pristine. 

We picked up four bikes from Zuri Rollt, a company that rents out bikes for free until 9:30 pm -- you just have to leave a deposit of twenty francs and return the bike in good condition.

There are few free things in Zurich.

Bikes.

Pure drinking water in gorgeous fountains all over the city.

Churches.

Places to swim and sunbathe.

Toilets. Thank god.

There are a few cheap things in Zurich.

Alcohol in a Denner. Denner is the Lidl/Aldi/Tesco/Carrefour/Albert/Walmart of Switzerland. Its prices are twice as expensive as any of the stores just listed, but half that of other shops in Switzerland. Denner wine is still cheaper than wine in the US.

Poor quality ground coffee. In a Denner.

Cartons of 15 eggs from unhappy chickens. In a Denner. 

A good many things are mind-mindbogglingly expensive in Switzerland.

Such as, well, everything else.

A small latte can easily cost over five francs.

A train ticket from Zurich to Bern -- a journey that takes less than an hour -- can cost up to sixty francs.

This is madness. Utter madness. No wonder I haven't visited Switzerland before. 

But Joy and Vajra showed Boy and Girl the fun to be had in the fountains, lake, architecture and parks of Zurich. Then they treated us to one of those five franc lattes and some Swiss chocolate cake.

Boy and I slept in Vajra and Joy's empty flat that night (they were at their new place). We cooked a simple meal with Denner ingredients and drank a cheap Denner wine. We sat in silence on the balcony and watched the city lights blinking and shimmering and listened to the city sounds.

We only have a few weeks left together. Then it's going to be me and whoever happens to be hosting me. People who don't know me. People with whom I can't just sit and feel the silence. Hopefully not with people like Ivan. 

Joy and Vajra took the next day off to drive us to a nearby lake. We packed our sleeping bags and pads, loads of food (including a bag of potato chips which Vajra has fondly dubbed, "the devil's lettuce") and Joy's mini-guitar. 

When we arrived, I tumbled out of the car, threw my head back, opened up my arms and took a deep breath. 

This is where I feel free. This is where I feel energized. This is where I feel at home. 

"What you just did," Boy noted, "is what I do in a city. What you just felt is how I feel in a place like London." 

It'll be an interesting part of our journey to see how we manage to reconcile the stark opposite environments that make us feel free, energized and at home.

In Switzerland, you can buy your eggs pre-hard boiled. All hard boiled Swiss eggs are dyed pretty colors to avoid confusion.

Boy and Vajra looking for the perfect skipping stone.

Some of Joy's friends we met at the lake.

In Switzerland, it's perfectly legal to sleep outside -- as long as you don't erect a tent. So we bypassed the campsite and unrolled our sleeping pads further down the lake. Boy and Vajra wandered off to try to find dry firewood in the damp forest, and Joy and I started cooking dinner. A few minutes into chopping carrots and cucumbers, Joy nearly collapsed in pain.

Joy has allergies. Joy has probably the most unfortunate collection of allergies I've ever experienced another human being having. She's allergic to sunflower oil, sunflower seeds, saffron, basil, gluten, egg whites and all dairy.

If she accidentally eats anything on this vast list of ubiquitous ingredients, she doesn't just get a little bloated, gassy or rashy.


No. The reaction takes her down. Horrible pain through her stomach, exploding upwards into her ribcage.

Halfway through chopping the carrots and cucumbers, Joy had some sort of reaction to god knows what.

What a sad, stupid thing to happen on such a beautiful night. 
 

Joy and her stomach monster were on much more amicable terms the next morning, so she was able to serenade us with her soft, sweet voice while she strummed the mini guitar.

What happens when Boy takes a nap.

We drove home late that afternoon, and our friends once again dropped us off at their old house so we could have another much needed night alone.

Since we'd arrived in Zurich at such a busy time for Joy and Vajra, we not only had the night to ourselves, but the whole next day as well. 

We made good use of it. 

I learned to walk more slowly than usual through this incredibly pedestrian friendly city. Because it was stunningly beautiful and because Boy insisted on stopping to get a drink from every single water fountain.

"Zuri" is the shortened and cute name for "Zurich".

I'm happy to be here... it's so good to see Joy and Vajra again... but regardless of how pretty Zurich is and how many fountains there are, I don't think it's the kind of city I'd want to live in. It's too... well... perfect. There aren't enough cheap, dirty kebab shops. Individualism seems rampant here. People talk about money all the time. Including me, because I can't afford to buy myself my own damn coffee.

Why Can't I Have a Smaller House?" -- Innsbruck, Austria

I'm starting this post from Tian's place on Preyergasse in Zurich, Switzerland. The hard, but comfortable bed on which I lie is covered in a red and orange striped throw that contrasts against the stark white wall to my left. A lumpy, unassuming wall that is as old as the city itself. Tian is downstairs, listening to something that sounds quite serious and scientific, and Boy is an hour late getting back to me from his visit to a nearby wine shop. 

A shop that offered free tastings today. 

No wonder he's so late. I guess I can't expect him to be timely where wine is concerned. But still. This is a lot of late. And I'm beginning to worry. Fuck, I wish I could reach him on his phone. We are never, ever traveling together again without both of us having working phones. Either that, or I need to find a strain of marijuana that works at calming down my top-notch worst scenario imagination. Either that, or buy a ukulele so that I can self-soothe with Jack Johnson.

I'm in the throes of emotional breakdown. And it's not just because my boy is an hour late. 

When the two of us were wandering York a few weeks ago (but feels like forever ago), we strolled into an old church. I picked a pew and sat in awed anger of the decadence, and Boy approached the pulpit and read the Bible's open page. 

"It's one of my favorite passages," Boy mentioned as we left the church. "Colossians 2:10 -- "And in Him, you have been made complete."" 

"Wow, I really don't like that," I made zero effort to mask my distaste. "I don't think I like that at all...'In HIM, you have been made complete,'" I chewed on the verse and spit it out. 

"What don't you like about it?" Boy responded with equanimity. 

"I'm at a place in life where I don't want anything to do with religion or Jesus. To me, that verse implies that I can't be complete on my own. That I need me some Jesus to be whole. And I believe... umm... so, let's just compare me to a house. Yeah, let's use a house for this analogy. So, I'm a house --"

"You're a house." 

"I'm a house. A massive one. A castle, really. Like the one we just saw in Salzburg. And my castle is full of rooms. Romantic rooms with balconies and climbing roses, artsy rooms with paint splattered everywhere, libraries full of leather books and candles, kitchens with cauldrons and giant wheels of cheese, dungeons where I try to lock up the monsters of my memory. Monsters that are also part of my house. Part of me. Some of my rooms are used frequently and some rooms just... collect dust. Maybe I've lost the key to the lock on some of the doors, or maybe something terrible happened in a room long ago, and I don't want to go inside. Or maybe I've made the conscious decision that this room doesn't serve me in this moment. But that doesn't mean I'm not a whole house."

And maybe that's why now I feel like I'm in the throes of an emotional breakdown. Because even though I know I'm whole, my house feels unused. So many of the rooms I love have become derelict, quietly collecting dust at the end of a forgotten hallway.

I don't know if I'm ready to see what a mess they've become... I don't want to face the dust, the cobwebs, the smell of neglect.

I haven't practiced yoga since March. Yoga was one of my most cherished rooms -- light and open and full of joyful energy. But after my injury this spring, the door slammed shut and I haven't opened it since.  

I could open it. My knee is healed enough that I could safely practice certain asanas... in fact, it would be beneficial for my knee to practice certain asanas. But I don't. Why? 

Because I'm too afraid to open the door and see how the room has fallen into disrepair.  

The door to my massage room has been closed for months. 

I was just starting to discover the beauty that room holds for me. It feels so unfair that this door shut -- especially as it was a complicated door to pry open in the first place. Massage carries the comforting memory of my mother, rubbing my feet and my back before bed. And it carries the memory of the three times I was molested while receiving massages from people who said they were professional therapists. 

I was facing my monsters. I was holding the door open so that they could walk out of my house. 

And now the door is shut again. And I don't know what's still inside. 

I haven't painted in months. I haven't been in a place long enough to relax, slow down and mediate with my brush.

My travel door burst wide open. My writing door is about half-way. 

Sometimes I wish I had a smaller house. 

I have moments (like now) where I feel such despair when I think about how my rooms are collecting dust. Moments where I feel the weight of the entire, dilapidated house sinking into my shamed shoulders. And instead of opening up a door and cleaning out a dusty room, I choose a mindless activity that can help me forget how unlived in my house really is. I read a trashy novel, watch a trashy tv show, cook another risotto. 

And I slump and suffocate under the weight of abandoned dreams. I suffocate until I break down. 

Like now. 

Why can't I have a smaller house? Either that, or why can't I be less afraid? 

Our relatively cheap Flixbus departed Salzburg bound for Innsbruck at 10:30 on the 23rd of August. Boy and I had decided to pit-stop in Innsbruck because it was a halfway town between Salzburg and Zurich. And the pictures on Google Images made it look like a pleasant sort of place -- what with that beautiful, oddly colored river coursing through it and the jagged Alps surrounding it. And we'd found a jovial Italian named Enzo to stay with. An Italian whose couchsurfing profile said he loved chocolate, candies and that his current mission was, "Quit, don't quit? Noodles, don't noodles?" 

Boy and I arrived at around five, and were let into Enzo's apartment by his next door neighbor and best friend, Fabio. 

Everyone should have a next door neighbor and best friend named Fabio. 

Enzo's home was nearly as tiny as Jakub's, and just as unique. License plates from his travels all over the world covered the walls, there were brilliant works of art in the bathroom, instructing the user how to properly use the facilities, and world maps all over the place. Boy and I went for a walk while waiting for Enzo to return, and after .001 seconds of consideration, decided that our random pit stop in Innsbruck had been a marvelous idea.

Enzo returned from playing football (the European kind) around 8:30 (having scored a goal for each of us), and we sat down to drink a bottle of red wine, nibble on some chocolate and get to know each other. Boy shared his story about living in Pakistan, I talked about traveling through Morocco, and Enzo told the many colorful stories behind his license plates.

"I have some good news!" our host announced as the night grew long and the bottle grew empty. "I am sleeping at my girlfriend's apartment tonight, so you can stay here alone."

"Wow, are you sure?" I asked. "I mean, we've stayed in much smaller than this before and we're totally fine with sleeping on the couch."

"Yeah, it's better for me. My work is close to her place. So no problem. I'll see you tomorrow around... six?"

And with that, Enzo left us his apartment.

We lazed around the next morning, happy to be on our own schedule and in our own (sort of) space. Then we packed our daybag, slipped on our sandals, and stepped into the sunny day.

Another couchsurfing host had contacted us just a couple of days before our arrival in Innsbruck, letting us know that if we hadn't already found a host, we'd be welcome to stay with him. His "About Me" section said he was "an alien, I'm a legal alien, I'm a Dutchman living in Innsbruck." He liked Flight of the Conchords, Anchorman and Woody Allen.

We'll get along just fine. 

So even though we'd already found Enzo to host us, we decided to meet Niek for coffee and cake in an Old Town square near the Golden Dachl.

Niek was great. He was so great that we decided to meet up again that night in his home to share a bottle of wine. 

After wine with Niek (during which Boy freaked out about Niek's hammock chair and I admired his selection of sad music), we returned to Enzo's flat, where our host awaited us with a box of pizza dough flour.

Boy kneaded the dough, I chopped the mozzarella, and Enzo discussed Boy's potential marriage to his divorced mother.

"You have good hands," Enzo joked. "My mother will like that."

"Should I leave?" I laughed and brandished my mozzarella knife.

Fabio and his girlfriend joined us later on, and we all sat on the patio, eating and drinking and talking about the Adventures of Fabio and Enzo.

Our bus to Zurich didn't leave until four thirty the next day, so we had the entire morning and afternoon to soak in the splendor of the Austrian Alps.

Also, to conquer Enzo's tandem bicycle.

Of course Enzo has a tandem bicycle. 

And because we liked Niek so very much, we met with him yet again. He gave me the most thoughtful gift of some of his lovely sad music (I was unbelievably touched) and then led us up a hill to a cafe with a view. Where we chatted for hours like we'd known each other for years.

Boy and I had to rush to catch our black Helloë bus to Zurich, but we managed to rush through the doors just in time. Boy's face was dripping with sweat and flushed with adventure.

My face was dripping with sweat and brows furrowed with thoughts of, "how could we have planned that better?"

But it's okay to not plan, Bourget. It's okay to rush to bus stops. It's even okay to miss the bus. Maybe if you miss more buses, you'll be forced to step outside of your comfort zone and discover rooms you didn't know you had.