WELCOME TO TVL 297, FALL 2010

Madame de Staël

Madame de Staël

Anne Louise Germaine de Staël was born to Swiss parents Jacques and Suzanne Necker in April 1766 in Paris, France. There are many connections that people make with Madame de Staël's name--perhaps they think of Napoleon, who was displeased with her for her lack of support during his regime--and yet he still kept an eye on her, unable to forget about her.
Perhaps they think of her father, Director of Louis XVI's treasury. He was, in many ways, the true love of her life, such was her devotion to him.
They may also think of her mother, Madame Necker's, famous salon, where the young Germaine often spent time amongst it's members, including Voltaire. By the age of thirteen, Madame Necker was sending critiques to Germaine on the quality of her work.
However, what she should be most well-known for is her literary salon at her family home in Nyons, Switzerland, the Chateau Coppet. Still owned by her descendants to this day, Coppet was a place where Germaine gathered the brightest minds around her in order that they may entertain, inspire, and learn from each other. Guests included Lord Byron, Chateaubriand, the Countess of Albany, Andrew Bell, and Ludwig of Bavaria.
She was also an author of many books, including Corinne, and held in much regard for her writing-both at the time and following. While she believed that women were in some ways lesser than men, she did not see herself as part of this idea, and acted very much as their equal- politically, intellectually, etc. It was her unique upbringing in her mother's salon which most likely fostered this strong sense of self, and this strong woman whose own salon would attract so many famous male writers and thinkers of the time.

Chateau Coppet

La Chaux de-Fonds

Streets criss-cross and intersect cutting through the city like stripes on a plaid shirt. However, these girded streets we traversed were not of some North American city, it was in La Chaux de-Fonds, Switzerland in the heart of Europe. Though it shouldn’t feel out of the ordinary for me, I found it difficult to reconcile the European facades with the American planning style. The city of La Chaux de-Fonds chose to have a gridded system after a fire destroyed the town in the late 18^th century. When walking along the street I noticed at least three episodes where vehicle accidents nearly occurred. I was a bit surprised because generally the drivers of the French- speaking part of Switzerland had appeared to be better than their Ticinese counterparts. However upon further examination of the road I noticed more oddities.

First, the streets instead of having traffic lights only had stop signs. This would have been all well and good if the streets weren’t heavily used, but even in the mid-afternoon the streets were rather well traveled. This concern of safety was reflected in that the stop signs had blinking lights coupled with a clearly marked line dictating where motorists should stop. This line was the second feature that worried me as it was a good meter and a half after the stop sign. This penetrated the road just enough space where one could lose a headlight to a vehicle coming down the steep road above. I suppose the locals adapt but drivers from nearby cantons appeared to be having a more difficult time. I do not believe they were accustomed to the mixture of grid layout and European driving styles.

But La Chaux de-Fonds isn’t only notable for being a city with the grid system but it also is a UNESCO World Heritage status for its monoculture watch industry. Marx certainly would have been proud of the city where the people own the means of their production. All social ideology aside, I am fascinated by its political and social identity and would loved to have learned more about it. What a strange and interesting specimen of political and economic character. To have an entire town focused on a single industry in this day in age is truly intriguing. The watch museum we visited gave an excellent history relating to the development of the watch making industry. What is truly telling of the Swiss is how quality and innovation in the face of competition have allowed this country to remain at the top of the watch making market despite its high cost of manufacturing.

Although the industry in La Chaux de-Fonds is so quintessentially Swiss the rest of the city felt so very un-Swiss. As a resident of Switzerland for three plus years I am always surprised and reminded that there are few characteristics I can call Swiss. The levels of nationalism, regionalism, and localism make it difficult to decidedly define anything as being Swiss. The history and experiences of the various regions continue to permeate even though some of these original identities formed some 800 years ago when the Swiss confederation began to form. Though this point is often belabored it is still important when trying to adapt to the country. Sometimes the Swiss French are just as confused in Ticino as Americans are. The linguistic barriers coupled with the culture differences make Switzerland as a whole very indigestible in one bite. La Chaux de-Fonds proves this. Though I have been to 20 of the 26 cantons there are still gems like the La Chaux de-Fonds to prove I am as ignorant as the day I stepped into the country. This is good news for it reminds me to adventure on.

--Michael Thomas

Anne Deriaz

We first met Anne Deriaz the day we arrived in Saint-Luc when she was kind enough to invite us over for some hot tea and home-made biscuits. How could you say no to that? It was only about ten minutes of walking out in the crisp, clean air and we all started freezing! So getting invited for tea was the highlight of our day.

We approached a small, wooden chatlet overlooking the mountains with Tibetan flags hung around the perimeter. As we entered the chatlet, a small old woman appeared around the corner with a smile on her face greeting and welcoming everyone into her home. I remember when we all sat down and got cozy, Anne Deriaz exclaimed, "So this is how a writer lives!" And let me tell you it really was. Residing in a small chatket with no noises or distractions and looking out to a sun setting down on the snow-capped mountains, this indeed was a perfect homelife for a writer. Looking around I noticed pictures of people that she has met during her trips such as the Dalai Lama that were hung up on the walls. I was quite blown away.

Blaise Cendrars

It is very possible that, in fact, we do not know anything about Blaise Cendrars. He is truly a man of mystery; a man with no roots, and a man with no country. The name ‘Blaise Cendrars’ is a creation, a pseudonym for Frédéric Louis Sauser (The name is a mixture of the words “braise” or ember, and “cendres” or ashes). When Sauser took on the name of Cendrars, he surrendered his former identity, including the background and history of the man once called Sauser. The following is thus an account of the life of Blaise Cendrars.

Blaise Cendrars was born in La Chaux-de-Fonds to a Scottish mother and a Swiss father on September 1st, 1887. At the age of 15, the young man was enrolled in a boarding school in Neuchatel, which he quickly abandoned and subsequently ran away to Russia. In Saint Petersburg, Cendrars took on an apprenticeship with a local Swiss watchmaker. Cendrars began to write while in Russia. The young man spent a great deal of time in the Imperial Library, where he read the works great travel writers such as Marco Polo. Cendrars had a habit of jotting his thoughts and feelings of particular passages down in the margins of the books he read, and such actions were quickly noticed by the Imperial librarian; A man only referred to as ‘R.R.’ in the reflections of Cendrars. R.R. encouraged the young Cendrars to pursue writing seriously, thus potentially saving the books of the Imperial Library from further graffiti. Cendrars wrote his first poem, “La Legende de Novgorod”, which was inspired by the sights and folklore of the Russian city just outside of Saint Petersburg. R.R., as a congratulatory gift for Cendrars, translated the poem into Russian.

In 1907, Cendrars returned to Switzerland to pursue a medical degree in Bern. He only stayed for three years; in 1910 Cendrars had moved to France where he adopted French citizenship. Cendrars travelled extensively during this period in his life, and his adventures were often sources of inspiration for his writing. In 1911 Cendrars took a year-long trip to New York City to visit a friend and by the end of his travel Cendrars had run out of money and had no place to stay. His spell as a homeless man inspired his long poem “Les Pâques à New York” which he signed for the first time as “Blaise Cendrars”. After his experiences in New York, Cendrars became obsessed with the pursuit of what he called ‘exotic experiences’ in his travels (which usually involved uncomfortable situations or a great deal of suffering); He saw such hardships in travel as inspiration for his writing.

Lausanne

Friday, October 15: we were sent on a scavenger hunt throughout Lausanne. Mira, Hillary, Ben and Sachint and I were in a group (Code names: McLovin, whut?, Cap’n Awesome, Pay-oh, and TheSweetness). This was the perfect occasion to get to know a small group of people better, while at the same time, exploring a totally new town. In this scavenger hunt, we needed to identify train timetables, ask about contemporary Swiss writers’ works at the Payot bookstore, investigate the St. François church, learn about photographers of the Elysée Museum, find a hidden cemetery in the beautiful Olympic gardens, learn about the Thai pavilion, and find postcards while following the lake path to the town of Ouchy, among other things.

I gave Hillary ample opportunity to practice her French, which was very effective in getting us where we needed to go. The directions we got, however, were not. We got directions from a Spanish taxi driver, a German tourist, and a businessman who did not know about the parks and cemeteries within the Olympic Museum Gardens. In order to get back to the designated meeting spot on time, our group was not able to finish the entire scavenger hunt (that, and because some of the questions were difficult!). Our group came in last, but being last was the last thing on our tired minds, since we had so much fun.

After that, our first priority was food, so it was a good thing that there was a kebab stand in the city center. That was one of the best kebabs I’ve ever tasted, dripping with the aroma of success. All in all, this hunt was an adventure, and a fantastic way to get to know Lausanne. That day was one of the most exciting and inspiring. I don’t think I’m the only one who will be coming back to Lausanne very soon.

--Ashley Fils-Aimé

Fondation de Pierre Gianadda: Nicholas de Stael

When you enter the exhibit, the first thing you see is a portrait of Nicholas de Stael. As you move through the exhibition you start to see the paintings through his eyes. The portrait of him is in your mind and I think it gives a sense of respect to all the pieces. Because you see the artist initially, you find yourself feeling a sense of obligation to de Stael, to look closer and think deeper about what you see in all the paintings.

In addition to the paintings by de Stael there was also a collection of photographs of de Stael and his family from throughout his life. They gave the collection a real character and put more of an understanding behind the different pieces in the exhibition. Also the photos helped you see what else de Stael did with his life outside of painting, such as having a family, getting married twice and joining the French Foreign Legion.

The Fondation de Pierre Gianadda was truly fascinating. Each painting by de Stael made me imagine and try to comprehend the depth of the painting because each abstraction demands discovery. You can't just walk past a painting like de Stael's and just move on; you've got to stand, stare, and decide what you will see and what that will mean. This process is what I love about art. It demands attention and exploration whether you're looking at Van Gogh or de Stael.

The permanent exhibition in the Fondation was more traditional and classic. There was a Picasso, a Van Gogh, and a few other pieces from well known artists. This collection really reminded me of the National Gallery in Washington D.C., both the ambience and the perfection. The two rooms that housed the permanent collection were all white minus the light olive green cushioned benches that sat in the center of each room, museum style.

I could have sat on the green benches in the permanent collection rooms looking at those paintings for days. As I said before, there is nothing like the feeling you get when looking at something so magnificent and truly perfect; it demands something from you. It's not always clear what that is but at the very least you must give the painting your full attention and attempt to understand; the feeling, the purpose, and the history that it captures. For me, paintings are like a window to the past: if you are will to give of your time they open a door to the past and let you see what came before.

An Aspiring Travel Writer

It is in the mountains of French-speaking Switzerland where I would like to spend the rest of my days. The air is crisp and clean. The water is cold and fresh and the people are very welcoming. Though I only understand bits and pieces, the language welcomes me. I feel at home here, even though the landscape, the people, and the language are truly foreign to me, though I do not feel like a foreigner. The elegance of French seems like a sigh of relief or a breath of fresh air after living around Italian, which I understand so little. The Italian

bus driver smirks at me as I tell him I’m from dinner and the waitress says “'c'est chaud,” cautioning me as I eat.

It is here that I begin my journey—St. Luc, the French-speaking Swiss mountain town in the canton of Valais. Not ready to return to the fast pace of city life, I wish I could stay longer. The noise of the group increases, young girls smoke cigarettes, and I sit here thinking. I find this trip to be a pilgrimage of sorts. As a student and resident of Switzerland, an avid skier, and a lover of the French language, I look forward to the food, the people, the scenery, and the adventures ahead of me.

My future seems hazy and I hope to use this time I have to clear my head. This trip makes me think of the word “kairos,”—meaning ‘time away from time.’ A chance to escape and do a bit of searching for what is important to me. Hopefully this will help me better understand which path I must take and what kind of man I want to become. Though I currently have a good grasp on who I am and who I want to continue to become, I believe there is more to discover. For one of the first times in my life, I am beginning to feel content and settled.

As travel progressed and I learned more and more about the Swiss-French travel writer, Nicholas Bouvier. I picked up one of his books in Lausanne, and though it was in French, I began stumbling through it. Nicholas was a photographer, a traveler, a writer, and in my opinion, a bit of a philosopher. His travels allowed him to be surrounded by new cultures all the time. He approached these cultures with and open mind, often trying to meet and cultivate friendships with the locals. From Afghanistan to Japan, his travels to the East allowed him to maintain a relatively nomadic lifestyle and a mindset that might seem unattainable if sedentary.

Much of his writing reflects a childhood filled with literature. He recounts his feelings and emotions at a given point in time. Like most travelers, he went to the places he visited with pre-established notions of what the people, the culture, and the scenery would be like. Often he would address such notions and be thankful for the moments he was given in certain locations. Nicholas has allowed me to travel with this open-mind, or rather to strive for this mindset. In my opinion, nobody will every have a truly unbiased view of the world, it is a matter of learning to recognize your prejudices so that you can address the world with a knowledge of where your opinion is coming from.

A journey through Geneva

Tonight I reconnected with an old friend, now living in Geneva, and she took a group of us Frankliners out to Le Chat Noir, an amazingly fun dance club. The club played jazzy renditions of popular songs and remixed versions of classics & oldies. It felt good to dance.

Youth peered out of Geneva’s nightlife like light through an old floorboard. The city is old and rich – the fourth richest in the world – a cultural center and business hub. It is strewed with museums of philosophy, art, literature, and it serves as both a scientific center and business center to much of the world. Yet the streets speak of a different world. Graffiti graces the walls, some with tags that mark territory, others with art as a means of expression. I came across many messages, surprisingly written in English; “smile,” “peace,” “love,” “I feel empty,” “the city is alive.”



The city has a heartbeat, and tonight it pumped out of the speakers of Le Chat Noir.

When the sun is out, the city has a different feel. Geneva is arguably the most apt Swiss city for wandering; every street leads somewhere unexpected. Down one such street, we landed upon the Voltaire Museum! Its rooms were filled with visually compelling statues and paintings (which was the extent of what I could appreciate, since all their corresponding explanations and background stories were written in French). The greatest part of the museum was the open public library – hundreds of books, by Voltaire, about Voltaire, on philosophical subjects related to Voltaire… I flipped through the same novels as great thinkers of the past. I read pages of a book from the eighteenth century. I held history in my hands.

Along another Genevan street, I saw an old man walking; a walker aided his steps, but he didn’t once look at his feet. His eyes were crystal blue and dreamy, his feet moved slowly, and his body looked completely engaged with its surrounding environment. He was in the present moment. A middle-aged woman coming from the same direction walked right past him, obviously annoyed for the few seconds that her quick pace got halted by his slow one. Her eyes were stressed, elsewhere; they were focused on her destination and not her journey.

Over the course of this travel, I am learning that my destination is key to keep in mind, but my journey is what creates the real adventure. The few days we’ve spent journeying through Geneva have given me mountains of adventure stories.

Chateau de Chillon

This morning we said goodbye to Saint Luc. Looking out the window, the snow-covered mountains lay out of reach, replaced by a dense fog. It gave the valley an imposing atmosphere for our departure, but in its own way it was also just as beautiful. The drive out of the mountains was not enjoyable, the windy one lane mountain roads are frightening enough in good conditions, the fog made the possibility of falling to our deaths a little too realistic. A short drive away we reached the Nicolas de Stael museum. I remember thinking it was very depressing he died so young, though honestly I'm not a huge fan of "modern art." I really liked the antique cars on the bottom floor of the museum, but more than that I found the sculptures outside excellent. I thought it was really interesting how the artists used the sunlight, shade, and water to display their pieces; it gives a huge amount of depth to their art which it seemed to me the paintings inside had lacked.

After leaving the museum we set out for the Chateau de Chillon. My first impression of the Chateau was that the fog on the lake was very dramatic. It made it impossible to tell where the water ended, and the sky and the mountains began. There are some things just so beautiful you can't capture them with a camera, one of the reasons I don't have one. The other reason is it makes me feel too much like a tourist. Being the "Other" I already feel enough like an outsider. The path outside the castle where we had our presentation of Chillon was perfect; allowing us to look over the lake, into the dense fog, unable to see the other shore. The atmosphere of it all was just so intense, so thick with mystery.

I really wished I had read Lord Byron's poem before visiting Chillon. I feel like the tour would have been more impressive if I had. The castle itself however was impressive enough. It seems to rise out of the lake, right into the fog; mixing itself with the scenery behind it. I'm actually glad we got to see the Chateau de Chillon in this weather, it made for a very dark ominous feel as we walked around the high castle walls. The castle seemed to speak to us, messages of people long dead and gone.

Lord Byron's name on one of the pillars.

The tour guide tried to lighten everything up for us, talking about the parties and culture of the castle, the grandeur of the Savoy family and all that. However for me at least, it didn't matter what she said; Chillon belonged to the fog. And this had overtaken our perspective of the castle. No matter how she tried to sugarcoat Chillon, with its' grand wealth and prosperity, if I had to describe the castle in one word it would be chilling. The drive from Chillon to Lausanne was not very long. Once there we set out looking for dinner, where the stars and mountains of Saint Luc were replaced by the blinding lights of the city.

Swiss Chocolate Galore!

Today was a perfect day for the sweet tooth in me. We visited a chocolate factory in the morning and each made a chocolate tart and a bag of truffles. First, we melted chocolate chips along with butter and cream which was promptly poured into a pre-prepared crust. The chocolate masters had to help us out incessantly with the simple work and Dean Steinert Borella did not hesitate to point out those who tragically didn’t seem to have any future in chocolate making (i.e. all of us). The truffles were even messier, leading to twenty one chocolate handed monsters; quite a few of us couldn’t wait for the sink to free to wash it off so we sped up the process ourselves. It was tasty. Despite our massive chocolate challenges, every one of us ended up with a delectable chocolate tart and an irresistible bag of cocoa powdered chocolate truffles. While we sadly came nowhere near finishing the tarts we made before they had to be thrown away, we had access to chocolate galore for the rest of the trip. This was a delicious activity and I will eternally treasure the opportunity to have my hands drenched in chocolate, but the most interesting part of the morning admittedly came after this.

One of the chocolate makers delivered a short lecture on chocolate, its forms, its origins, and its history.

I have been to multiple chocolate factories before and have sat through similar lectures, but what I had never learned was the key to the connection between fine chocolate and Switzerland. Today we outsiders see that the Swiss have famous surpluses of milk products at their disposal as well as a multitude of large companies based in Switzerland. But what does Swiss chocolate really all come down to? Apparently, the Swiss chocolate makers were the inventors of powdered milk and in doing so, made milk chocolate production possible. That is why we can now say that chocolate is a key characteristic of Swiss gastronomy. Because the Swiss have the ability to apply great innovation to their work, we can thank them for a variety of specialty products, especially when it comes to milk-related foods. So, even though the cocoa bean is grown in the equatorial regions such as South America, the Swiss are famous for their fine chocolates and for that I am eternally grateful. One only has to go into a simple gas station or grocery store in order to see a full selection of fine chocolates in a mere convenience shop. That’s a lot of convenience for the chocolate lover!

Nods

Unreal. I have seen snow in the mountains, but this from a distance. Before our day in Neuchâtel, snow had always avoided me. Since I am from Northern California, I knew that I would need to seek out this weather for myself. And so, in French-speaking Switzerland, I half-expected something to happen, and it did.

At first, however, it was half-hearted to match my expectations: it was just a frozen slush form of rain. As the wind picked up, we all disappeared into our coats, and I, into some slight disenchantment. This wasn't the real way it happens.

And then we came out of Le Corbusier house--overlooking the valley below, the rooftops, trees and pathways were ice-swept. Scraped off cars, snow was thrown as I hardly kept my balance on the glassy cobblestones. There were small flurries of snow coming down, coating our hair, our jackets, and any other attempts to keep warm; although this was no dramatic show of snow, it was then something beautiful and exhilarating, and that was enough.

Collection de l'Art brut: The Artistic giant and adventures leading to its Discovery

Collection de l'Art brut

And we were lost again. Travellers in a city, searching for a museum, lost again. It seems all nice now that thinking about that point when we were lost, feeling like achievers having had an adventure but believe me that is not the same feeling you have when your lost. Especially in a new city searching for a museum. We travelled half the city by bus and the other half on foot. We explored the darkest parts of the city and enquired from almost all the population of Lausanne.

We found everything other that what we had to find – the museum. When we finally did find the museum we were an hour late. But in the end it was worth it.

Collection de l'Art brut. It was worth all the effort that went into it. Worth all the pains we took to search for it. It was one of

the best museums that I’ve ever been to. It contained few of the most creative things ever created because the creations were the true representations of the soul without any social restrictions or mental boundaries. Pure art. They were beautiful.

This form of art, namely Brut Art, got its name from the French artist Jean Dubuffet which incorporated all the art out the normal and social boundaries of art. Primarily this was meant for pieces of art created by mentally instable or even completely insane and institutionalized people but slowly it came to incorporate all those artists who were self taught and had very little or no contact with the mainstream art world. The collection included works of artists like Aata Oko, Frederick Bruly Buabre and Nek Chand.

Visiting the museum, for me particularly, was a very humbling and eye opening experience. This world of lost artist, some of them who aren't even recognized today as artists, was like a portal to a wholly new dimension where everything was decided not by the strenght of your mind but by the soaring of your thoughts. Every creation in that museum was the brain child of one person alone and it represented their struggle and success in preserving, in expressing their thoughts as their own and not letting the society or anyone else let their creation be destroyed. It, to me, portrayed the struggle of free thought against a collective understanding. The art seemed to show that if you have the strength to break the bonds and take flight, nothing can stop you from gaining freedom - freedom of imagination.

Le Corbusier's Maison Blanche

For students at Franklin, talking about travel is by no means foreign. But as students of travel writing in specific, we push ourselves to articulate our travels in more challenging and perhaps more nuanced ways. And to that end, today’s trip to the Maison Blanche helped pushed us to return to the idea of home as the antithesis of travel.

For Le Corbusier, this was not only his family home, it was where he planted the very seeds of his architectural career. For me, having traveled extensively, home has always been a rather fluid notion, and usually means no more than having a place in the local order. Le Corbusier was no doubt integrated into this house. He was building himself into this space, so there is not question of whether or where he fits in. But it should also be noted that, even as he designed this place to come home to, he designed it as a compendium of all that he had seen on his recent “reverse grand tour”. And so he brings about the question of where exactly we draw the line between home and the world beyond. And what is more, how much of our experience of our travels do we continue live with--or in, as it were--once we have returned home? Corbusier is insulated himself and his space with his experiences as a traveler, and this visual memoir served as a lens and a filter for all of his experiences as a future resident of this house.

All of this we discussed sitting in the living room of the Maison Blanche--definitive tourists, in a definitive tourist destination, and yet somehow making ourselves “at home”. This is the only home we’ve encountered on our journey so far, and Corbusier’s dozen different types of fenestration offer a unique lens through which to see our travels outside this house. We are reminded at least of what it means to not be travelers, which is important, I think, as we loose ourselves in our new experiences. We must not forget that, as traveler writers, our role is to filter our travels through the sieve of our past experiences.

Le Corbusier and some friends in his studio.

It was also exciting to be in a city Sara once called home, which offered us a rather more personal link to the city’s regular fabric. Perhaps we, as a group, do not have a particular place in this city, but Sara’s roots here mean one fewer degree of separation between our hosts and us. It seems, in this light, that making a place for one’s self is more relative than definitive. Sara is relatively more Swiss than me, and I suppose I feel relatively more Swiss as my stitches in the general Swiss fabric multiply. I also wonder if I can say I am any less tourist here than I am in Lugano, where Franklin is still what draws us in and makes us feel like we belong. And to that same end, I wonder if I can say I am leaving this place to eventually go “home” to Lugano, or will I continue to be a “traveler” when I return to my own apartment.

And finally, as a Franklin student, my own identity as a tourist is very much tied up in my idea of myself as traveler. My studies lend my travels purpose, and as I write my thesis on Corbusier specifically, I walk through this city with a feeling that I have a definitive reason to be here. In that sense, this is part of my intellectual home. I once had a travel leader who mentioned that the city were in was becoming a part of our “home equation”. As both student and tourist of Corbusier, I feel La Chaux-de-Fonds has made a definitive place for itself in my image of Switzerland, and my notion of the places I have lived and studied.

Red Cross Museum

Stepping into the courtyard of the Musée de la Croix Rouge there are two white tarps above your head. They have two signs of the Red Cross on them –one a cross and one a crescent. In front of you are faceless, nameless stone figures. They’re hooded and bound. Half of them are under the tarps and the other half…they aren’t under such protection. When it rains, when trouble comes, not all of the faceless, nameless, ethnically ambiguous people will have cover, not all of them will have protection. There is only so much good the Red Cross can do in the world, only so many they can save. (And here at the Musée de la Croix Rouge you see how it all started.)

Seeing the figures, seeing representations of people having their human rights violated, was difficult to say the least. No one, no matter their position in life should have their human rights taken away. Walking through the Red Cross and discovering the history behind the organization was uplifting; knowing that there was a person strong willed enough to start up an organization that helped everyone and anyone no matter their ethnicity or nationality was humbling. But knowing that there was/is a reason to start up an organization like that is heartbreaking.

The Red Cross started as an organization to help the wounded in wartime, to help soldiers survive. Now, as years have passed the Red Cross has grown and helps other human disasters. From earthquakes to prisoners of war, hurricanes to civil wars, the Red Cross tries to help.

Towards the end of the tour the museum has a box. It is a concrete box that is approximately 14ft by 8 ft and fits seventeen people inside of it. There is no room to sit or move, no room to breathe or to hear yourself think. Seventeen people were stuck inside of this box for too long; I stood in the box with fewer than seventeen people for less than ten minutes and I couldn’t breathe. People shouldn’t go through that. And yet they do. Everyday somebody out in the world is suffering from a having one of their human rights dishonored.

Whether your skin is light or dark, your work is honorable or dishonorable, your home is near or far; the Red Cross tries to help people. We are all citizens of the world and we all deserve to have our rights respected.

International Trade Center

During the Academic Travel of Lausanne, Geneva and the Alps, we visited the International Trade Center of Geneva. It was not that easy to understand what this organization deals with and works for but it was a honor to meet one of the responsible who could explain briefly about it. ITC is the connection between the WTO, World Trade Organization and the United Nations and deals especially with developing countries. ITC’s goal is to help and contribute with the developing of countries and to develop also humanly giving more benefits through export. There are five complementary business services that the ITC deals with and these are: business and trade policy, export strategy, strengthening trade support institutions, trade intelligence and exporter competitiveness. People working from the ITC therefore, are those who develop ways and strategies to build services involving business connecting markets and contributing with the development of countries with long-term results.

The ITC has recently worked to empower women who engage in trade. They collaborate with the WTO and the United Nations in this effort.  The ITC was able to identify and evaluate obstacles of trade that can be faced by women and possible solutions that can be found in order to improve the situations.

http://www.intracen.org/

Camilla Caccaro

Geneva: Specifically, Garet loves comics

Allow me now a brief interlude in which I will talk about comic books.

I started reading manga in middle school – I was already that kind of weird kid who didn’t exactly fit the mainstream, so it wasn’t that much of a stretch into nerdom. Manga and anime remained my main sources of entertainment for the better part of three years until I ran into the Runaways.

Runaways was my first American comic and the dysfunctional group of teens from Los Angeles – not so different from my own friends and me excepting the whole “super powers” thing – converted me to the religion of Marvel. I’ve never even thought about going back.

I have a routine back home: every Wednesday I go to Comic Odyssey for my weekly dose of heroine. New comics come out on Wednesdays and it’s a rare thing for me to miss. The boys who work at Comic Odyssey know me so well they can predict what I’m going to buy; we’ve had long debates about which superhero would win in a fight against another superhero and it often ends in a tirade from me about the Green Lantern and how irritating or useless he is. It’s a routine. It’s comfortable. I love it.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a comic book store in Switzerland?

So when Sara gave us four hours in Geneva to do whatever we wanted, Geneva found me combing the internet and then combing the streets for the only comic book store in the city: Au Paradoxe Perdu. In English, that translates to “The Lost Paradox,” which makes about as much sense as Rob Liefeld being one of the most successful comic book artists of all time (if you don’t understand that reference, please, go read this.) Au Paradoxe Perdu was this little place on the corner of a square about ten minutes from our hotel – a seriously lucky break on my end – with big windows you couldn’t see through because of the bookshelves that blocked the way, and bargain bins out front filled with direct editions and TPBs. Inside, I was at home for one of the first times since moving to Switzerland. At home in a room filled with stacks of comics, bookshelves bursting with them, action figures and figurines perched in glass cases, and nerdy t-shirts hanging from the ceiling. Best of all? These were American comics. In English. I could actually read them.

I spent the next hour and a half squeezed between bookshelves in Au Paradoxe Perdu flipping through comics and thanking God for this little moment of familiarity after months of staring at the Marvel website in envy and frustration over the books I wouldn’t be able to get my hands until Christmas.

I guess what I’m trying to say is this: while traveling for long periods of time the way the writers we’re studying traveled, a little piece of home goes a really long way. That familiarity can take a weight off your shoulders and put a bounce in your step after months of classes, struggling to communicate in a language you don’t understand, and – in one way or another – traveling.

Musee International d'horlogie: Perceptions of Time

A quick bus ride to La Chaux de Fonds brought us to a New York style city; block after block of buildings and long straight road your eyes could follow to their convergence.  Our first goal, however, was to visit the Musee international d'horlogie. Visiting this museum made me realize how much time mankind has been obsessed with measuring time (ha-ha. Get it?). But of course one can argue so many concepts of time too. Time may have a determined set constant, but it can be perceived in so many different ways. For example, why does it sometimes seem to move fast, and sometimes slow?

Time is even one of the main considerations in travel. How long will it take to reach our destination? How many days will we spend there? There is no doubt time effects the way we travel. The longer it takes to get somewhere, the more value we tend to place on the destination. The time we decide to spend at a place can change the way we travel. A short trip may lead to full days of visiting all the main attractions of a place, where long ones may allow immersion into the place, the culture, and the people.

Travel used to be something that took time. It was not just a matter of hoping aboard a plane and ending up in another part of the world. Travel used to take time, possibly days or months, and therefore time can also be seen as a privilege. It can also be seen as a hindrance or a deadline. It changes meaning and importance in different contexts. Seeing all the clocks, watches, and methods on which humans have used to tell time made me realize that although time is important, it is also deceiving. We change our actions in relation to it; we make decisions based upon it. But most importantly, we must remember that time is essentially what we make it.

The European Organization for Nuclear Research (CERN)

During our travel we had the opportunity to visit the European Organization for Nuclear Research, more commonly know as CERN. While CERN has recently become well known for its role in Angels and Demons, starring Tom Hanks, as the place where anti-matter is created, we were quickly ensured during our introduction that nothing so secretive existed in reality and we could take as many pictures as we like.

CERN has developed into a sprawling complex over its sixty year existence. Created in 1952 as the European Council for Nuclear Research, its charter was changed in 1954 to the current title and mission as the European Organization for Nuclear Research. It is the oldest center for research of nuclear and particle physics.

To accomplish their goal of discovering new fundamental particles, CERN has a series of accelerators that create and feed particles to the world's largest collider, the Large Hadron Collider (LHC).

One of the small accelerators.

Our two guides, both physicists, took quite a bit of time explaining to us that the smaller accelerators, had an important role to play in the over all functioning of CERN's LHC because they feed the slower moving particles to the larger collider where they can be accelerated to 99.9% the speed of light and collided with other particles. The larger the accelerator the more difficult it is create and maintain an environment where strong magnetic fields can be created to steer the particles around the accelerator.

Prior to installing a segment in the LHC, the section must be tested to ensure that it can withstand temperatures just above absolute zero and the vacuum the is created inside of the vessel. Without these two elements, the wiring could not conduct a current sufficient to create the necessary magnetic field.

The 2008 explosion in the LHC damaged the tube on the right, causing the paint to freeze off and the necessity of retesting the section.

A cross-section of a LHC segment. The dull and shiny portions are solid steel and the whole section weighs 30 tons.

Unfortunately, during our stay the LHC collider was shut down because of a wiring problem. Some of the smaller accelerators require 40 physicists minimum to operate properly.

Physicists' inside joke.

CERN is not just responsible for nuclear research. The drive to share information with their sister lab, Fermilab, in Illinois, as well as with physicists around the world led to one man to combine the different networking elements together and create the internet in the late 1980's. The sharing of information is and was of vital importance to the physicists at CERN and our hosts emphasized that the basic research they were conducting had spill-over effects into everyday life.

(Pictures are thanks to Jennifer Byram.)

St. Luc

Tuesday, October 12

Walking into St. Luc, my first impression was that we were staying in a ghost town. Everything was so quiet. There was this incredible bubble of silence that was interrupted only by the rushing of the river and the occasionally noisy llamas.

The mountains surrounding St. Luc made me feel like we were in a canyon of sorts. The acoustics created by the mountains gave everything an echo, even the silence. Closer to our lodge, you could hear the water cascading over rocks and moss. The town of St. Luc has maintained a quaint charm and allows its natural setting to stand out. It was truly spectacular.

On our second day, we went on a day hike (with llamas). The boys were sent to gather the llamas and we were on our way. Though I am not a big hiker, climbing up to Hotel Weisshorn was an incredible experience. The trail was overgrown with trees and as we neared the top, they tapered of to create an opening. When I could finally see the hotel, I immediately expected Jack Nicholson to run out with his axe.
The top of the mountain was cold but remarkable. I felt like I could really breathe, the air was so clean and pure. As I stretched out my legs, knowing they'd be sore in the morning, I decided that the people who climb this mountain just to stay at the Hotel Weisshorn must be crazy. Either that or they never go into town.

The silence up at the top of the mountain was deafening and almost eerie. Even the wind was noiseless. Though unnerving, the silence gave me a sense of safety. I felt an innate calm surrounding me, making me still and enabling me to find my own inner silence. It is a feeling I will always remember.

Writing Workshop

Anne Deriaz workshop

· Pollen: dust, yellow, sneeze, pine trees, clouds, dry, flowers, ragweed, goldenrod, crayon, bees, honey, honeycomb, hexagon, tile, tangrams, letter E, physics, electron, yellow, positive

· Crayon: hamfisted child, fist, grab, cheerios balloon man, Crayola 64 assortment, sharpener oven drawer, remnants, scribbles, brown, paper, walls, fingernails, carving, paperclip, melting, straight

· Rival: laugh, superiority, challenge, race, perfection, apples/oranges, competition, arrogance, humility, shame, smug, accomplishment, failure, restart, new game, continual.

Pollen. Ha ha! I like that word and got everyone to use it! Score 20 points! But I’ll never use up 67 words. I guess I’ll just have to wing it.

I remember the shudder of pine trees and the clouds of yellow hanging dry in the air, coating cars and fogging windows. Pollen made me love the rain, wandering through the summer to wash out the air and wash off the doorknobs. It made me at age five run in terror from my brother wielding a goldenrod crayon. My allergies were from ragweed, but who knew in kindergarten? You could never be too careful when an invisible speck would choke your throat and suck up your air. A tiny monster living inside your lungs.

We had so many crayons; a box larger than my shoes filled to the top. I could hardly lift it. There was the standard 64 assortment from Crayola, but also any we could get our hands on. Professional ones that were smooth and creamy with expense, crumbly 4-paks from restaurants, all were mixed together. We wore them down to nubs we could barely pinch in our clumsy, delicate hands. Mom would pile the remnants together and melt them in the oven.

I learned that there is not one yellow, or one blue; a spectrum in each stripe of the rainbow. I also learned I wanted very specific colors. No I would not use a brick red for a fire truck. That was not a true red any more than indigo was. Skintones were next to impossible. Sandstone, peach, sienna brown, nothing was right.

Rachel Skorupka

Chandolin and St. Luc (Ella Maillart)

Monday, October 11th

This morning, a group of us Franklin students departed campus for the first phase of our fall Academic Travel. Our destination was St. Luc, a small village high up in the Alps (in the canton of Vaud). Our bus driver, Michaele, is nothing short of a genius. It's not your everyday person that can maneuver a gargantuan tour bus along the perilous, winding, sharp turns through the mountains that lead up to these villages. Once we arrived however, the journey was well worth the stomach-churning; the view was nothing short of spectacular, and the air was so incredibly crisp and clean. After a short hike, we arrived at one of our main destinations for the day - the museum of Ella Maillart in Chandolin.

Maillart was one of the most famous Swiss travel writers of her time. I had chosen to do a presentation on her life and works, (the "academic" in academic travel) I think because I so strongly identified with her: she was independent, adventurous, strong willed, and speculative. She continually sought self-enlightenment and education through her travels in an extremely objective manner. She believed that to get the most out of travel, one had to specifically seek to live in that moment, in that culture, by the standards at hand. She wanted to learn from these cultures, and give what she could in return. She was everything I ever dreamed I could be, and had done and discovered many of the things that I hope my travels and my experience at Franklin will bring me. Unfortunately, she is no longer alive. However a mere five meteres from the museum is the house of Anne Deriaz, another Swiss travel writer, who took care of Maillart during her last years.

Anne's small chalet, overlooking the alps and the slopes of the valley between, stood out from all the rest. Strings of multicolored Tibetan flags adorned the porch, waving breezily over the plates of biscuits and steaming jugs of tea that awaited us. Professor Steinert-Borella (Sara, as we call her) had actually interviewed Maillart before her death and established a friendship with Anne Deriaz, which was the reason twenty-one college students were being invited to tea in a small chalet. Anne was so gracious, and as I sat inside her home, I was enchanted by what I saw: the small collection of books from a variety of countries (including a few in Chinese, which I was impressed by), as well as furnishings which had obviously been collected with care during her various travels, and the pure simplicity of her lifestyle. Everywhere I looked, a part of every country and culture that Anne had visited characterized her home; it was as if all these parts had come together to make her who she was, they had built her, and her home.

After this, we descended on foot to where we would be staying the night. As we passed through the physical village of St. Luc, I couldn’t help but notice the similarities between all the chalets. They all had intricate patterns carved into the porches and on the shutters, and they all had bursts of red flowers hanging from the porch. The wood paneling on the majority of the houses were varying shades of deep browns; you could tell how old each house was by how dark and worn it was. Another thing that set the chalets apart was that each had its own name; in these traditional villages, they do not use house numbers. After asking a few people, I gathered that the Swiss do this to personalize their homes, to make the home a very real part of their lives. Anne, for example, told me that when she moved into her home she changed the name to something that felt right to her, that had meaning. And of course, with villages this small, there is no need for a numbering system for homes; this is just one of the many cultural differences between the U.S. and Switzerland. I also noticed how the year the chalet was built was carved onto the facade; my conclusion here is that the Swiss value their buildings and the history that goes along with it, unlike in America where buildings are torn down and built back up again constantly. All of these little details have a meaning behind them, a clue, if you will, to the essence of Swiss culture.

After passing through the town, we reached the Gîte du Prilett. I suppose it was more of a skiing lodge, a chalet of sorts. It didn't seem like much from the outside, but from within, I found that it had so much more to offer. I was put into a dorm style room of ten girls, which I was quite skeptical about, especially considering that there was only one toilet and one shower. But the beds were clean and warm, and the dinner was absolutely fantastic. It had a distinct home-like quality about it, from the way the owners treated us to the way they cooked for us. I felt very comfortable and very content.