Duty Free Rush in Oslo

The first thing I noticed upon landing in Oslo was the entire interior of the airport was made of wood. The second thing I noticed was that the duty free store was next to the baggage claim. And I, my husband, and a crazy French woman were the only ones next to the luggage belt.

"I go to Trondheim," said the French woman to us, like we should care. She showed us her ticket.

"That's nice," we said politely.

"But do I get my bag here? Why is no one here?"

We stared back at the duty free store that the passengers on our plane were now raiding like teenagers that had just turned 21.

"They're all at duty free," I pointed out to the woman.

I turned to my husband, wondering if we too were missing something by not rushing into the duty free store. I had never seen a duty free store location near a baggage claim, so it was a bizarre sight to see Norwegian citizens grabbing wines and beers like there was no tomorrow in Oslo. But I didn't have any Norwegian currency yet and I didn't see an ATM in the entire space. So the duty free was obviously only for the Norwegians. And no one else. It was very bizarre.

When departing Norway from Bergen 10 days later, my husband examined the duty free store now that we knew a bit more about Norway. Basically, the reason is this. In a grocery store, a six pack of beer costs 160 Kroner (over 30 USD). In the duty free store, the same six pack costs 40 Kroner (8 USD). That is how much tax is on alcohol in Norway. Now all the mad rush and location of the duty free store in Oslo (as well as the high consumption of free wine on our flight) made complete sense. Cheers to that.

Hey!

Greetings from Norway! Just a short post. Today we took the ferry through the fjords. It was beautiful but cold! In Norway "hey" means "hello". It really threw me off the first couple of times. I just thought, what a casual, friendly place!

Anyhow, my husband did his 21k, 1500m bike race up a fjord on Saturday while I did the 16k, 1000m hike. They were both a challenge, but the weather was just gorgeous and I should get the prize for the most photos taken while hiking!

Everything here is very expensive. Tonight we are staying in a hostel which has the equivalent price of a night at the Westin in the US. Crazy. A six pack of beer from the grocery store costs 30 USD. Etc.

Anyhow, just a quick link to my article in the Monitor in case you are interested and didn't find it before.

http://www.csmonitor.com/2008/0613/p19s04-hfes.html

Will catch up with more stories from Norway and Europe in a few days.

Bigger than my Blog

For many years, my mother has been my most devoted reader of my writing. While working as a copywriter, I also started writing for a local paper in Richmond. That was four years ago. In between I picked up a few publications: a small, national singing magazine. A publication in Zurich. And a few others along the way. But my big debut will be tomorrow, Friday the 13th. My lucky day.

I will have an essay about my crazy father published by the Christian Science Monitor. It's about how my childhood was filled with intellectual activities thanks to my "devoted to learning" father. You will be able to read it on Friday the 13th and over the weekend at http://www.csmonitor.com/homeforum

The Real Standard of Living in Zurich

You can tell a lot about a country by riding public transportation. The other day, I was sitting on a very crowded tram, boxed in by people sitting on one side of me and standing on another. Then a very old woman gets on. She must have been in her 80s. I waited for someone near her to give up their seat but no one did. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t have been able to get back to where I was sitting with all the people blocking the way, but I just thought, man, what a country. Yes, it’s clean and safe—an old woman will never have her purse snatched. But she will have her seat taken. Sometimes I wonder, what’s worse?

I was out with some expats last night and a friend that had a baby four months ago was telling me similar stories. She’ll be struggling to exit a store a Zurich, juggling bags and a stroller, and the shopkeepers will just chat with each other and watch. Last week, she waited over ten minutes until someone was nice enough to hold the door so she could get into Starbucks. I mean please, how can a place like Zurich be rated consistently as one of the best places in the world to live, yet treat people in such a fashion?

The worst part is that I have had to train myself to deal with the rudeness just to survive. So I'll push at people to get on trains. I'll dress is black. I'll not smile (very hard for an American).

When I visit other countries I will still be in my Swiss manners mode until I realize I am being a jerk because no one else is acting like that.

In London, I pushed into people with my luggage so I would be able to get off the underground before people rushed on and didn't let me out. But the English gave me dirty looks as I crawled across them before the tube stopped. Then, I was surprised to discover that people waiting to get on stood out of the way, letting others off and it was no big deal for me to rush and act like a lunatic. I was embarrassed. I never would have done this two years ago. But this is what happens after living in a highly rated city for two years. And as I rode the escalator and emerged into the London streets, I just thought, give me a dirty sidewalk any day. As long as it comes with a smile and some old fashioned manners.

Something to see in France

It's been a month since I went to Provence, but I forgot to write about something amazing that I saw.

While I've been to France four times in the last seven years, I had yet to witness a French person being remotely grateful (or even pleasant) to an American, even though without our grandfathers, they'd be speaking German.

So imagine my surprise, to be wandering Arles, only to run into a gigantic rock with 2 American soldiers' pictures on them. Yes. There is an actual monument to honor two Americans. You are not mistaken in what you have just read. The monument honors two Lieutenents who crashed in Arles in 1944 while defending France during WWII. "City of Arles Grateful Recognition, For our liberty," read the stone.

I almost did a double take. But it was real. Of course, it took the city 58 years to bring themselves to admit such a thing (the rock was dedicated in 2002). But even so, that's a big step for the French and I appreciate their efforts.

Never mind being Van Gogh's town, it's the whole rock thing that definitely makes Arles the best city in France, at least for an American looking to soothe their soul a bit after being treated like Merde by the French. I highy recommend it.

Total Chaos

Before I moved to Switzerland I thought, "what a nice quiet place to live."

I was wrong. Living in Switzerland is more like living in the center of the track at a non-stop NASCAR race.

Right now, there is a progression of non-stop honking and screaming due to a few EURO matches (that will go on until June 29) that is louder than anything I have ever experienced in New York City. And I'm not even living in Zurich. I'm living in a little spa town of 16,000 called Baden.

"Well, what do you expect, we do live in the center of town," my husband says.

And he's right. But give me a break. I lived in the center of Richmond, VA for 3 years before. And it was never this loud. The occasional gun shots, sure. The sirens of police cars and firetrucks every couple of hours. A few drunks on the weekends. But never have I experienced such a never-ending series of parties, loud music, never-ending construction projects, and crazy teenagers.

It wouldn't be so bad if these things weren't juxtaposed with strict rules of quietness--not flushing the toilet after 10pm. Not doing laundry on a Sunday. Not recycling a bottle after 8 pm. Please. Give me a break. What about the construction workers that start using a jackhammer before 7 am right outside my window? What about the non-stop party last August where I couldn't sleep for 10 nights straight due to obnoxious blasted music and screaming people? What about carnival, where brass bands that only know one song are allowed to play it all night long for a week on the streets?

As I write this, it's after 11.30 pm. And there's no telling when it will be quiet enough to sleep. Why I went to the doctor yesterday to get my ears cleaned out is anyone's guess. Thank God we're headed to Norway in a few days. I've had all the screaming, honking, banging, and jackhammering that my nerves can take.

You want what with your sandwich?

Every time I purchase chips to go with my lunch, it never fails that either a Swiss or German colleague will question my decision.

"Chips for lunch?" said my Swiss friend, wrinkling his nose as I put some potato chips in my shopping basket along with my fruit.

"Yeah, I'm getting a sandwich from the take-way," I replied. (Even the strange word, "take-away" is starting to become more normal than "carry-out" for me after living here for two years.)

He still had a blank look on his face. There was no connection between chips and a sandwich for him.

And who can blame him. In Europe, chips are never marketed to be eaten with sandwiches and I still have yet to figure out what people eat them with.

Instead, at take-away counters, sandwiches are meant to be eaten either alone or with a small fruit salad. I have to make a special effort to get chips by going inside a grocery store if I want to coordinate my lunch properly.

But all I can say, is, it's worth it--despite the never-ending questioning. Obviously these people have never been to Subway. But soon Subway will make it's way to them. Let's just hope it gets here sooner rather than later. For my sake, anyhow.

Burgerbuster

Burgerbuster. That's me. I admit it. I actually stopped a man from eating a burger in mid-bite. I don't think I've ever done such a thing before, but then again, today was the first time I witnessed someone eating a hamburger (with a bun) like they'd eat any other piece of meat--with a fork and knife.

Ok. It's one thing to cut a burger in half. But to slice the burger bit by bit like it's filet mignon or something is just downright offensive. At least to an American.

"But I'll get my hands messy," was the defensive Swiss reply, as my friend put a delicate slice of hamburger in his mouth and then stabbed a french fry with his fork.

I sighed, unwilling to admit defeat despite being surrounded by six Swiss people. While I'll put up with the whole french fries with the fork thing, I put my foot down with it comes to a eating a burger on a bun with a knife and fork. That's plain sacrilege.

Luckily, my friend is very international in his outlook, and agreed to eat the meal like a true American. And that is one upstanding Swiss citizen. It was really an experience for him, eating this burger without utensils, and I was very proud of his courage.

But my since my Swiss friend really likes being the center of attention, eating a hamburger American style is just another trick to add to his show collection--as the rest of the Swiss people at our table were no doubt entertained to witness such a spectacle.

But after the meal was over, my friend insisted on washing his hands. Yes, it was time to come clean. And no one is better at doing that than the Swiss.

Good Afternoon, It's the Frau (oh wait, that's me)

Today I had to make two appointments. This may not sound like a big deal, but throw in another language and it becomes as major as the Magna Carta. But I was determined to persevere.

To make sure I did the German greeting right, I wrote it down. Because otherwise I would have resorted to a friendly "hello" and the German speaker would have been thrown off by not knowing who was calling.

I did this pretty well, even included a "Frau" with my name and that was a big step because I really hate the word "Frau". It sounds so dowdy and old. Anyone called "Frau" automatically has gray hair and wrinkles in my mind. So I guess at age 30 I finally fit the word.

I also guaranteed myself success by throwing in a "Guten Tag" with my Frau introduction. This way, they know it's a high German speaker right off, as the Swiss don't usually use "Guten Tag".

It worked well. Both receptionists I talked to immediately switched to high German after hearing my "Guten Tag". I even managed a "weil" construction and put the verb in the right place. This is total victory in German. To be able to say, "No that's not good, because I'll be on vacation then" and not screw up the sentence is an amazing achievement. Trust me.

I understood 90% of the calls, enough to answer every question with only a few minor mess-ups. For instance, the first receptionist thinks my first name is spelled Chental. But that's ok. A mistake I can live with.

The real test will be if I got the date and times right. And only time will tell.

Powerless

This evening, my husband was trying to help me with my new website when all of a sudden we had no power. Now it wasn't a complete surprise, as we both knew something "special" was going on today because our neighbor tried to explain something about "Strom" about a week ago and asked us, "hadn't we read some letter about this?"

Now I vaguely remembered trying to read a letter filled with a non-stop string of 20-letter German words, but by the time I had gotten through the fifth word or so my wimpy Anglo endurance had begged for relief and I had set it aside for the time that never seems to come when I have the patience for the German language.

A few days ago, when I had asked our neighbor to clarify her blahs by asking, "Ok, so we will have no Strom (power) on Saturday..." she would shake her head and say a few more blahs. So all I was left with was the knowledge that something would happen. Whew. Another accomplishment to add to my collection in this crazy country.

The frustrating thing was, once the power was cut, we had no idea how long the power would be out for, so after an hour, I was really ready for dinner and growing more impatient by the second. My husband figured we'd just use the grill to make our dinner. So I planned carefully as to only open the fridge door once to retrieve all we would need for dinner. We were ready to grill burgers, power or not. But wouldn't you know it, this is the moment the grill decides to run out of gas. Lovely. The stores are closed and we have no car.

After bashing everything Swiss (this is completely normal and happens whenever something goes wrong while living here) the power came on just before 8 pm and we finally could make a dinner and I was saved from my husband's final solution: Burger King.

Blog Correction

A week or two ago, one of my Swiss friends discovered my blog. Therefore, I have updated a recent entry, due to his thoughtful comments on my horrendous use of the German language.

While I wrote “Nächste Halt, Genf” (Next stop, Geneva) as the title, the correct spelling is actually “Nächster Halt, Genf”.

Yes. I had the nerve (or in this case the ignorance) to leave off the “R” on "Nächster". This is really terrible, because without the final R, a German speaker is left very upset and confused.

Not about the meaning of the phrase, mind you. But by using only an “e” on the end of the word, I have unknowingly declared the word “stop” to be feminine when it is in fact masculine. This is really offensive (think about how guys feel when someone calls them a girl) and I apologize to any German readership. It must be unimaginable to a German speaker to be so ignorant as to go through life thinking “stop” is sexless and then at last minute, declare it feminine just for the heck of it.

After all, what could be more important than knowing things such as, oh wow, the word “paper” is neutral (maybe because it’s blank), but the word “girl” is also neutral (what?), but “mistake” is masculine (finally, one that makes sense).

In any case, I must be extra careful as I try to write snippets of foreign languages as my readership has expanded to include a few more people besides just my mother. But as I’m still pretty clueless when it comes to the German language, I offer a hearty Entschuldigung to all my German readers in advance. And in the future, please let me know my mistakes (especially the masculine ones, as those are the most satisfying). Thanks.

Talking Shit

Sometimes I wonder why I can never seem to get anything done on my days off. Today, at least, it’s because I’m dealing with shit. Literally.

I finally get down to editing an essay I am working on. Then, when I’m finally getting somewhere on it, I look over and see I have company.

A bird. Who’s sitting happily on our family room armchair.

Now I am all for big, wall-sized Swiss windows that open like doors, but the whole lack of screen thing is a little third world. Especially since there’s a lack of air conditioning along with it.

Due to this, I have two choices in the summer. Sweat to death. Or live like I’m on a campground.

It’s one thing to be chasing around huge bees and wasps while you’re trying to work. It’s another to have to deal with birds.

As I’m trying to get the bird to get off the armchair, he poops with no remorse and then flies to sit on our houseplant. I open the windows as wide as they’ll go and try to get him outside. But he flies the other way, bouncing right off the opposite window.

He doesn’t die. Instead he hides behind the armchair, probably soiling the curtains while he’s at it. So I run to the kitchen to try the breadcrumb thing. No luck. Finally he tries out the other houseplant. I wave him off and he flies toward me, almost hitting me in the head, causing me to scream. And then, finally, he flies out the windows.

Can I get back to work? No. Because I have to open Google and research how to get bird poop off furniture. But all I can find is a product called Poop-Off, definitely a U.S. product. So I give up and try the dish soap approach. We’ll see how that turns out.

Yep. Another day of life in Switzerland. How time flies. Especially when you’re chasing things that also do.

Me and the (Swiss) Boys, Part II

This continues my night out with the Swiss film club.

After the meal we walked a few blocks to the cinema. It was surprisingly large for a Swiss theater and the kind of place that makes you feel guilty for actually buying popcorn as the floor was cleaner than my own so I had no qualms about setting my purse under my seat. (Something I would never do in a US theater as I would probably have to put up a fight to retrieve it from the sticky floor afterwards).

The movie (Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull thing) was in English with German and French subtitles. I mainly ignored them, pleased to be able to understand something for once in this crazy country. I did check the subtitles for words like “insanity” (Wahnsinn) and “stupid” (Dumm) to make sure their meanings were cemented in my head, as these kinds of words are always the most useful in a strange place.

The other thing I focused on was my laugh. Because usually it was alone in its glory. I laughed when the kid Mutt said, “My mother’s going to have a cow,” because I haven’t heard that phrase since high school. But apparently they don't say that in Switzerland, although they should really learn it as it would be most appropriate.

They say people feed off each other’s reactions when watching movies together, but this clearly is not the case, at least in Switzerland as no other Swiss felt like following my laugh at such things as a joke about Sears Roebuck and company. But hey, solo laughing in a theater is part of the experience.

I was thrown off by the intermission, which is not strategically placed at any certain point in the story, just when the reel runs out, so in the middle of a battle scene, suddenly the lights come on, which is jarring no matter if you expect an intermission or not.

Overall, I felt the movie lacked an emotional connection, but my Swiss friend was in love from the beginning since it brought him back to being 16 again, and for that reason alone, it was worth the viewing. The effects were fun, and the first half was entertaining enough, but it really fell apart after the intermission. Suddenly skeletons were turning to aliens and poor Dr. Jones went through two hours of battling the evil Soviets and termites to discover nothing but knowledge. What a disappointment. Who wants knowledge when you can conquer a kingdom or something? Oh well. It was a fun evening out anyhow.

Me and the (Swiss) Boys, Part I

I had the pleasure of being invited to see the premier of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull in Switzerland before, as my Swiss friend gleefully informed me, anyone in the United States could. Knowing my friend, he had surely researched this fact, so I didn’t doubt him, but was just pleasantly surprised to find a film actually showing in Swiss theaters before the U.S. DVD was released.

The evening began at the Zeughauskeller, a popular restaurant in Zurich with both tourist and locals alike. I met my Swiss friend there for a dinner with his film club. As I stood at the door looking for a familiar face, finally I saw my friend waving me over to a large round table, half filled with a group of Swiss men in their 40s.

They were all very nice and I was seated strategically between my friend and another guy that spoke perfect English. The waiter was very friendly, something I’m not very used to with my foreigner status. But since I was with a group of Swiss, the whole eating out thing was a pleasant experience. I ordered a Coke and pasta with asparagus, since it’s one of the things I could actually read on the German menu, even though for once, I actually had the option of having an interpreter.

As I thirstily reached for my five-dollar, 33ml Coke, once again I experienced the shock that comes when you realize it’s not ice-cold. (Or really cold at all for that matter). I don’t know why this always surprises me, since after two years here, I should try to appreciate warm beverages for all that they can be, but I just can’t stop pining that $1.79, 32 oz glass of ice dribbled with Coke sometimes.

Anyhow, my meal was delicious. To keep up the entertainment factor while I followed about 25% of the Swiss German film club conversation, I focused my attention on the three Japanese businessmen that were also seated at our round table since some of the film club failed to show up. They were clearly uncomfortable suddenly being a part of the Swiss film club, and after pondering a menu for about 15 minutes, ordered and finally moved to another table.

Seated in the place of the three businessmen were two Japanese tourists, who went through the same strange realization that they were to be ceremoniously part of our party. They as well went through a menu decoding process and did a lot of staring (not sure if it was about the food selection or the high prices). After that, they passed the time with picture taking.

Anyhow, after the meal we headed to the cinema. More about that tomorrow.

Train Talk

After two years of living without, yes, a car, I am still trying to get comfortable with the set-up of Swiss trains. I grew up in the Chicago area, where the Metra train cars were set up so everyone sat facing forward. To pass the time going by suburbs that all looked the same, you stared at the back of the people’s heads sitting in front of you, studying everything from possible dandruff problems to hair so long it threatened to invade your personal space while sitting behind it.

But on Switzerland’s trains, the seats are placed in groups of four facing each other. This is fine if you’re traveling with four people (as long as two of you can ride backwards without getting sick), but it forces strange relationships otherwise, leaving you with only two options: to challenge the person sitting across from you to a staring contest or to read anything in sight. Needless to say, I usually choose to read anything in sight, which in most cases is Heute, the Swiss version of the National Enquirer that litters train seats (yes, they care about Paris Hilton). Unfortunately, this forces me to comprehend the German language faster than is really recommended but it sure beats losing a staring contest to a practiced Swiss citizen.

Seat choice, even for short rides, is also highly important as it could determine whether you are sick for the following month. So I will go so far as to choose my seat based who is already occupying the four-seated group—a reader, a starer, a parent, an iPod blaster, or a cougher. Not surprisingly, I prefer the readers.

The coughers are the worst possible choice. Which brings me to another benefit of these free newspapers. They double as a shield. People here are not trained in the concept of covering their mouths, preferring instead to spew germs on people stupid enough to not have grabbed a freebie paper before taking their seat. Is there any coincidence that germ is very close to German?

For some reason, German speakers have the most horrible coughs I have ever heard. They are deep and throaty and always include some bonus phlegm which they proudly blow out their noses as loud as possible. I can find no explanation for this outpouring of fluid except for the fact that the language spits even at its healthiest based on the plethora of “sch” sounds that comprise it. Add a few germs to 10 “sch” sounds in a row and there you have it. A German cough.

This is not the case in France, where after much careful observation, I have recorded a much more daintier cough and almost no obnoxious nose blowing. This also is a peculiar finding which I can only attribute to the fact the language itself already includes many nasalities and thus perhaps the cough is more disguised because of this.

In conclusion, yes, it’s true. You really don’t need a car to live in Switzerland. But you do need reading material. Never mind the language it’s written in, the bigger it opens, the better. Next time you’re in Switzerland, try the Frankfurter Allgemeine. It won’t let you down.

Shopping in Germany

On Saturday we took the train from Baden, Switzerland to the border town of Waldshut, Germany to do some grocery shopping. The trip takes about 26 minutes. I’m not really sure how much money one actually saves by shopping across the border, as the exchange rate for the Swiss Franc to the Euro is not that great, but still, it’s entertaining and nice to have some different foods every now and then.

Since we started shopping in Germany about a year and a half ago, two more grocery stores have sprung up right next to the train station in Waldshut, making a total of three grocery stores, one right after the other. Obviously these three large grocery stores are not for Waldshut, a town of 22,000 people. They were built for the Swiss border hoppers. And hop they do.

The parking lot outside the Familia (our grocery store of choice out of the three available) is filled with Swiss license plates and most likely these people are inside buying meat, as one can save about 50% on meat prices by shopping in Germany. Since there’s no chicken in the refrigerated section for some reason (too many Swiss have been there by 2pm), we go to the meat counter to order some, until we realize that our Swissified German is not going to cut it.

As I stood at the counter, all I could think was “poulet”, which is the French and also the Swiss German word for chicken. But I could not for the life of me think of the real German word and there was no signage anywhere to remind me. My husband was not ashamed, and asked whether the meat in front of us was “truten oder poulet” (turkey or chicken) anyhow. The woman answered him easily, obviously used to many Swiss asking the same thing, and did not pull any snobby, “oh, you mean Hähnchen…” that someone in France would have done had the situation been different. (see “Does Anybody Here Speak French” entry below).

The other main items of interest were ice cream (half the price as in Switzerland, ironically for a Swiss-made brand), tortilla chips (again about half the price as in Switzerland), Qtips (a quarter of the price), and soap refills (a quarter of the price).

Needless to say it was a profitable and fun trip as I enjoyed reveling in a grocery store bigger than the size of a walk-in closet for once. If only I had a car and a freezer bigger than a shoebox I would buy much, much more (ice cream, at least). But since I’ve now accepted my status as the “Bag Lady of Baden”, dragging my recyclables and groceries in a bright orange IKEA cart between two countries and cities, at least it’s not quite as big a deal as it used to be.

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.