My concept of time is completely whack. Losing a whole day to flight and changing time zones by 8 hours is something I've never had to deal with. So when Sunday came along it was a surprise to me. (I don't even ask what day it is... it just seems irrelevant to what we're doing here)
We hit up an LDS branch in a little town on the coast of Lake Geneva. Really cool coastal-feeling town. The lake was clean, like everything else in this country. Can't say enough about that. Anyway, hit the branch, got sunday school lessoning from an old Welsh dude. It's good to hear a stranger speak English voluntarily, without me having to beg them. (so far it feels like EVERYONE speaks English, but just doesn't jump at the chance to help a snotty, fat, egotistical American). After church, we hit a museum in Martigny (pronounced like the drink).
The story of the museum goes something like this: (pardon my inaccuracy or lack of info, but I'm flying thru these posts. If you wanna go to Wikipedia and look this stuff up, you know where to go)
Some guy, while excavating near his home came across some Roman ruins. At the same time, his brother died in a plane crash's aftermath, looking for survivors. The guy dedicated the area to his brother and made it a museum. The museum is big, and includes multiple buildings. The largest building's main floor is dedicated to Picasso and his circus-related art. It's called Picasso et el cirqueu. There are hundreds of his original paintings there, and I couldn't help but to feel honored to see so much of his work in such a small amount of space and time.