My adventures continue! After getting a seal of approval for my aesthetic taste and design competence (at least regarding 3D collages), I trained into Zurich to meet Thomas. Or at least, that’s what I thought. Before Thomas arrived, I was surrounded by a wizard named Retros the Magic Stick and his beer-weilding compatriots. It was a bachelor party, and apparently it is traditional for the groom-to-be to be suitably embarrassed in public. And a wizard who has had too much beer to entertain an 8-year-old with magic certainly is embarrassing!

After four hours with no Thomas, and cursing myself for not having a back-up plan, I found some free wi-fi and discovered that I was 24 hours early (or 20 at that point). So I went to Bottighofen, found my little room above the campsite store, and returned the next day to the airport. With my toes on the line that said “go no further.” Standing at the first place Thomas would emerge to my sight, where I could behold and hold him for the first time in half a year. Half a year? No, the intervening time melted away when he walked through the customs door. No more counting weeks, my heart is happy.

After the first night, we stayed with Melanie and her husband Stefan. They used to live and work in the city of Konstanz, on the German side, but the city was too loud and busy. Now they have a new apartment in Bottighofen, only a ten-minute commute for Melanie and a 30-45 minute walk for Thomas and I. Which is simply lovely, since there is a path along the banks of Lake Constance, with beer gardens and theaters all open to the sky. As Stefan says, they all live outside during the long summer — at least when it’s not raining. For us, the rain (tagging along unseasonably) brought other things of interest: one day, slugs; the next, snails; the next, frogs. With no overlap between them.

The border between Switzerland and Germany, along our path, was marked by a signpost and a bundle of security cameras. This was so subtle, overpowered as it was by breezy trees and modern art pieces, that it took us a few days to notice it. Thing I did not know: Switzerland is not part of the EU. Not that it mattered, since we spent most of our time in Konstanz, with its delicious German bread, shady waterside parks, and the romantic Münster cathedral (unfortunately echoing with the screams of school children).

Melanie and Stefan were swamped with work, it being near the beginning of summer holidays and all, so we only saw them in the evenings for tea and coffee, sometimes for wine and dinner. Fortunately, Melanie did get an afternoon off to take us to Stein am Rhein — a quaint little town on the Rhine, all sunny and decorated with the ever-popular St. George and his dragon. We walked along the jaunty river with our gelato (or sorbet, as the vegan case may be), feeling the sun bounce off the water and pour through the trees. We explored the local old monastery, with its medieval wine press, and then set off up the wooded mountain to Hohenklingen castle to look over the whole thing. On the way back home we watched the beginning of the sunset at Napoleon III’s summer house, and Melanie dropped us off at her favorite pub for dinner.

Thomas and I did a day trip on our own, too, taking a ferry to Meersburg across the lake. Looking for the castle, we managed to stumble awkwardly in — and quickly out of — a boarding school (which admittedly looked a bit like a palace), and also a tiny museum we thought was the castle museum — at least they had some cool wood inlays on the doors and floors. The signs kept pointing us this way and that, and enclosed in the tourist labyrinth of very-German buildings and little streets, we were blind as bats. And we kept finding more interesting things besides, like an ornately decorated church and the awesome Zeppelin Museum — if only we spoke German, the lady who ran the place sounded like she’d talk our ears off about zeppelins! Finally, finally, we found the castle, lost in plain sight. I don’t know if zeppelins or giant medieval swords are cooler, but as luck would have it, you don’t have to play favorites in Meersburg.

As wonderful as Lake Constance is, as much as Germany tugs at me to stay, we had to move on to our next adventure. The European rail system is so timely and easy to use, it has gone quite far in relieving my travel anxiety. I still like to get moving early, but I don’t fret quite so much — and the arriving early gave me a chance to show Thomas a bit of Zurich before zipping off to Belgium. There is another thing that has helped me control OCD-induced stress and enjoy the moment, a piece of advice given by Dr. Ellen Langer on Fitness Rocks: “Notice new things.” In the simple attempt to notice things, I start embracing each little bit of experience as it comes, living in the now — a feat unattainable when I just told myself baldly to “live in the now.”

Unfortunately, my lack of freakish concern for things going horribly wrong led me to pick a train that went through France instead of Germany… and Thomas had a rail pass that covered Germany and not France. The French ticket-checker had no sympathy and chucked him out the window — “No ticket.”

I’m kidding. He did have to pay a 60 euro fee, though, which more than made up for the savings of the Eurail pass. I felt horribly guilty for the rest of the 8-hour train ride, only distracted by conversation with the two young women sitting across from us. They had spent the weekend hiking in Switzerland, and were returning home to Holland — one was a primary-school teacher who had done her training in Tanzania, and the other was a nurse who was taking classes to teach kindergarten. They were very friendly, sharing their water and sudoku, and finally helping us find the connecting train to Dendermonde. It was only unfortunate that in the rush to get on said train, we didn’t have a chance to swap information. I made up a whole bunch of nice meishi, and for what?

Anyway, we made it safe and sound to the little town of Hamme, where lives the family of Fred, a backpacker my dad picked up years ago on cross-country road trip. Fred is liberal and engaging, and Thomas and I were soon learning all about Belgium politics. The French and the Flemmish side are practically two separate countries, and now they might seriously split in twain. They were without a government for almost a year, and when the Prime Minister tried to give up on the whole mess, the German king of Belgium told him to stay put. What is so interesting is that all this turmoil is happening without any violence whatsoever — it’s all debated in pubs over large glasses of strong beer.

Fred’s wife, Annick, was simply wonderful. She is a vegetarian, an herbalist, and a fan of organic food, and she made sure I was a well-fed vegan — she introduced me properly to tofu and seitan (greetings, friends!), and kept me well-stocked with hummus and Fred’s home-made muesli. I met my first vegan since becoming vegan, the owner a local organic food store — we conspired to send Thomas off to a vegan re-education camp spa. Fred and Annick’s children were great, too, Zena and Jona helping us read their comics (Belgium is the land of comics) as they ate their raw tofu and veggies (they didn’t like them cooked or dressed).

We went for a bike ride together soon after arriving, one-speeds on the perpetually flat Belgium countryside. I managed to catch my bag on the handlebars, falling over and making a gooey mess of my knee, but it was not far to a local pub (what am I saying? you are never far from a local pub!) where I discovered the first form of alcohol I kind of like: Lindemans Framboise, a sweet 5-proof strawberry soda. I much preferred my other drink discovery, on a rainy day in homey pub: flavorful red rosehip tea.

We stayed with Fred’s sister, Annie, and her husband, Mark. Annie was bowled me over with her bubbly exuberance, always so happy and excited like a puppy… even when expounding how she was so shy and quiet nowadays. She claims to have learned to live like a monk thanks to practically silent Mark — except he actually is as quiet as she is lively. He took us to Antwerp one day, and we spent hours in the cathedral and the Rubens’ House. It was lovely, but we hardly got a peep out of him the whole time! They we wonderful hosts, even if their house did smell like cigarettes, and even if Annie was the only one around who didn’t understand veganism. (Is there a gracious way to be a vegan houseguest? I helped out or made do where possible, but it’s hard to get out of “being difficult” or impolite when refusing food someone else has made for you. I may be thinking of the ones who suffered and died to contribute to the meal, but it’s the very living and very frustrated friends and family I have deal with at the dinner table.)

On our own we went to Ghent. There was a big festival going on, the whole place had a carnival atmosphere, with people walking from booth to booth, eating pommes frites and ice cream. There were street musicians playing hangs and Stroh violins, creepy giant Dark Crystal-type creatures selling shoes, an organ concert inside one of the churches, and a flea market. It had the summery feel of the Fourth of July, and a welcome change to almost claustrophobic feeling of Hamme with its grey skies and repetitive brick architecture. In the end, I was ready to leave… even if Belgium does have the cheapest chocolate in the EU.

I found myself missing Japan at some point, a sweet nostalgia that shows up every once and again, like a faint smell of something no longer in the room. I wonder what these memories will feel like years from now… what will the nostalgia taste like with age?

Ah, my last day in Milan. I suppose you want to here about my two weeks, eh? I will skip the parts about the top-floor apartment where I retreated every night, mostly left to my own devices by my two shopping roomies (they’re in Fashion Marketing, but academics probably has nothing to do with it), reading and bumping my head on the slanted ceilings and debating with myself as to high to turn up the air-conditioning. Yes, that part has already been over-stated.

I am one of only two Americans in my Product Design class, with the rest from Thailand, Mexico, Turkey, Poland… all over. There’s a girl from Amsterdam who sits next to me — a model — who can pick food out of her teeth and look good doing it. She’s actually quite like me, interested in natural food stores and sustainable living, and disinterested in mindless shopping and late-night clubbing. Then there’s this kid from Bulgaria, just seventeen. He dresses quite sharp — or I should say, he dresses like his dad probably dresses to go to work. He’s so inquisitive, asking all these questions. “You’re a vegan and a feminist?” “You have your license — do you drive a hybrid, then?” “Sorry I’m asking so many questions, but what do you think about smoking?” Then he mumbles something about “all men should be equal,” and clams up when I try to delve. I ask him about himself and suddenly he’s looking away and practically blushing. Is he trying to judge me? Or size me up as his future wife? Curious little bugger (though I’m sure he’d resent me calling him that).

The class itself is far from academic. There are no exams or grades, simply lectures to attend, a strange collage project, and field trips to design shops and studios. The best part by far was the brief time we spent at Cibic & Partners. Apparently the rest of the class was falling asleep, but I was all ears: the Partner presented a series of urban planning projects reminiscent of Christopher Alexander, and I’m sure he’ll remember me for asking about A Pattern Language. He seemed as excited about his work as I was, and eager for the CV’s of interested students (the more diverse the background, the better). Alas! Their office is in Milan, and I do not think I like Milan much. It is, after all, a city.

But special. Imagine that all the overweight people you see on American streets were replaced with models. That’s what it seems like, walking around Milan. It’s clean and neat (my Swiss tutor may disagree with me here), with a completely consistent character from end to end. Seriously, you won’t miss much if you only see four blocks. It’s one giant upscale shopping mall. There’s at least a fifty percent chance that any store you walk into will be full of designer clothes, and the rest (if they aren’t full of designer stuff instead) are cafe-bars and gelato stands. Yes, the very same fashionable, thin, serious individuals are consuming pasta, pizza, and ice cream with much trendy gusto.

More edible oddness: I was eating string beans for lunch, and a young man — wearing an afro (italifro?) and something approximating a basketball jersey — was eating pizza a little way off. Presently he stood in my periphery, at an angle indicating he wanted to ask me something. “Are you eating those for lunch?” “Yes…” (no, I’m mixing them with my saliva to create a green dye for my latest art project.) “I like to do that too! Fruits and vegetables. But my friends think I’m crazy.” “Really? But they’re so good for you! Well, tell them you’ll live to be one hundred years old.” I was listening to Fitness Rocks at the time. “Thank you. I will tell them I saw you.” Great; I’m the Vegetable Buddha, bringing fresh produce to the carb-loving Italian masses.

The project part of the class consisted of first “drawing” a camera, without pencils or pens. Instead we engaged in three-dimensional collage, armed with scissors, fixatives, and piles of magazines, newspapers, fabric scraps, and dried spaghetti. What emerged from this mess (after much misunderstanding as to how abstract our teacher didn’t want the cameras) then became the starting point for our own “products.” We re-created all the components, thought of something new to make with them, and then re-created the components again in order to put together our final… things. Bikes, dresses, lamps, and my own little clock. Talk about it and get a diploma! Just don’t ask for my work, as there was no way transport anything more than photographs.

If I had come across a continent and an ocean for this class alone, I think I would be disappointed. A chance for some mindless creativity, really. But the people I’ve met, and the vision of awesome I got at Cibic, have made the experience worth more than just a pastime. Pretty soon I’ll have enough new contacts in Europe to justify a return trip… just not to Milan!