September 11 - Before the Hour of Nine: Donald

Just as we found our platform in the Geneva train station, and sat down to rest our weary backs finally freed from the heavy burden of our backpacks, we were set upon by Donald.

Obviously hearing our English, Donald, a short, goateed Scotsman sidled over and asked us where we were headed. We told him, and in response he not only told us where he was going, but also his PhD thesis, his opinions on Swiss philosophers, and what he thought of our North American mannerisms.

It is impossible to say if we could have met a more ideal stereotype of the pretentious backpacker. He threw out names like Camus and Rousseau with a calculated air of non-chalence, either with the intent to intimidate us, or better still, with the assumption that all people are familiar with eminent Swiss philosophers. I rule out the option that this was a screening device to let him know if we were interesting enough to talk to, because I truly believe he would have chatted AT us no matter what.

At the point where he began to pronounce place names in their langue maternelle - so Roma for Rome, and Geneve for Geneva - I tuned out. I re-inserted myself in the conversation only after he had the gall to ask Nina if she spoke Italian in Italian. She misunderstood the question and I answered for her.

Small blessing: we had to part ways, he to Lugano, us to Milan. He left us with a handshake, three kisses (as they do in Geneve, of course), and the pungent aftertaste of his cologne in our mouths.

Good Luck Donald wherever you are, may our paths never cross again.