I am currently in the Geneva airport, waiting for my next form of transportation: A shuttle bus to Chamonix, Adventure Capital of Europe. Adventure? What does that mean? Well, when it’s put into phrases like the declarative one above, it’s a euphemism for “Outdoor Activities”. Not the ones where you wear open-toed sandals and drink rosé while diabetic-in-a-candy-store-eyeing EuroBoys (kidding, BF!) but the ones where you burn calories and carry a backpack and trekking poles. I own trekking poles. Let’s rewind.
When you turn 30, or maybe just when you’ve spent the wrong side of time watching people of all nationalities, cultures, races, and religions get fucked up beyond oblivion in achingly gorgeous places, drown in cell phone screens in front of classic artworks, and generally travel from place to place to stay in cities that are the same as the ones they left behind, you start to feel a certain sadness when you travel. French people in New York ordering French wine, McDonald’s burgers and WiFi in, well, everywhere, sitting in Boquete, Panama, watching Danish backpackers Skype their friends back home while smoking on Danish cookies and then yelling at Panamanians in English, I got so depressed with the whole thing I up and became a teacher.
Next time I feel morose, I’ll obviously just pop a Xanax instead of getting a shit career, but the point is that I can’t quite get wet for this sort of drink, dance, dalliance cue the global DJ type of travel anymore. I wanted to convene with nature, have a sense of accomplishment, and, most of all, never see anything related to Jäger again.
And thus I have decided, in quippy Millenial fashion, to do a “Dirty Thirty: Thirty Days”, which is not a proclamation of a slutty sex binge but rather an eminently hashtaggable way of saying I’m going on vacation for a month (#DTTD, or #vacation, for the purists among you). After an extended layover in Paris, or rather a CDG hotel, I’m now in Switzerland. The hills will be alive but for an hour, at which point I head off to Chamonix, France, where I’m going to hike the Tour du Mont Blanc. 11 days of self-supported hiking and camping around a big-ass mountain. I’ll follow this up with more camping on the Italian west coast, then head to a small town just outside the birthplace of the Rennaissance, and end my trip with a few days in the Italian capital. It’s a city, yes, but all roads lead to Rome, and who am I to change history?