A not-too early flight from the stupidest airport in the world besides Heathrow: Flughafen Schönefeld. Dasniya and I packed till late on Monday, so not-too early nonetheless meant barely five hours sleep. Still, a taxi to the airport (definitely not as fast as the train) kept stupidity to a minimum (somehow getting half-way to the plane before someone realised Dasniya was trying to board with a pass from the last time she went to Geneva not included), and getting on easyJet with 23kg of checkin junk thanks to a very nice woman relieved us of the near-expected suitcase-contents-shuffle.
Sleep. Apparently with my mouth open. And, Geneva! The last time I was over this side of Switzerland was late-summer, 2005, staying in Vevey with Victoria, and hanging out with Roland and the other dancers there. We didn’t even touch Geneva proper, driving instead along the coast Lausanne-wards to a town called Nyon. “Lyon?” says I, “No, Nnneee-on,” says Dasniya.
Bernard picks us up, and we drive to his wonderful studio, a babbling stream below the windows, trees everywhere, and the A-line factory roof letting in light everywhere. Eric is already there, the musician from Lyon. Lunch and going through the old town, set on a hill with a castle (of course), and the huge sky, lake, mountains (Mount Blanc somewhere there in the haze), vineyards, like a deranged circle of excess landscape and scenery. Just like Vevey, really, and also the unique and specific Suisse opulence. Money. Money everywhere until it’s normal, just like in Berlin the lack of is normal and life adapts to both.
Dasniya and Bernard try out some tying things with slings we pick up from a sail-maker’s workshop, me filming and photographing, the sun setting over the rail-lines. Then dinner, eating and drinking, of course plenty of Suisse chocolate (Belgian is better, harhar – though in truth they are not so much to be compared; the milk giving a unique taste and feel to cheese and chocolate).
Packing, Un-, re-, and, well there isn’t really an english word like there is in german for ‘moving-around-packing’, like you can make by prefixing um- to a word, so umpacking it is (unless of course I’ve forgotten the english word). We have to be up and breakfasting at 4am for a 0645 flight to Paloma. I make some yoga, which now has become a mix of my old Melbourne teacher, Dasniya, Isabelle (no, she didn’t do yoga, but I’ve adapted it), Pilates, my own sacro-psoas inventions … returning to proper sun salutes recently because I want to build some upper-body strength (I still delude myself that one day I’ll bash out a proper press-up), Then to bed, where I have horrible dreams my teeth are loose and spongy and falling like rubble out of my gums while I wait for a bus.
An aside here, or addendum, coda, to the teeth: We have no internet in the house in Majorca, so I write this approximately on the day of the events, and have / will blog once internet is reattained. To be honest, not having internet is deliciously pleasurable.)