somewhere between reality and the mystics.

À la vie is said as a toast, it means to life and that is something I will raise a glass to.Life, that serendipitous dance partner I often tango with spun and held me once again. Although many nights were spent in our tiny pub that's usually filled with expats and cigarette smoke tonight the stars had a far more interesting evening for Heidi LeeAnn, and I think if I were listening I could of heard them giggling at my predicament. Now to preface this tale of twisted fate I must remind you that most nights spent here are remembered in a foggy blur some where between reality and the mystics, a dream within a dream. The aggressive encounters or tiny interactions that seem to only make for memorable stories all presented themselves in that same tiny bar over my pint of 1664. Luckily my leather jacket provided just enough confidence to make these reunions pleasant and silly instead of heavy in the bag of awkward I usually carry with me. " Heidi!, Heidi!" I hear barking behind me "Caitlin is someone calling my name?" She says no but her eyes read that I simply don't want to respond to the person requesting my attention. I turn around and find a familiar Italian that we will refer to as "the catalyst". At this very bar close to where I am standing now about a month ago him and his francophone friend bought Caitlin and I drinks. Telling us it was "the new in thing" he had the bartender put a tequila shot in all of our beers, being a classic girl, I declined the offer that sadly Caitlin was not to aware of. After one sip and a sour face she offers this 13 dollar drink to the dapper man standing next to her, Raphael. They hit it off and we spent the whole night dancing and ditched our above mentioned "spring board" for new Swiss friends. Since their relationship has blossomed into something rather nice we should be thanking the guy I am turning around to, but instead smile and act like its a reunion of old friends. A bit later whilee ordering a drink I realize that I have been spotted. Shit, I mumble and hide my face with my hair but I know its to late, the Irish ginger I talked to for entirely to long last weekend remembers the American girl he tried to teach a jig too. For almost the entire evening I master the art of avoidance. During one of my many dodging secessions a beautiful Swiss girl taps me on the shoulder, what now'I wonder, but her news is pleasant and welcomed. "My friend thinks you are very pretty, but is too shy to say it so, now I say for him, you should talk, yes?" Alex from Zurich, I've met him before and will probably always recognize that tousled hair. Very early in the trip when we were only three students from MSU Caitlin took notice to him just as he was leaving our infamous pub. In a mood far unlike me I pull Caitlin along onto the stoop and stare at him, shamelessly with no real plan of what will happen next. But it works. We talk outside about his grad school program and our livings in Geneva but only for a few minutes and then he troops off into the night, assuming to never be seen again, assuming. That is until we laugh and talk until last call, all the while the Swiss girls gives me thumbs up from across the table, proud of her match making. "I hope to see you again" he tells me after the customary alternating cheek kisses. "Of course" I tell him remembering the phone number I acquired from the first meeting in early September. As I wait out side for Caitlin to ditch the abrasive Canadians shes been defending America to, a certain drunken Irish man comes barrelling out of the bar full speed, directly at me. " You!!" he yells far too loud with a thick accent. If he wasn't such a short man I may have been nervous, but with a face as red as his hair it was really just humorous. He invites me dancing but I decline. "Always leaving me this one is." he tells the people trailing out of the bar. Caitlin being one of them, links arms with me and pull me away and off down the cobble stoned hill, away from all these unlikely characters. Part of me wonders still if they ever existed at all.

She went to see a Mystic who made medicine from rain. And gave up her existence to feel everything, dream others' dreams. Bid farewell to her family with one ecstatic wave (Please take care I love you all) Out the window as the car rolled away. She just vanished into a thick mist of change.

my beautiful picture

Food itself has a beautiful culture. Regardless of location the special attention paid to cuisine is a savory blend of geography and personal taste- something I have always been quite fond of. The complexity of food runs much deeper than the end result of dinner, and I believe it is the journey to that place that I am madly in love with. It starts with Saturdays farmers market, that lies on the french side of the Swiss border. I'm not sure why but I decided a while ago that once I arrive here I only speak french, and its a fun game I play with the adorable scruffy bearded farmers. I usually resort to that quite mademoiselle who over thanks and smiles alot but hey is that person really so bad? I don't think so, in fact a quite enjoy her.These short yet invigorating interactions always make my heart race and make something as small as buying cheese a challenge. The dairy farmer with clean but worked hands slices samples for me to try and then chuckles at my reactions to the flavor that I have personally deemed "elephant". I suppose this is a fun game for him as well. As recommended, I ask for the fromage du cumin,(great choice belinda) and I can tell my selection makes him think twice about this silly American with little taste for bleu cheese. The game continues, he asks how much I would like and although I hear others responding with weights and amounts I'm only quipped with "en pue"... (a little). he nods and asks in English if the amount he has chosen will do and I persevere with my Français and tell him it's perfect "Parfait!". This continues with each stand yet each exchange is a touch different depending on the character. My favorite fruit seller sing-speaks about fruit and calls me Bella which is unnecessary really because he had me at pamplemousse. The conversation starts after my attempted french leads him wondering what my native tongue really is. "Deutsche?" he asks, "Non" I respond. Espagnol? Anglais?. I laugh and he realizes I'm not giving up on this one so he slowly continues in french and he keeps asking me to talk louder although I think he can hear me, hes trying to get me to raise my confidence and my voice together. It kind of works. As I'm walking away with my apples he asks "Estate- Unis?" (United states?). "Qui" I tell him, while he mock cheers himself for the obvious. With produce in bags strung over my shoulder I head to the grocery store where products like crepe batter, pre-made duck confit, jars of bechemele sauce and croissant dough are readily available. Meal creation becomes a gourmet mental party. Unintentionally I wow my peers with the elaborate dinners I create that put that their grilled cheese to shame. I cook because I love it , its my art. Getting the timing right and finding complementary flavors is putting a puzzle together to make a beautiful picture, my beautiful picture. Dinner is one place I realize that I am the oldest person on this trip. There is a certain level of maturity and independence that differentiates between eating to sustain and eating for the beauty of it all. It is here that life reminds my soul how old it is. Bon appetit mon ame.

with green eyes as round as her cheeks

"Chocolate how could you? I thought we were friends,” I ask while holding my stomach. The trip to the Cailler Chocolate factory left me delusionally speaking to candy. I'm not sure how it all happened to be honest, like a car crash I found myself dazed, with time lapse and confusion of events. Near the end of the tour we followed our noses to the sampling center, which I assumed would mean a few pieces of chocolate an maybe a glass of water, boy was I wrong. The display of several trays filled a twenty-foot stretch with every type of chocolate bar, log and truffle they craft. I went Augustice Gloop on that room and tried every different type. The hazelnut cream and coco Noir truffles covered my hands and filled my mouth with what started as enjoyment and ended as endurance. The further we went down the line the more decadent and rich the pieces became. What started as a simple bar ended with a work of art that unfortunately I can't even say I enjoyed all to much. The remainder of the tour I kept my head down trying not look at the rivers of even more chocolate to keep from making a waterfall of my own. Bear with me now, I know I’ve made better choices than that one. What came over me? Lord only knows. A little girl with green eyes as round as her cheeks leapt forward and with disregard to her consequences said, "I want it all!" and proceeded to have just that. This was of course the second leg of out Tour du rich foods. Earlier that afternoon was spent in Gruyerè, the tiny little Alpine Village that claims the rights to any cheese bearing its name. With cowbells chiming against a picturesque backdrop we hiked back to the town after missing our stop on the train. Parts of me still wonder if that tiny train actually existed. Up the huge hill we hiked while I told my new friends from Ohio the story of Heidi. Well, I told them my version of it which adds comments like "...and with the charm that all Heidi's are born with she totally won grandfather over." or " oh and then her aunt forced her into indentured servitude, yea her aunt was kind of a bitch". My comedic version of the Swiss tale made the 100 steps to the top go by quickly and if it wasn't for the up hill climb than I would know it was the view that took my breath away. For the first time after almost two months I was in the Switzerland I had grown up picturing, one with mountains that peeked above the clouds and houses that resembled cuckoo clocks. With cows an arm reach away we ate lunch at La Maison du Gruyerè (the house of Gruyerè) and it was there that I ate my first Fondue within Swiss boarders. The server gave us lessons on the importance of swirling the bread to make sure that lunch was remembered as an experience. She was a solid women with her hair in a tight bun and varicose veins that showed through her stockings, the type of women you would find in a school cafeteria only with a more jovial attitude. She urged on my nervous French and applauded her self for actually understanding me. It was this delicious cheese that later churned in my stomach and added to my above mentioned over consumption. Some how after all this we raced back to make the train in time to head home for Geneva. Finding the first train that said Geneva on it we quickly realized that we were in fact stowaways aboard a high speed train returning from Milan. "How European" I thought to myself and continued my pleas with chocolate to end its recent vendetta.

I never got that picture I wanted

I find myself saying more often than not "This is absolutely perfect". The "this" I refer to always changes but the of happiness remains the same. "You look healthy" bell tells me in a poor connected skype conversation. I feel healthy. The happiness I carry with me is pure gold, not muddled with pain or dirt. For those feelings, as my last post reveals have there own time and wont spoill my batch of bliss. Part of the contentment I have begun to embody comes with the reinventing of Heidi. Where I decide what is acceptable and what is not. Where I choose what effects me and what I must let go of. Smoking cigarettes no longer fit with who I've become, so I simply ended that unhealthy relationship,...along with some others that I've been dragging with me for far to long. I've set all that luggage down and decided to leave it there, have it be tobacco or silly boys that hurt my feelings, my dependence on them no longer runs me. When it spears its ugly head and reminds me of what once was, I recognise it for what it is and simply allow it to pass, "goodbye" I say " I have no use for you now." Switzerland has taught me that there is far to much beauty in the world for it not to fill you to the brim with happiness. Yesterday, Caitlin and I took a cable car to the top of a mountain, facing one way you overlooked Geneva turned around and the Alps took your breath away. "This is an image I want forever burned into my head." I mutter to Caitlin who like me until that moment is speechless. Whats funny is how much to literally I would get just that . As we hiked a path atop Mt. Saleve we came across an opening that revealed the Alps more than other areas had. As we approached I hustled for my camera but was stopped by a fence roping off several horses. In an attempt at getting the perfect photo I grabbed the fence to climb under it. It was then that a jolt of electricity raced into my arm through my body and out the opposite foot. For a second my hand was glued to the fence until I forced it off with a gasp. Besides from a racing pulse and a strange tingling I was fine. I never got that picture I wanted, but i think I will remember it forever. On the walk back to the viewpoint I regained my stability and even laughed a bit at the irony of the situation. The air was so clean and cool it made each breath a treat. I hadn't noticed before but for the first time I realized the vice that had held my lungs tight had shattered away and the feeling of a full deep breath filled my being. It was the physical manifestation of empowerment, and it suits me well.