Waiting …

Around 1815, back in Geneva airport, waiting to board the last flight back to Berlin, the easyJet person already at the desk, and the both of us slightly dazed from lack of sleep, and the last week, very much looking forward to being home and in bed by 10pm, when we look again, the flight has vanished and so has the easyJet person. Then we discover our flight has been delayed till 23h. Getting back to the checkin area was horrible; Geneva airport is thoroughly designed for one-way traffic, and there are either dead-ends, locked gates, or lack of signs if you wish to retrace your steps.

Back at the post-checkin info desk and no one knows anything. No announcements made, and much sitting falling asleep uncomfortably. The airport is also not designed with long transfers or delays in mind. An hour or so later, with no explanation as to why we are sitting in one city when we should be nearing another, we get a 15,€- food voucher, approximately the minimum legally required and in this airport purchases sod-all – and this from the info desk and not an easyJet person.

Oh-so-much-longer later, we get on board our delayed flight, itself delayed, and with complete lack of explanation from the pilot, and not even a apologetic hot drink, head Berlin-wards. And getting to the city from Schönefeld at 1am is of course the last cruel joke of former communist Berlin, so we roll into bed at 230am, almost twenty-two hours travelling from Cala Santanyí to Wedding.

Today we got an email from easyJet apologising and saying there was technical problems with the aircraft and hoping the events of yesterday wouldn’t discourage us from flying with them again. Well, no; they are the only cheap way to get to a lot of places, and mostly pretty good, and aircraft are complex things which don’t take well to not working. It’s just they handled the whole thing very shoddily, with rubbish poor communication so in return, I get to blog about it over a late breakfast.



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.)

xyz meduse à trois & miscellaneous new things…


We had our first proper meeting for a performance named by Dasniya, xyz meduse à trois this evening, the three of us (Hartmut also) eating Tim Tams and talking through what’s possible and various logistics for the piece that’s being produced by and performed at Gassensensationen Internationales Straßentheaterfestival Heppenheim in early July. Along with the travelling for that, Dasniya and I also sod off to Majorca next week for the beginnings of a piece with Le collectif de la Dernière Tangente from Geneva. And other most excellent things about which I shall remain schtum for the moment.