Excuse me, does anyone here speak French?

I have to say that overall, the French people are much more pleasant in Provence than in Paris. Most of the people I dealt with in Provence were very friendly and put up with my attempts at the French language in addition to my embarrassing German “Dankes” (which have become unfortunately somewhat automatic no matter what language I am attempting to speak).

Case in point was this woman at the McDonald’s in Avignon. I ordered my breakfast in French, and she knew exactly what I wanted, but when it came to options within my order she would simply bring out the three tea choices for me to point to, instead of having to discuss. Same with the jam options. Each time, I was shown the selection and could point. It was really quite pleasant and very kind of her to make this effort.

My traveling buddy and friend, who speaks excellent German, Chinese and English, but alas, no French, had a bit more difficulty with McDonald’s breakfast menu. So this kind French McDonald’s employee went as far as taking down the huge cardboard sign that hung overhead so my friend could point to exactly what she wanted. If this isn’t hospitality, I don’t know what is.

So the last day of our trip, when I am just about to write in my journal about my misconceptions that all French people hate anyone that isn’t them, we go to an ice cream shop in St. Remy de Provence.

As my friend ordered a citron crepe, I studied the ice cream choices. I was so enthralled with the fact that they might have bubble gum ice cream, (as always, key word being “might”) that I failed to notice that my friend was upset.

The ice cream man had given her a cup of citron ice cream. But she wanted a citron crepe. But she couldn’t express this with anything other than a look of frustration and a “no.” I would have helped her, except my French was not exactly top of mind after two years of German study, not to mention the fact that I was too enamored with the thought of bubble gum to fully focus on the complexity of the situation.

As my friend stood hopeless and upset at her cup of lemon ice cream, the ice cream man, who had obviously grown up in Paris, said to the other people waiting to order in as sarcastic as the French language can get,

“Excuse me, does anyone here speak French?”

A man next to me chimed in with a hearty “Oui.”

So the ice cream man proceeded to help the “Oui” man. Finally after a painful few minutes he got back to my friend, dumping her scoop of citron ice cream back into the tub while his wife got me my bubble gum ice cream with a scowl. So finally my friend did get the crepe she wanted but failed to get a fork and knife with which to eat it with.

“How am I supposed to eat this,” said my friend angrily.

Luckily I knew the word for fork so I said I would get her a fork even though at this point eating with her hands would have been a much more recommended option.

So I went inside and finally the French woman scowled at me.

“Avez vous une forchette?” I said.

“Ooh, UNE FOURchette…” she said, correcting my French pronunciation meanly. But she obviously understood me as she produced a fork along with another scowl.

Needles to say, I left the shop as pissed off as my friend. It’s not like I wasn’t trying to speak their language. What is wrong with these people? After all, if it weren’t for our grandparent’s generation, they’d be speaking German.

As I pictured that possibility, I couldn’t help but smiling as I sampled my ice cream. It was bubble gum after all. And that made it slightly easier to possibly consider forgiveness.

Q: What city is this?

A: Avignon, France

Wish I had an explanation. I have no idea what the British phone booth was doing in this park in Avignon.

Nächster Halt, Genf

On Swiss trains, the names of the stops are always announced in German. (German-speakers dominate the country). In German-speaking areas, the German announcement is said first, and if they're feeling generous, sometimes they'll program in the French. But as the train I was on last week got closer to Geneva, the announcement suddenly switched to the French version first, which threw me for a loop because first of all, the female French announcer is much more feminine sounding than the female German announcer. To hear the melodic French statement "Prochain arrêt Genève" followed by a deep scratchy "Nächster Halt Genf" was a little jarring. Somehow, ending on the word, "Genf," just made me cringe.

I've been struggling to learn German for the last two years, and I love learning languages, but somehow, I just can't seem to really love German. It's just not a pleasant way of communicating. Why say, "Genf", when you could say "Genève" or even "Geneva"? "Genf" sounds more like a word for a deformity than the name of a city. But this fact won't stop me from heading back to German class next Tuesday. Because some German words, like Handschuh (hand + shoe = glove) are cute little constructions of various nouns that only a German could put together. But then they have to go give street names things like "Pfingstweidstrasse". And don't even get me started on "Geschirrspülautomaten" (dish soap) or "Rindsgeschnetzeltes" (cut up beef).

So on second thought, maybe "Genf" isn't such a bad word after all. At least I can say it in one syllable. And in German, that's a rare occurrence.

On that note, I'll leave you with a hearty "Auf Wiedersehen". Or as we simple-minded people like to say, "bye".

France, Country of Love

Appropriately, even the dogs French kiss in France. Took this photo on a walk in St. Remy de Provence last Sunday.

Dehydration in Europe

One evening on our trip in Provence, I discovered I had a headache along with my dry throat. I knew I was not drinking enough liquids on the trip, especially considering it was hot and we were doing a lot of walking. The general problem is, I have not figured out a good way to travel in Europe on a budget AND stay hydrated at the same time.

Maybe you’ve been to Europe lately and seen the menus. 5,30 EUR for a water in Milan. 5,50 CHF for a water in Zurich. 2,90 EUR for a water in Avignon. And then, when your great thirst from 4 hours of touring tries to relieve itself at an outrageous price, it is given a mere 20 centiliters with which to do so.

This lack of liquid liquidity leads to such preservation techniques as the universal half-sip. This is done while hoping your food will arrive faster than half your water disappears. It’s really quite an accomplishment to manage actually having any liquid left when your meal arrives in Europe. And it’s yet another accomplishment not to pine for the good ole free water and free refills that run rampant throughout the United States as you stare at your overpriced not to mention, gassy water. The combination is enough to make anyone’s stomach turn.

To get the proper liquid (about 180 cl a day) from restaurants in Europe would cost the poor traveler an average of 45 USD a day. No wonder I drink too much beer and wine on this side of the Atlantic. Usually it’s better for my pocketbook. But worse for my poor dehydrated body.

Yes, grocery stores are around. But let’s be honest. A tourist is on their feet all day and can only carry so much liquid with them without breaking their back. One 50 cl water is about all I feel comfortable carrying along with cameras, guidebooks, jackets, etc. And even then, while I may save 5-10 dollars by carrying this water, my shoulders pay the price.

A friend I know actually scours restaurants in Europe, not for the menus, but to see if there are carafes of water on people’s tables first. She doesn’t pick a restaurant based on Michelin Stars, rather on liquid generosity. The few restaurants in Europe that bring free water are few and far between. But they can save you a lot of thirst. And a lot of money.

And thus my project begins:

A list of restaurants in Europe that bring you free water without even having to ask. (Just don’t expect ice too). Here’s a couple to get you started.

Zurich, Switzerland
Palmhof
Universitätstrasse 23
8006 Zürich

Zurich, Switzerland
Hot Pasta
Universitätstrasse 15
8006 Zürich

Avignon, France
Das Camping Bagatelle
25 allée Antoine Pinay -Ile de la Barthelasse
84000 Avignon

Avignon, France
Restaurant NEM (Vietnamese)
7. Cloitre St. Pierre
84000 Avignon

From France to Switzerland

I could tell when TGV train I took from Lyon to Geneva yesterday crossed the border between France and Switzerland because while the landscape was exactly the same, the orderliness of it was not. Both countries share fields of brightly colored mustard plants and wildflowers in May, but in Switzerland they are trimmed to precision in neat rectangles and squares, while in France they grow in bunches in unsymmetrical fields. This says a lot about both cultures overall and it’s amazing two countries sharing a border can be so different.

While most of Switzerland’s 41,000 sq kilometers are a mix of countryside cared for with golf course precision, France’s countryside resembles more of a child who prefers not to color within the lines. Both landscapes are equally beautiful in their own way, and couldn’t describe the country’s culture any better.

Another way to describe a country in a nutshell is to look at its pigeons. Every country has its fair share. But not all of them share the same, how shall we say it, girth. You can tell a lot about a country by how big (and accordingly how fast-moving) its pigeons are. For instance, in Avignon, the pigeons look like turkeys being overfed in time for Thanksgiving. But in Zurich, the pigeons have a more waif-like, starving model appearance. This says a lot about both countries’ versions of cleanliness and waste management. And I have to say, I’ll take the analness of Switzerland’s leafless sidewalks over the many piles of dog poop and who knows what else that litters the sidewalks in Provence (and Paris).

Anyhow, aside from the lack of waste control, France has a lot going for it. More on Provence to come once I get my photos downloaded.

LOOK RIGHT

I'm heading to France tomorrow for a long weekend with a friend from elementary school, so before all things French take over in my brain, I wanted to blog about London once more since I haven't done much on the topic since our trip at the end of April.

Every time I go to London and stand at a street corner, my brain goes into overdrive. I try to focus on the wrong sided roads as to not kill myself unnecessarily, but it takes so much concentration that at the last minute I’ll fling myself into the street and hope for the best as a double decker bus barrels towards me.

Unlike in Paris, the streets in London are clearly labeled for pedestrians. No matter, because even if I see LOOK RIGHT, painted in bold white letters on the road in front of me, I’ll still instinctively look left anyway. This street writing even comes complete with an arrow pointing the direction the pedestrian should look, probably taking pity on the many French visitors from across the channel who refuse to learn any language but their own.

Not that the Brits can really talk when it comes to learning another language, but at least they’re trying not to kill their tourists like the drivers in Paris are. Parisians drive for no other reason and design 13-street intersections with no signage or sidewalks whatsoever in order to turn the tourist into road kill as fast as possible. Probably not the best thing to have in my head as I pack for France.

100th Post

Today I am posting my 100th post on blogger. Not bad I guess. I've enjoyed keeping a blog thus far, it keeps the pressure on me to keep writing, although with today's changing publishing rules I can't post a lot of the work that I'm trying to sell lest they find out it's already been "published".

We participated in our second Slow Up (www.slowup.ch) event since we've been in Switzerland. The first one we ran into last year purely by accident and enjoyed it so much that we've got this season's calendar printed out. The Slow Up event on May 4th was in Eastern Switzerland and Liechtenstein, which gave us a good excuse to finally go to the elusive Liechtenstein as there is never a really good reason to go there except to say you went and have a stamp or two to prove it.

Slow Up is a program that shuts off around 50k of roads in a different area of Switzerland every 2-3 weeks throughout the summer in order for bikers and rollerbladers to enjoy them. The funny thing about this concept is that Switzerland already has a network of bike and roller blading paths that span over 3300 km across the little country, mostly well away from traffic, so it’s not like the poor Swiss bikers have nowhere to go.

This path went from Buchs to Vaduz and eventually back to Buchs after passing through lots of small villages. It was strangely exciting to cross a covered wooden bridge and end up in another country, as I can’t say I’ve ever crossed a border on a bike before. We even brought our passports, as we didn’t want our one excuse to see Liechtenstein to be canceled due to border bureaucracy, but there was no kind of border check to be found making Liechtenstein seem more like Switzerland's 27th canton (or state) than anything else.



I found myself wanting to take photos of everything, the fields were filled with little yellow flowers everywhere and it was just a gorgeous day. Anyhow, I've posted a few photos above to give the idea.



The whole 52k took us about 5 hours, breaks and lunch included. It was a great way to spend a day, despite a very delayed Swiss train on the way home (30 minutes, can you imagine the horror!?).

Doctor Visit II

Going to a doctor for the second time in Zurich was a much smoother experience for one simple reason--this doctor spoke English.

The allergy tests I had to take, however, were not quite as smooth because the non-English-speaking assistant did them. She told me where to sit in Swiss German so I of course sat in the wrong of the two chairs. Then she said something about my arm. I was really trying, but at this point needed to stop her.

“Ich verstehe nicht,” I said.

Then she asked me what language I spoke.

When I said English, she just shrugged and said no.

“Hochdeutsch ist ok,” I said. Anything is better than Swiss German.

I put out my arm.

“Nein, beide,” she said.

I put out both arms. Then she said something else that sounded to me like “Ok, now I’m going to give you a really big painful shot and I can’t wait,”

But instead she started drawing on my arms with a blue pen.

She drew a plus and minus and then 14 lines on each forearm. Great. The one part of my arm that didn’t have a skin problem was now covered in blue ink.

Then each ink line was decorated with a different droplet from 28 different bottles. She said something else like, “I’m going to make you into a freak,”

Then she ripped open a package of white stubs that were actually masquerading as little needles and started pricking each little dot.

“It’s ok for you?” she said happily after her 10th stabbing as she ripped open another package of little pinchers.

“Ok?! I’ve never been happier,” I thought. “Why don’t you bring in a beer and let’s celebrate?” But instead I just said, “Ja.”

There’s a reason they say Germans get pleasure out of other people’s pain.

One Year Away

In one year this Switzerland thing could be all over. My husband’s contract officially ends May 1, 2009. The first two years went really fast. When we originally came, I only wanted to come for two years because I thought three years would be too much, especially if I didn’t find a job of my own. But I did. And it took over a year to really get comfortable living here, so three years seems ideal. Except now with the thought of leaving it seems like it would be better even longer. I don’t know. It depends what day you ask me and if it’s foggy or not in Zurich. But I really will miss the travel.

The people in my office thought I was leaving sooner than I am with all the travel I’ve been doing lately. But no, that’s just become the new normal for me—a trip to another country every other week. I feel like I’ve done pretty well seeing a lot of Europe so far. But there’s so many other places in the world still waiting. Sigh.

London's Culinary Scene

According to the guidebooks, the culinary scene in London has vastly improved over the last few years and fish and chips are no longer the mainstay of a Londoner's diet. The question is, ok, then what is? I guess with this photo we have our answer.

Excuse me, do you speak English?

I am visiting London for the weekend and leaving tonight.

I can already tell my impression of London will be different this time (I've been twice before) for the very reason that I am coming from Switzerland and not from the USA. I can tell by my strange excitement in reading all about what there is to do on the London tourist website. The website is much like other European city’s tourism websites with one big difference—every play, opera, lecture and movie that’s listed I can guarantee to not have a problem understanding. Unlike in Prague, if I attend an opera sung in French, I’ll have English subtitles, not ones in Czeck. And unlike in Switzerland, where I tend to ignore all listings of plays and things having to do with spoken language, seeing them again on the London website revived something in me that I didn’t realize how much I have missed the last two years.

The last play I saw was Don Juan in German. Since it was part of the company Christmas party, and I didn’t have to pay for the pleasure of misunderstanding half the plot, I went, but the play went something like this:

Don Juan: I want your wife.

Other guy: No. I last night you chicken ate.

Don Juan: You are a because I last night was.

Other guy: I wife want.

While the audience would laugh at jokes, I would smile when I actually comprehended more than one sentence in a row. So I should be all smiles in London. And that will be a nice change of pace.

Black Spring

The Swiss German language, with its plethora of “schoggis” “sammes” and “ess gut sees” isn’t the only thing that spits—the sky does too. The sky over Zurich started spitting 48 hours ago, turned to drizzle, and is now back to spit. It hasn’t let up. Today I decided to coordinate my outfit to fit in with the gloominess of it all by wearing black. Black jeans. Black boots. Black shirt. Black coat. Black purse. Black umbrella. I couldn’t have looked more Swiss if I tried. Well, my hair would need some spikes or mullet styling, but besides that I was really with it.

It’s almost the end of April. You wouldn’t know it from the expressions on the faces or the clothing of the people. If I had to guess the month based on the sour faces, black coats, and throaty coughs, I’d have to say it was November. Whatever happened to white spring coats and pastel skirts? Spring in my mind is a 1988 JC Penny ad of happy people in brightly colored Bermuda shorts. But I forgot, the Swiss don’t wear shorts. Birkenstocks maybe, but shorts—never.

Another reason for the gloom is the Böögg. The Böögg is a snowman filled with explosives that the Swiss light on fire while the rich of the rich parade around it on horses. The event takes place every second Monday in April. It is a very Swiss holiday in that fact that it is all based around one of their favorite things—time. The moment the Böögg is set ablaze, the ticking starts. The longer it takes for his head to blow up, the longer it will take for summer to appear. It’s sort of like a twisted version of Groundhog’s day.

This year, since I was in Amsterdam the day of the Böögg burning, one of my work colleagues reported to me yesterday that the Böögg’s head took 20 minutes to melt and another six minutes and one second for his neck to burst, a terrible showing as the average decapitation time is usually only about 10 minutes and is a quick and painless explosion of the entire head and neck, not a slow meltdown. Alas, any hopes of a JC Penny spring and summer are also melting away with this news.

Spit and Drizzle

Zurich gets more rain than London. I read this in a guide book a couple months back. Reality does not dare to disappoint the facts. It has been spitting since 8am yesterday and raining non-stop since yesterday afternoon. And I mean non-stop. And it is now 3.15pm. To add to the gloominess, everyone walks the streets clad in black carrying black umbrellas. Sometimes Switzerland resembles a non-stop funeral procession.

Despite all the rain, since moving to Zurich over two years ago, I have only witnessed one or two actual thunderstorms. I have to say I miss the drama of a thunderstorm as well as its peaceful passing. Here, it just rains and rains and rains. No excitement. No reason for a dog or child to be scared. And no happy relief when it’s all over.

Nope. In Switzerland everything is neutral. Even the rain. Personally, I like a little action now and then. But the only action you get in Switzerland are swinging cranes and streets being dug up even though they were perfectly fine. But tonight I’ll try to be my most Swiss and really stare for a few minutes in admiration at that newly torn up street in front of my apartment as though it were the Taj Mahal. Hey, I’ve got to get my kicks somehow.

Did you get your receipt?

I am now a proud owner of a receipt for using the bathroom. After taking a 20-minute train ride from Amsterdam to Haarlem and then riding bikes to the North Sea, I really needed to use the facilities. Inside a seaside restaurant, there were bathrooms but there was also an automated machine blocking access to them. After trying to figure out how to use it for a few minutes, I concluded that the machine was the most amazing I had ever seen when it comes to bathroom payment in Europe. Because it was much more advanced than the “give the woman behind the mop 50 cents and you can pass” strategy. No. I put my money in this crazy machine and not only did it spit out the correct change, it even gave me a receipt for my payment. My very first, “I used the bathroom” receipt. Too bad it was in Dutch.

Inside Out

In Amsterdam, you can see it all.

A guy running sheepishly out of a prostitute’s room (I guess the exit strategy is never very suave).

A guy stumbling out of a coffeehouse from smoking too much weed.

A guy transporting a half-smoked joint from one prostitute’s window to another’s.

A Brit on a cell phone telling his “mate” that he’s just doing a little “window shopping”.

A bike parking garage that you could get lost in.



A store selling cannabis right next to their tulips.



A man putting 1 Euro into a vending machine to get a hot cooked hamburger.



Another man putting 1 Euro into another vending machine to get some French fries.

A guy pissing in an open street urinal.



A group of Japanese senior citizens following a tour guide with an oversized umbrella walking past it all.

Needless to say, Amsterdam is like no other place.

But then again, maybe it is.

Because really, it’s just any other city. Except it's turned inside out.

And instead of being disgusted or annoyed or amazed, all I felt was admiration.

For the most honest and tolerant city I’ve ever seen in the world.

Amsterdam: The Anne Frank House

I have wanted to visit the place Anne went into hiding since reading her diary in grade school. They actually went into hiding in the annex of her father's office building, a beautiful house on a canal side street in the most beautiful part of Amsterdam. At night, the only time they had a chance to breathe fresh air, they could look out the attic window and see the church tower in this picture.

Anne's room was so small and dark. It depressed me to think of her never seeing the sunlight for over two years. The wallpaper was ugly but she hung newspaper clippings and photos up on it to brighten things up, just like any teenager would. But the darkness (because the windows were still darkened like they had them 60 years ago) and creakiness of the floors weren't the thing that hit me most. What affected me most was the fact that it was a beautiful house in a gorgeous area. You don't really get that from the book, even though you know her father was a successful businessman. But it didn't matter that they were rich and educated people. Discrimination doesn't care.

The other main thing that hit me was reading the Nazi's list of people that they took away with the Franks. In a column next to everyone's names, it listed their profession. Anne's father was listed as a "Kaufmann", a salesman. So somehow, the Nazis did keep track of who could do what, but in the end it didn't really matter I guess. But what scared me was that now knowing German, I just read through it, almost forgetting it was a foreign language. And that freaked me out too. I can now understand the language of the Nazis. Not a pleasant thought.

But then I realized that I must separate the language from the Nazis themselves, as it is always only a few people that are truly evil that make everyone else look bad. Just like I don't want people to think that because I'm American I support George W. Bush. I am grateful that others separate a country from their government. So like Anne, I too must come to the conclusion that in general, most people are good.

Not in the Netherlands, You Don't

While waiting in a long line to board a Connexxion bus to get back to Amsterdam from the Keukenhof Gardens (the buses they provide are insufficient for the number of people, making you wait anywhere from 30-60 minutes to board a bus), two ladies came and sat on a bench near me without bothering to get in the back of the line around the corner. Then, when the bus pulled up, they proceeded to try to cut in front of my husband and me. I said, “Not in front of me you’re not,” and then they sheepishly got behind us as some other, nicer, more tolerant people let them in. But I was not about to. Because I heard what language they were speaking—Swiss German.

Now I am not surprised that while everyone else—Americans, Brits, Germans, and French waited politely in a line for the next bus—the only people trying to disobey the rules were the Swiss. The Swiss have no concept of line (they normally stand in confusing patterns I call a “bunch”). And when a form of transportation shows up in Switzerland, they push and shove to get on first, never mind how long anyone else has been waiting (and never mind the concept of letting people off it first).

But we were not in Switzerland. And I was not going to put up with it here. In their country, I will play by their pushing and shoving rules. But this was not their country. And clearly, there was a line here. Some people had been waiting an hour. And not only was it not fair to us to let them cut in line, it wasn’t fair to the people behind us. As it turned out, the two Swiss women were the last two let on that particular bus, making the people behind them wait another 30 minutes in that line for the next bus to come. I guess maybe next time those people will learn their lesson.

I know something someone else doesn't

I know something someone else doesn't. This statement may seem lame, but some days I go through life here feeling like I know nothing. Can't understand a word, can't read my permit renewal instructions, etc. But today. Today, I finally felt good about myself for once.

Of course, it was due to someone else's sheer bewilderment. But still.

I ran in the Migros (one of the grocery store chains in Switzerland) after I got off the train from work to grab some cheddar cheese for dinner. (I really have a taste for grilled cheese!) As I went to put my stuff on the belt there was a guy standing in front of me with nothing. But I thought he was with the woman in front of me, so I just set my stuff down, being my new pushy Swiss self.

But then the guy turns to me, with fear in his eyes, and says in perfect English, "Uh, do you know where the hardware stuff is? Someone said something about over there..." As I answered back, you could see the relief in his eyes that someone spoke English and could make clear that yes, he was supposed to go down a crazy looking moving ramp into the basement of the grocery store. (I too, had my month here before I realized there was another world of cereal, pasta, hardware stuff and cleaning supplies in this very store).

As he walked away, he glanced back at me as he neared the ramp, a silent thank you and a quiet something that we just shared that no one but another expat could understand.

English Copywriters Needed in Zurich, Part II

Just feel on wings. I do. Don't you?

Play Money

When we first got to Switzerland, the money all looked like play money. Yellow tens, pink twenties, green fifties, blue hundreds,etc. But now I am so used to it, that American money is starting to look strange. And not only that, even "real" Monopoly money is throwing me off.

We just finished a game of Monopoly tonight with a friend that is visiting. During the game, I thought I had been paid the wrong amount for one of my properties. I know I am truly Swissified because of this. The person had given me a blue bill, which in Monopoly, is the ten dollar bill. But my mind was expecting a yellow bill (the 10 Swiss Franc bill is yellow) and so I did a double take, thinking I had just been handed a 100 dollar bill (since the Swiss franc 100 is blue). It's crazy how quickly your brain just reprograms to things as small as the color of currency.

English Copywriters Needed in Zurich

Some think, why hire an English speaking copywriter in Switzerland? Here is why.

The Concrete Craneland

Switzerland’s skyline is formed by two major landmarks: mountains and cranes. From our window in our little town in Baden, the Alps come and go but the crane is always there. And this year is extra special as we can see not just one, but five cranes from the same viewpoint. They even light them up at night. And at Christmas they decorate them with lighted stars. It doesn’t get much more festive than that.

And there’s only one thing the Swiss love better than cranes. Concrete. The Swiss love sturdy, long lasting things. This is why I cannot use a hammer to put a nail in my wall and hang a photo like a normal person. I must buy special heavy duty nails beg my husband to do some drilling that may or may not work. The wall is, you guessed it, made of concrete.

When I moved to Switzerland, I couldn’t wait to find a cute chalet to live in. I was very surprised to visit faceless, characterless apartment building after apartment building. All made with concrete.

While the tourist’s view of Switzerland is cute wooden chalet with flowers, the actual Switzerland is built with concrete.

And speaking of flowers, our rental agency wants to take ours away. If this seems unSwiss, you don’t know the Swiss. Because their replacement offering for all our beautiful 30-year old plants on our balcony is…drum roll…concrete. Luckily our neighbor is not in favor of this and hopefully her protests will be enough to stop them. But who knows in this strange country. Last year they built a new park in our town. I was excited about having green space near my apartment, but it turned out to be a concrete park—all gravel and no grass. This is great for bocce ball but not much else.

This year they are pulling up all the concrete on my street (and thus the 5 cranes) and replacing it with a traffic free park with a fountain. But I know better this time. The gravel is coming. And the fountain will be made with concrete. But if you leave those details out, it sounds nice. At least it will coordinate with my concrete balcony.

Back to Normal

When my parents left after visiting us they said, "Now you'll be able to get back to normal."

Problem is there is no normal.

Being at home isn't normal. Because I don't know what "home" really means anymore. Is it my apartment in Switzerland? Is it the last US city I lived in, Richmond? Is it my hometown in Illinois? None are really home anymore.

Friends aren't normal. The ones that speak English as a native language come and go as quickly as you meet them. Or they are traveling or have visitors half the year. The Swiss ones take years to really get to know.

Work isn't normal. It's half in German, half in English. And my schedule is half on, half off.

Weekends aren't normal. They are spent doing shopping that you can't do during the week or traveling out of guilt (or pleasure) for being in the center of Europe.

Transportation isn't normal. I have no car and travel mainly by train and plane.

Eating isn't normal. It's a lot of cheese and chocolate. And most everything else must be made from scratch. And restaurants serve mainly bland food for extremely un-bland prices.

Reading mail isn't normal. Because you can't guarantee you can read it.

Vacationing isn't normal. Because you actually have enough vacation days to do more than go home for Christmas.

Talking isn't normal. Because you're never sure what language you'll talk in or what language someone else will answer you in.

Money isn't normal. It comes in a rainbow of different colors. And when I go 15 miles, I need another kind of money. And when I go home I need yet another kind.

Measurements aren't normal. To rent skis I need to know how much I weigh in kilos. To try on pants I need to know how tall I am in centimeters. To order cheese from the counter I need to know how many grams will make one cup.

Yes, since we moved to Switzerland our lives have been a strange combination of vacation and frustration. But it's funny how the lack of normal has somehow become normal. So maybe now I am back to normal. My very own version of it anyhow.

The two religions of Italy

Soccer is broadcast on a huge screen in the plaza in front of Milan's biggest church--the Duomo. From its rooftop you can watch the gods of Italy play or step inside to pray for victory.

19 Below Zero. And no mercy.

During our weekend in Zermatt, my parents and I took the cable cars up to Klein Matterhorn, the highest point you can get to without risking a mountain climbing injury. This trip involved a set of three cable cars: one six-seater and two huge gondolas that each probably held about 100 people and their ski equipment. On the final gondola we reached over 12,000 feet and were swept into a cloud.

It was my third ascent in three years to the top of this mountain, but definitely the coldest at -19 C with no account for wind chill. It was so beautiful though, that I had to take photos. But by the time we came down from the viewing platform and went to warm up in the ice cave (a strange concept), my fingers felt numb and my toes were starting to protest as well.

After our tour of the ice cave, complete with a pose at the ice bar we were sufficiently chilled and headed back to meet the gondola, which runs every 20 minutes. I waited in the bathroom for the next to arrive as by then I was a little scared for my fingers.

When the gondola did arrive, we stood back to let the pack of wild skiers out, politely standing to the side. After the skiers were out we went to get on, but the driver had shut the door. So we stood and motioned to him that we wanted to get on. But he just stared at us freezing in the wind and continued to sit there. Two minutes later, he descended, leaving us standing on the platform with our 70 CHF tickets.

Politeness, you see, does not pay off in Switzerland. One must charge ahead to get on any form of public transport or literally be left in the cold. In Switzerland, schedules matter. But people don’t. In this case however, it didn’t really make sense because it’s not like we were late and deserved to be left in the freezing wind.

So I headed back to the bathroom to get warm. When the next gondola arrived, we braced ourselves and stood by the door, ready for the stampede of skis. We held our hiking poles in front of us as self defense and pushed our way on while the skiers got off on both sides of the gondola. And that my friends, is survival in Switzerland. Pushing, shoving, and a few battle bruises to show for it. And if you don’t learn this before you arrive at Klein Matterhorn, you will learn it there. Or die.

Shopping in Milan

I did it. I bought the outfit I’ve been making fun of since I arrived in Switzerland.

But I guess you could say I turned European gradually.

First, it was the lack of baseball hat. Then the reluctance to wear gym shoes. Followed by the fear of consequences for not dressing my best to shop at the grocery store.

Then my mother-in-law visited me and bought me a Swiss black coat. The key being, black. Over time, the rest of my wardrobe has followed suit, slowly losing its rainbow to coordinate itself with the Swiss way of life—one long funeral procession. About a year later, I had even trained myself to stop smiling all the time.

In November of 2006 my sister visited and I got the next step to the Swiss wardrobe—the black boots. And then I started wearing skirts (black of course) and the black boots together. But when I did wear pants, I refused to do the most Swiss thing of all—tuck them into my boots.

To be fair, my Americanized pants were not really tuckable and therefore it wasn’t much of an option unless I wanted to have legs that looked like a hippos.

But then my sister returned to visit. And we went to Milan. I couldn’t afford much there. But then we found the basement of Nadine. Here was a red tag shopper's dream. (as much as something priced in Euros can be). Hats for 3 Euros. Skirts for 10. Boots for 20. And jeans. Skinny, skinny black jeans, perfectly tapered for tucking. I had to try them on. They were made in Italy.

My sister encouraged me to buy them as I modeled them outside the tiny, overheated Italian dressing room. I tucked them into my boots and pranced around laughing, the Italian salesgirl watching us in the background, wondering what we could possibly be so amused with.

My sister is good at persuasion. She said I looked good in them. And that I was 30, and therefore reaching an age where I might not have much time left to wear something like them. Great. I peeled them off and bought them for “Diciotto Euro”. After all, they were of course, black.

Designer Tape

Milan. As a tourist, spending a weekend there is plenty of time to see the highlights. The pan flute bands, the six Porches parked in a row on the main shopping street, not to mention the ladies carrying Versace bags.

Everyone in the town carries shopping bags, showing off their buys from this designer and that. The stores are all open late and on Sundays so there are no shopping restrictions like in Switzerland where nothing is open on Sunday or at night. But the highlight for me was seeing a lady carrying a shopping bag (can't remember which fancy designer it was from unfortunately) that was taped.

Yes. A mended shopping bag. Now to me, this really defeats the point. If you're that desperate to show off that you have bought something in one of the fancy shops and carry the bag around on more than one occasion to prove it, ok. If that's how you define yourself, that is your business. But please do not mend it with packing tape. It just looks wrong. I am so disappointed I did not manage to capture a photo of said bag, so you'll just have to imagine it in your mind.

But that, in a nutshell is Milan. And please enjoy pan flute band photo number two.

Native Music

You know them. They’re in every city big and small— filling airports, street corners, and bus stations with their pan flutes, native rhythmics, and CD buying options. And they must do ok. Because either they’re well traveled or there are just thousands of these bands. I don’t know. They all sound the same to me. But I plan to start documenting each one I see. So here’s the inaugural group for my project—The Natives of Athens. They even have a nice painting as part of their act. It really sets the mood below the Parthenon.

The Creative Americans

In a German class that consists of people from Belgium, France, Croatia, Britain, Scotland, and the United States it is very interesting to see the approach people from different countries have doing something as simple as describing a picture.

Yesterday, for example, we were each given an image of someone in a hospital to describe as we are on the “hospital” chapter.

The Frenchman described the picture very literally—“there is a man lying in a hospital bed. He has a broken arm.”

The Brit also described his picture literally but with a little more story—“there is a man who is lying in a hospital bed because he had a biking accident.”

Then the American guy read his description—“Herr Schreiner had a biking accident. He is being asked by the nurse where and when and how much beer he was drinking at the time.”

Another American guy read his “Frau Hessler has back pain and is at the doctor. The doctor told her it’s because she has been lifting too heavy of a purse.”

And mine was “Herr Helmut has visitors visiting him after his operation. They brought him flowers and cookies. He was so glad because the hospital food is terrible and the nurse was about to make him eat more.”

Obviously, there was no right or wrong in these descriptions. But the Americans’ definitely got the most laughs and kept the class engaged. Why did all the Americans name the people in the photos? And all give a back-story?

From a very young age, Americans are trained to be individual and creative. From first grade on, we are trained to give “show and tell”. We bring in an object and show it off and tell its story. I think Americans are natural storytellers because of this.

My husband was recently on a conference in Athens where he noticed a related trend. All the Europeans that gave presentations read off PowerPoint slides. Only the Americans and Indonesians did not just read the slides, but told stories and embellished off of them.

So while the American education system is often criticized for many things, I think they have won the game when it comes to teaching people to think creatively. And for that I am thankful to have been raised an American.

Zu Dick?

Apparently Switzerland has an obesity problem. This is news to me. But according to this poster seen in Ennetbaden at a bus station, one in every five kids is “zu dick” or “too fat”. So the Swiss recognize the problem, but are still continuing to build a Burger King 800 meters away from the “zu dick” poster. But why not? It will give the Swiss more of the three things they love best—construction, money, and an excuse to blame foreigners. After all, obesity in Switzerland couldn’t possibly be the fault of the Swiss. Cheese and chocolate will always be innocent.

A New Normal

When you move to another country, three things eventually happen:

1. If you work on learning the language, you actually begin to understand some of it and can even—after a long, hard year and a half--start to even understand at least the main points of office meetings and work-related things. This has been a major step for me that I’ve just started to notice recently. It is no longer so hard to understand at least the main points during meetings and discussions and read basic creative briefings in German as well as understand most feedback. I can ask basic questions in German without having to think through what I want to ask first. It just takes a lot of patience to get to this point without giving up first.

2. Your body begins to act like the country it’s living in. I naturally shove people out of the way, run for the door of the train before it stops, and keep my shopping cart as close to the person in front of me in line as humanly possible. I have also been successfully able to stop smiling at people I pass on the streets and look no one in the eye while jogging along the river. It’s strange how your body just starts doing these things before you realize it. It’s a whole other “retraining.” I can even control one cart while packing another, be ready to pay exactly when the cashier is done scanning my stuff, and successful push both carts at the same time, return the store one, get my coin back, and keep going with my personal cart almost without blinking an eye. I can also type on a German keyboard without making every "Y" a "Z" and vice versa. And pressing "ctrl" + "alt" + "2" to get the "@" sign no longer mystifies me. The lack of personal space here still creeps me out though. Once I get over that I will really have triumphed.

3. You adjust to the new standard of living. Twenty-five dollars for lunch? Almost three thousand dollars for rent? You just pay them and don’t even think about it like you used to. That’s just how much things cost. Of course, it’s still fun to go to Germany for the day and marvel at how much things should cost. But then you get back in the habit again of the paying too much for everything and forget to notice.

Taking down the tree

We took down our xmas tree a little differently this year. First off, we took it down (in the way normal people take it down--i.e. taking ornaments off, etc) before xmas because we didn't want it to dry out while we were gone for over three weeks touring the U.S. from Dec 21-Jan 14.

But the problem was, there was nowhere to put the tree except out on our porch. Since we missed the ONE tree pick-up day in early January, the poor tree has been hanging out on the porch since December. And since it's technically illegal (and you can be fined big bucks) for disposing anything that's garden waste in the regular trash, we had a dilemma on our hands.

The biggest problem is that we have no idea how we are supposed to get rid of "garden waste" legally. It's so complicated (think 15 page booklet in German) that even our Swiss neighbor doesn't even bother, and prefers to live on the wild side by disguising yard trimmings as regular trash in dark, black innocent-looking trash bags.

So we knew just what to do. The tree was going down. Literally. Last year, this was kind of a procedure. But this year, my husband was experienced. He got out his Swiss Army knife and got to work on the porch, cutting the tree into little bits. It was really quite impressive. A 6-foot tree cut into little bits with a small pocket knife. But like I said, he had practice from last year.

With the tree cut into bits we stuffed it into a garbage bag and threw it into our trash bin in hopes no one will notice. After all it is March. No one's expecting a tree at this time of year. We'll just have to hope the garbage police have better things to do this week. Like run after the little old lady that had the nerve to throw away a battery.

Francs, Dollars, and not much sense

I just opened my mail to find out that our Swiss bank has charged us another 80 CHF (77 USD) for the privilege of having an ATM card for another year. To someone used to free everything offered by U.S. banks, it can be crazy to think about the charges Swiss banks impose on their customers. The account we have is just a general account anyhow and we get about .1% interest. No, not 1%-- but a measly Point One percent. That gets taxed. Yes, Swiss banks are not cracked up to be everything people think they are.

And for the U.S. citizens trying to do the classic thing rich people do—hide money in a Swiss account—there is a new law in effect beginning for the tax year 2007 that says that all U.S. citizens must report money in foreign bank accounts or be fined $100,000. So needless to say, even though we have a Swiss bank account merely because we live in Switzerland—and not for any other crazy money laundering purpose—we’ll be filling out that form this weekend. Thanks for the extra work, IRS.

Looking at the U.S. from abroad though, I have to say I’m a little scared of going back. Since we moved to Switzerland, the dollar has fallen over 20% against the Swiss Franc. That is scary. We’ve only been here a year and a half. If I go back and work in the U.S. making dollars, will I ever be able to afford travel to Europe again? This is a question that must be difficult for many Americans right now. So on that note, it’s time to go buy my train ticket to Milan!

The One Leg Lift

The Greeks. They are known for the Olympics. They are known for muscular Greek Gods. Not to mention, they are known for the marathon. But what happened between ancient times and today?

The main exercise in modern Greece appears to be the one leg lift. Once on the motorcycle, there is no turning back for the average Greek. Who needs to walk down a sidewalk when you can motor down it instead? Everywhere I went in Greece I had to dodge motorbikes and cars—even on the rare “pedestrian only walkway”. There are still streets in Greece that actually still have lanes painted like running tracks, but the only things running on them are engines.

Motorcycle driving and also motorcycle parking take place on sidewalks, making pedestrians forced to walk anywhere but. Some places, like the island of Mykonos, don’t even bother with sidewalks, because really, what’s the point if they are just used to drive on?

It’s really quite the switch, after getting used to Switzerland, where, if there’s a pedestrian within 2 feet of a sidewalk, a car stops dead in its tracks to let them cross. And there are more hiking trails than roads.

But in Greece, even dogs don’t go for walks. They go for rides. See the above photo taken in Athens for proof.

And they start the kids driving young. As you can see by the first photo, taken on the island of Aegina.

If there’s a mom and three kids and only one motorbike, no worries. They all ride together, the youngest kid perched precariously on the very back of the bike. It makes U.S. seatbelt laws seem rather anal. I’d add a photo of this, but the bike was going too fast for me to capture it.

So if you want a muscular Greek, head to the museum. That’s the only place where you can do two things—see a Greek not on a motorbike—and walk a few kilometers without getting run over.

Top 3 Texas

At lunch yesterday, my German friend started talking about the time he was in Texas. The things that stood out in his mind (in no particular order):

1. The only people he saw outside were 10 Mexicans building a fence. Everyone else was in their climate controlled houses or cars.

2. The entire grocery store was kept at about 55 degrees to keep everything “fresh” with no thought to global warming or customer freezing.

3. People would drive 25 miles to go park in a big parking lot and eat inside a warehouse-sized, windowless Japanese restaurant.

To him, these three things constitute Texas. Since I have not been to this country myself (because let’s be honest, Texas is its own entity), I can only think it sounds about right.

Greece Again

Well, for the last four days I was in Greece for the second time. I was there last year for 10 days and visited Athens, Mykonos, and Santorini.

Needless to say, I wasn’t planning to go back this year, but my husband had a conference in Athens and thus one of us had a free ticket, so we headed there Thursday night and I came back last night. On Saturday we took a day trip to Aegina, the closest of the Greek islands (40 min by boat, 23 EUR round trip per person).

I wasn’t really that excited about the trip to be honest. That sounds terrible, but I like the excitement of stepping off a plane in a completely new place. There’s that rush you get when you have no idea what’s there. I already thought I knew Athens.

But I was wrong. You don’t know a place until you go where the tourists aren’t. Like the meat market, where pigs heads hang from display racks. Like a restaurant off the beaten track where old men drink beer, smoke, and listen to hand held radios at their table. And like the metro, possibly the cleanest part of Athens (and the only place where smoking appears to be banned). For the record, Athens is the smokiest city I’ve been to in Europe.

Greece was better the second time around. Because we had already seen the main sites of Athens, we had a very relaxing time. Of course, we still took a hundred photos of the Acropolis. But this time we knew where to get the best shots. And the best part of being there in Feb/March is that there are barely any tourists and you can get the best shots with no random heads in the way. Plus the weather was great—60s and 70s.

Now I will definitely be open to revisiting cities. You get a whole new perspective the second time around when you aren’t as much of a tourist running around like a chicken with its head cut off!

German. Useful after all.

We spent the weekend in Greece. And as most people know, they speak Greek there. And English is the second language. So what good is German? Actually, it's more useful than you would think. Imagine:

1. Two guys come up to you while you are waiting at the port for a ferry. They want money from you and tell you a sad story in English about how they are soldiers. They ask where you are from. You say "Schweiz". Then they ask, "but do you speak English?" You shake your head and say, "Ich verstehe nicht. Ich spreche Deutsch." They say, "50 cents?" You shrug your shoulders like you don't understand and say "Nein." They give up and move on looking confused.

2. You are sitting on a bench enjoying the 70 degree day in a park in Athens. See picture above for where you could be sitting. Two women approach you and say something in Greek. You stare back at them like they are crazy. But they can't tell you think they're crazy because you're wearing sunglasses. Since you don't say anything, they switch to English. "Do you speak English? We are Jehovah's Witnesses and we are spreading the word." You set down your English magazine and say, "Nein." They look at each other and say, "Oh, you are from Germany. Well we don't have any documentation in German, only Greek and English." They show their documentation. You shake your head, acting confused. They walk on and you get back to your English magazine and enjoy the sun.

End of the Night Shift

A friend of a friend is a radiologist who works for an American hospital but recently moved to Zurich to avoid working the night shift but still work for the same American hospital. Here in Zurich, due to the time zone, he works normal hours by continuing to work the U.S. night shift. And why not? All the work is done by interpreting medical images which are easily transferred via the computer. So perhaps the end of “night shifts,” at least for jobs that can be done via a computer, is over. Now that's globalization.

New York Food. Now in Zurich.

I have found the best restaurant in Zurich. It has an ice machine. I couldn’t figure out how to use it, but still. It is there. This naturally makes it number one in my list. The restaurant is called New York Food. It is right near the Central tram stop.

You can order a sub sandwich from the counter, just like at Subway, except here, you start off ordering in German and then they answer you in English. (Even my German friend got spoken to in English—probably because he was with me). You can even get your sandwich toasted Quiznos style. Sandwiches start at 5,90 CHF. With a small fountain beverage (where you fill it yourself and can attempt the ice machine), expect to spend 9-10 CHF total. There are plenty of places to sit inside. They also have pizzas.

My German friend was very excited to order a BLT. He didn’t know what one was until his first trip to California where he was educated accordingly. Overall, a great spot for a quick American tasting lunch.

Paper Recycling

About every six weeks, there is paper recycling day in Switzerland. It is always announced on a big poster in the middle of town, as forgetting this day means that your paper will pile up for 12 weeks straight.

Unfortunately, when I moved to Switzerland, I realized my garbage and recycling habits were underdeveloped. No longer could I throw things in one big bin and be done with it. No. Recycling in Switzerland is a timely project. Each kind of item has its own place and process.

Paper, for instance, must be tied with strings in neat bundles no larger than about 12 inches high. If you decide it is easier to put out your paper in a paper bag (because let's be honest, that makes complete sense) they will not collect it and leave you instead with both your incorrect paper bundles as well as a note detailing why it was not collected.

Above is a photo of the neat paper bundles that appear every six weeks. When I see these piled in front of my apartment on Friday nights, I always groan and go upstairs for my Friday night fun--trying to tie this stuff in neat bundles. Once, I ran out of string and had to resort to thread as the stores were closed.

What time is it?

For over a year and a half, we have depended on our trusty clock tower, which we can view from our window, to know what time it is. But now, we are in a state of distress as our trusted Swiss advisor has lost its face. But funny enough, it still dings every fifteen minutes 24/7. I just feel bad for the guys working up there. It must be awfully loud!

Shiny Gleaming Garbage Cans

No one else on the set of benches I am sitting on while waiting for the train in Zurich seems to notice that someone is actually scrubbing and shining a garbage can behind us. The Swiss are too busy looking at three things: their watches, the time the train comes in, and their watches. And if the train dares to be late, it will be a news item the next day. But to me, the real news item is that garbage cans are worthy of cleaning.

I saw the sun!

Well, the fog has returned to Zurich today, but for the last week we had bright sun and this is really something for a town that gets more rain a year than London.

Pictured below is the view from my office window in Zurich of the sunset last night. I like my new office because it's 3 sides window, 1 side wall! Glad I took this pic to remember the sky as I'm sure it will be awhile again before the clouds move out.

Valentinstag

Valentine’s Day. In German, it is “Valentinstag”. Naturally. Because the German speakers always manage to take many words and somehow make them into one.

Anyhow, it’s been fun to observe all the men walking around town carrying upside down bouquets because you don’t see that too often—buying flowers seem to be the women’s job. But in either case, whenever the Swiss buy a bouquet of flowers, they carry the flowers facing down. My husband and I ponder this every Saturday during the market that goes on outside our apartment.

Cards don’t seem to be a big thing in Switzerland. For example, on the Snapfish.ch website, you can’t order a photo card like you can in the US. The only things I notice for sale for Valentine’s Day are flowers and chocolate. And mainly there are tulips, not roses for sale. Things are seasonal here, just like in the grocery stores. Right now the only fruits for sale are apples, oranges, bananas, and pears. Others are few and far between, but the one fruit the Swiss did break out in honor of today is the strawberry. These have been in both grocery stores I was in today. And the one across the street from me also had strawberry shaped pastries so naturally I bought two of those.

Thoughts on the Election from Abroad

I have made history. I have voted in the first online primary ever for expatriates. Only those who registered with Democrats Abroad could vote online, there was no online Republican primary. But that was fine with me as I was planning to vote Democratic. Once registered, voting took about one minute. Just had to sign in with name and password and choose the candidate and that was it. Very simple, fast, and efficient. A good experience overall.

From reading the Swiss newspapers, it is hard to tell who the Swiss want to win. The few articles I’ve read in Heute, the local free paper, seem to simply say, “Anything will be better than Bush,” and leave it at that.

The one last week began—“Who will be the next American President—a woman, a black man, a Vietnam Vet, or a Millionaire?” I guess that’s one way to look at it. But aren’t they all millionaires?
The big question that’s been bugging me when it comes to the coverage of the race so far is: Why is it Hillary versus Obama? Shouldn’t it be Senator Clinton versus Senator Obama? Or Barrack versus Hillary? It doesn’t seem fair to use the woman’s first name and the opposing candidate’s last name. At least be consistent. We never had to hear about Bill versus Gore. Or John versus Romney. But even a paper in the UK had this headline last year: “Hillary and Obama vote to cut off Iraq funding.”

Women, like men, deserve respect. If we want change, it should start with a name. It’s something subtle and sometimes unnoticed. But really, something this small would be a huge step ahead for all women. Whether one becomes president or not.

The Vienna Opera House

A visit to the Vienna Opera House is one of the top destinations for any tourist in Vienna. But a better deal than just taking a 35-minute tour for 6,50 Euros is to actually see a performance for half that price. It requires no advance planning other than showing up an hour before performance time to pick up a standing room ticket. Available for either 3,50 Euros or 2 Euros depending where you stand (and they only take cash), it’s the perfect way to experience a more authentic flavor of Vienna. At the 3,50 Euro price, you can watch from right below the Emperor’s Box. When you get in the auditorium, simply do what the Viennese do—tie a scarf around the place you want to stand. And then you can mingle with the dressed up Viennese, watch women fix themselves in the hallway mirrors, and drink wine (that costs more than your ticket!) until show time. And if you’ve seen enough opera at intermission, there’s no guilt in leaving early.

Europe--Love is harder the second year around

At the beginning of this month, we visited Vienna--our first time in Vienna, but our second time in Austria. (We were there in November of 2006 in Salzburg). Back then, I sang along like any other joyful and amazed tourist on the Sound of Music tour, admired the fortress on the hill, and took in a touristy Mozart Dinner concert. All without one thought of, well, boredom.

Fast forward 14 months to Vienna. I liked Vienna--any city that loves and supports classical music has my admiration. But it wasn't love at first sight. And I don't know if any other European city can be any more. Because I'm tainted. I've been to 12 European countries so far (see visual of countries visited), many of them several times. I am no longer easily impressed by Europe. And this makes me sad.

It used to be any sighting of a huge gothic cathedral or a palace gave me goosebumps. But when I saw the cathedral in Vienna, I just thought: it's dirty. And it's dark.

When I saw the Hofburg palace, I thought, well, it looks just like most European palaces. And then I felt mean for being so critical. Shouldn't I be swept away by its beauty? Shouldn't I be taking 20 pictures of it from every angle like the other tourists surrounding me?

I feel guilty for not loving Vienna more. And it's really bringing me down.

According to my husband, I need to accept who I've become instead of fighting it. According to him, I've become a well-traveled person. I need to think of it as a good thing that I'm no longer amazed and impressed by everything. Because it means I've seen a lot. Learned a lot. Become a more educated and well-rounded person.

But somehow for me, that's not an easy thing to embrace. I don't want to be a person that's apathetic. I don't want to be a person that's bored. That always thinks, "Big deal, I used to live right below a 10th century castle."

My husband has a business trip to Athens in a couple weeks. He wants me to come along for the weekend. But I don't know if I want to. Because I've been to Athens. And somehow, I feel like the second time around won't have the same magic. I don't want to be there thinking, "Oh yeah, there's that Acropolis again."

But maybe I need to look at it from another viewpoint--one that says that I'll see the real town I missed on my first trip when my camera was an permanent attachment to my body. That this time I'll notice the people instead of the postcards.

So maybe travel is more interesting the second time around. I just have to convince myself of that. And fast. Before we decide the heck with Europe. Let's go to China.

Smile and Nod

Smiling and nodding. Can I tell you how tired I am of it? Before I came to Switzerland, I used the good ole smile and nod on various occasions—when I didn’t like what someone said but the person was of authority or someone you wouldn’t want to offend. Or to speed along a conversation that I didn’t want to continue. But I never used it to the extent and reason I do now—because I don’t understand what’s being said around me.

Now don't get me wrong. I want people to speak German to me. I want to learn German. But some days it's just really hard. You just want to feel normal again. And smile when something is funny or cute. Grimace when it's gross. Frown when it's mean. But as an expat, I have two main expressions: a blank stare. Or a smile and nod. And I'd really like to retire both.

For instance, it’s a very weird situation to be hanging out on a snack break in the company kitchen but barely understand a word about what’s being discussed. There are various strategies for this situation, such as smile and nod, look out the window, keep stuffing your face, drink enough beer until you don’t care, or a good combination of the bunch, but all are somehow weird. The fact that I’ve taken German for a year and a half only makes matters worse as I feel like I should be able to contribute something in a German conversation. And I really want to. But when 3 native speakers get going fast and are most likely using slang and Swiss German besides, I don’t stand a chance. And I feel like an idiot. Not to mention very lonely.

It’s not like I always felt comfortable in all situations in the U.S. But here, it takes much more courage and endurance to get through a day. Before I step outside the apartment I take a deep breath—one so I can hold it as I walk past the smokers on my step, and two to give me power to get through the day. Because after a day of smiling and nodding, sometimes all that's left are tears.

A Note to the IRS

Dear IRS,

As you well (and gleefully) know, Americans expats are the only expats in the developed world that are taxed by two countries. It is now 2008 and we are still being haunted by the state of Virginia for 2006 taxes as you claim that we underreported income by one hundred dollars. And because of that you are charging us an additional 580 dollars in late fees and interest. Even though we already paid you over 600 dollars in late fees and interest in December.

Ok. So maybe we messed up a little. But give us a break. We have two countries to contend with. And we can’t file US taxes until the Swiss ones are done. So therefore, we will always have to file late and pay penalties. Plus, we only lived in Virginia for 6 months is 2006. So maybe you could give us a break.

But my main problem is that if you expect your expats to pay taxes from overseas, then you should send all tax related items to our overseas address. Instead, you send them to my mother in Illinois. Who then has to forward them to us at great cost, but most importantly, at great time.

So by the time we receive for instance, a letter telling us we owe and additional 580 dollars in late fees, we are already too late for the late fee payment because it has past the 30 days from when the letter was written.

So we pay the late free, spend 30 USD to mail it, only to receive another letter, via my mother, that you are after us again for more fees and interest because we were late with the late fee.

There must be a better way. Please. If you’re going to tax me, at least have the courtesy to send my mail to me so I get it on time. Then if I’m late, it’s completely my fault. Or better yet, give expats the benefit of the doubt and let us file up to a year late penalty-free. Don’t we deserve a little credit? After all, we’re supporting two countries.

And please. Be sure to tell the election officials to count our votes. And that we’d probably vote for any candidate who would actually send us some mail. Because it seems we’re mostly ignored over here by any U.S. government official. Except of course, at tax time.

No Matter What, I Speak American

I have just about given up on learning German. It is pointless. No matter how hard I try to speak it (and I am finally to the point where I can say basic things and do transactions without thinking about it), I get a reply in English.

Ok. I know my German's not perfect, and I have an accent, but my language skills will never get beyond intermediate because no one gives me a chance.

Thus, while the world sometimes blames Americans for being so, well, English-speaking, I have to say: this is not always the American's complete fault. Because there are two sides to any conversation. And for me in Europe, one side usually consists of English. And this side is not usually mine.

Most co-workers, impatient with my slow speaking or stumbling (whichever may be the case depending how tired I am), talk to me in English. This weekend, both in Zurich and in Vienna, I spoke German and was answered back in English. At the Zurich airport, when I ordered a sandwich. At the hotel in Vienna when I said I had a room reserved. And at many other restaurants, cafes, concert halls and other places throughout Vienna. Despite the English replies, I would continue my German, and they would continue their English.

In German-speaking Europe, I'm always having a two-language conversation. Therefore my German listening comprehension never improves despite my best efforts.

So in conclusion, let's not always blame the American for not learning another language; the rest of the world is also at fault for one main reason: they know English. Because in most major cities in Western and Eastern Europe you don't need any other language to survive.

Even the hotel clerk in Vienna called the airport/train station to see if we could check our bags early. When she started asking about it in German, the person on the line said, no, "English only please." And she switched easily. But still. In her own town she can't survive without English.

So with that, I'll say "Auf Wiedersehen." And please answer back with a hearty "Good-bye."

Bad English

On coming to Switzerland, my English has gotten worse and worse. So far, I’ve found five reasons for this:

1. In explaining anything in English to a non-native speaker, I tend to simplify my speech so I end up sounding something like my neighbor: “It coming. I go to market. You too?”

2. I hear and see bad translations of German into English and somehow my speech seems to soak them up like a sponge. For example, in e-mails I get at work, the greeting is: “Hello, together.” Or, “No, she cannot just translate this. Her German is yet too young.” Or, on listening to the train announcer translate to English: “First class, sec-tone A. Second class, sec-tone C.”

3. The stress of English on demand makes me forget my entire vocabulary. For example, a co-worker will come in and expect, on the spot, that I can think of the English word for a group of boxes lined up together. I stutter and spew and finally, 10 minutes later after they’ve already given up on me I think, “oh, a column, what was so hard about that?”

4. Word order. The German word order puts things very backwards when you think of the English way of saying something. Instead of saying “they will get a translator now”, it might be said, “now get they a translator.”

5. The mix of British and American English and the confusion over each. For example, two German friends looked at an image of a woman in a magazine and pronounced that she had “goosepimples.” When I said they should say “goosebumps” they proceeded to say that both their teachers taught them “goosepimples” and perhaps it is a British thing. Anything I don’t understand about their English is never wrong, it’s simply “British”.

Squirrel and Spare Ribs

Two random events happened in the last two days. One, I saw my very first Swiss squirrel in the forest where I was running. It was black. You think with all the hiking we do that we would see more wildlife, but alas the Swiss wildlife seems as reluctant to make friends with foreigners as the Swiss.

Then today, at lunch, there were SpareRibs on the daily menu! Imagine my excitement. This is truly a first—me eating ribs in Switzerland. I wasn’t sure if I should pronounce it “Shhparh Reebs,” so I just said it the good ole English way. They tasted great and came with a baked potato. This was one lunch that was truly worth 20 CHF (18.30 USD). The restaurant was Palmhof, near the University in Zurich. To top off the excitement they even have a separate but equal non-smoking room. And free tap water. What’s not to love?

A typical Swiss Day

I wake up to staticy German radio. Spend two minutes in denial. Shower and eat breakfast, lamenting terrible Swiss milk taste on Fit Flakes cereal. Clock dings twice at 8:30. Leave for train one minute later. Train comes at 8:38. Swiss people flock to the doors, blocking them before people on the train can get off. I either fight my way through them or stand back so at least I can choose my seat partner instead of vice versa. On train I either: listen to music and sleep, read an English book or magazine, or attempt to read the nearest German paper as to block the person sitting directly across from me from staring/coughing at me the entire trip.

Once in Zurich I hold my breath as I get off the train and walk to the tram station to avoid breathing in too much smoke. If I’m lucky and the train’s on time I take the 8:59 tram to work.

I arrive at work at 9:11 or 9:12 depending on my final walking speed when I get off the tram. I brace myself for German.

I go through a mix of German, French, and English e-mails trying to make sense of them. (The English ones are usually just as confusing based on the fact they are written by non-native speakers and usually begin with the greeting, “Hello together.”) If I’m lucky I understand enough of them not to use Google Translate. Yet.

Have an e-mail for an urgent translation of a German press release. Try to translate it. Turn to Google for help. Have a colleague who speaks fluent English read it over to make sure I’ve done it correctly.

Go out to lunch with two guys from the office. One of the items on the menu literally means “bird meat”. But one of the guys reassures me it’s actually veal. Needless to say, I never know what I’m really ordering. I speak a little English and a little high German. They speak to each other in Swiss German but one of the guys speaks back to me in English. I don’t understand much of their Swiss German except I can usually determine the topic of conversation. I drink lukewarm water without ice and eat a so-so salad. All for the price of 16 CHF—a bargain for Zurich. The waitress masterfully lets us each pay separately and makes change for all of us. (You can only pay in cash).

On the way back to the office after lunch, the one guy goes to the grocery store to buy his dinner. (Stores close before we’re out of work in the evening).

The office has turned smoky. I shut my door and have two options. Breathe cigarette smoke or freeze. I choose to freeze.

Over the course of the afternoon I read a German e-mail telling me to fix an English headline from the previous day. I try to convey what final prints and jpegs I need for award shows to a woman that speaks very little English. And I try to explain the word “charm” to a colleague who doesn’t understand what a “wine charm” is as they do not have that concept in Switzerland. Needless to say this idea does not make it into the finals of ideas for a give-away.

I say my “chows” (the Italian word for good-bye adapted by everyone in Switzerland). And leave the office a little after 6. I walk to the train station in 20 minutes all down steep sidewalks and steps. As usual the 18.36 train is packed. When there is a free seat, someone has conveniently placed their large shopping bag or rubber recycled Freitag bag in it. I look for a seat that is bagless and 3 cars later finally find one and ask in my high German, “is this seat free?” I am given an affirmative “Ja” and a sideways glance to let me know they realize I am a foreigner. I bury myself in a German paper anyhow for the 15 minute ride.

I get home exactly at 7. I know this because the clock is going haywire. Luckily I bought things for dinner two days ago. Because the stores are now closed. Good night from Switzerland.

(Time) Zoning Out

I woke up in the middle of the night wondering where I was, and then reminding myself that I was in my sister’s bed in Atlanta. Then I opened my eyes and realized I was actually in my own bed back in Switzerland. This is what 3+ weeks sleeping in 6 different beds will do for you.

Not to say that the last 3+ weeks haven’t been amazing. They have been. To all my friends and family, I can’t express how great it was to see everyone. And to all the airlines I flew (Air France, American, and Delta) not one of them lost my two 50 pound bags! (Although Air France could use some better customer service. (when you choose a window and an aisle seat you expect to have a window and an aisle—not to be seated in two middle seats for your nine hour flight. But perhaps, upon discovering that you are not in fact, French, any seat choices previously selected are discarded.) And American could use some on time arrivals. But I have to say I was pretty satisfied with Delta, even though their in-flight entertainment was pretty lame—our plane did not have individual screens so I forewent watching any movies to avoid neck strain.

I celebrated my birthday this year in two time zones, another amazing feat. When my mother called as she usually does at 10.07 central time, it actually was 10.07 central time for me, and that hasn’t happened in years. Alas, during the conversation I ended up on eastern time, but it was nice while it lasted.

All this time zone and city hopping (or maybe it’s just the old age of 30 thing) has made me all the more sure I am ready to return to the U.S. next May and stay in one place for awhile. I am excited about our final hoorah in Europe and can’t wait to travel more, but after doing laundry all day yesterday in our shared basement laundry room and hearing Swiss German on the streets, I and am more and more ready for a house complete with a dog and English speaking neighbors.

Confiscation

I have been running around the US for almost 3 weeks now and I despite the fact that I am having a blast, I am also getting tired of living out of and constantly rearranging suitcases. I am so tired of it that I am making plently of mistakes.

The reaccuring theme of this trip is airport confiscation. So far I have had 3 things confiscated not due to the fact that I don't know the rules, but due to tiredness and stress to keep track of airlines, flights, friend's numbers, keys, hotels, etc I have lost the ability to remember changing airline rules.

So far I have had fondue forks confiscated in Paris and brand new hair gel and face scrub purchased from Target taken away in Richmond. I'm hoping Atlanta goes better! We did get away with an extra .5 pound over the 50 pound luggage limit without penalty thanks to a kind soul at American Airlines in Chicago.

Now as I am packing for my venture into state number 5 of this trip, I realized I have left the wedding music I need for tomorrow in the trunk of my sister's car in the one bag I didn't think I needed. I have the music memorized, but it is a bit irresponsible of me not to at least have a copy just in case the accompaniest doesn't have it for some reason...I am mad at myself for dragging the music from Zurich to Paris to Chicago to Richmond to Atlanta and now not having it!!

But that is life and hopefully I won't need it after all. At least I've got the bridesmaid dress. (It may be wrinkled beyond belief by now, but it's there...)

Until next time, long live airport security and suitcase living.

Back in the USA

I have been in the US now for over 2 weeks. This has caused a stir among many friends and family who have never heard of having more than 2 weeks of vacation. That being said, I have one more week to go and am enjoying my European time-off. Finally a long break where I won't be chided by my European colleauges who can't believe I would only take a week off to go to Spain. ("How can you see anything in a week?" they ask).

Today I had lunch with a friend from my old choir in Richmond, VA. I had pho ga, my favorite Vietnamese speciality and one I can't find in Switzerland. It tasted great!

So far other highlights have been:
1. Friendly people
2. People wearing smiles and brightly colored clothes (as opposed to the constant funeral procession in Switzerland of a sea of black).
3. People wearing their pajamas in public with no remorse. (sweat pants, flannels, you name it, people wear it! (see #2, bright clothes))
4. Cheap everything
5. Free water with ICE
6. 32 oz root beers with free refils
7. Being able to chat with cashiers
8. The girl at Target today asking for an ID before she'd swipe the cold medicine I was buying and it not being a huge misunderstanding due to language issues.
9. Having lunch with my mom
10. Remembering that the price for something is never a nice even number because the tax isn't included.
11. 70 degree weather in Richmond in January
12. Seeing the sun
13. Forgetting the rain
14. Doing huge loads of laundry and having them done and dried in an hour
15. English, English, English
16. Knowing exactly what I ordered at a restaurant
17. Shopping with my mom and sister who ask me why everything I'm buying is black (see #2)
18. People using credit cards for a $3 dollar purchase
19. Seeing my old house in Richmond that like me has gone black (see #17). The house now has black shutters and a black door. (It used to be blue).
20. Lucky Charms
21. Seeing my sister, parents, in-laws (yes it's true!) grandma, 92-year old grandpa, aunts, and cousin and lots and lots of friends!!

MUCH MORE TO COME