Trois Petites Aliens avec Les Cheveux Plus Courtes (ne pas chevaux) et Autre Contes

This is taken outside the Ecole Professionelle de Coiffure in Plainpalais, which was the site of last week's best alien adventure.

It all began on Wednesday after school. School lets out at 12:30 on Wednesdays, making it the ideal day for errands and adventures (the kids think it's the ideal day to go immediately home and get their homework out of the way, so I generally have to drag them along on these errands and adventures. I usually also promise ice cream.). Last Wednesday, I had decided that we were going to go to the Ecole Superieure de Coiffure, because all three kids needed haircuts, and I had read that one could get a haircut for 15 CHF (Eric recently got a haircut at one of those mall places and it was 50 CHF, so you can understand my excitement). Lucas had been cautioning me for a week that he didn't want his hair too short, so I practiced saying, "Sil vous plait, ne coupez pas ses cheveux trop courtes."

Unfortunately, when we reached the Ecole Superieure, they were totally booked, so we decided to look for an ice cream store or a bakery. The kids just wanted to go home and go to the Boulangerie d'Onex, but I felt strongly that we had to accomplish something in Plainpalais, even if it was only consuming some calories. We found a bakery which actually had donuts (very exciting for the kids), and we sat down to eat them on a bench, when what should catch my eye but a building with a sign: Ecole Professionelle de Coiffure. Well, perhaps it wouldn't be a superior haircut, but at least it would be a professional one. I dragged the kids across the street and into what looked like a dingy apartment building. We found our way to the first floor (which is what they call the second floor -- the first floor is the ground floor, which I'm sure is just to discourage people who might not be truly determined to find the hair-cutting school). The Ecole Professionelle was a large room, packed with orange-framed mirrors, hair-dryers, scissors, clients, and young coiffeurs and coiffeuses with colorful and spiky hair, all dressed in black. The room, frankly, smelled like it was 4 p.m. on a warmish day and it had been packed with people for several hours. We were a little nervous, but the professor at the front desk (actually kind of a corner-of-the-room desk) said they could squeeze in three haircuts before the end of the day, so we trepidaciously decided to stay.

Each child was assigned to a student hairdresser, and the professors flitted busily about the room, alighting from time to time to trim a stray strand or whisper a word of wise counsel. Johanna's haircut turned out great, probably because she had printed out a picture of what she wanted, and was able to say, "comme ca." Drew's hair turned out great, probably because he has the kind of forgiving hair that looks good whether it's cut with nail clippers, hedge clippers, or anything in between. He was also helped by the presence of Phillipe the hair professor, who alit from time to time and made adjustments and gave advice. I think Luc's hair turned out great, but he was really angry with his coiffeur, who cut it too short for Luc's taste. The problem was, ironically, that Luc's student spoke some English, so I probably wasn't as clear with him as I should have been, overestimating his understanding of my direction to "leave the bangs alone," when I should have said, "Ne coupez pas la frange." Luc recovered quickly though. Probably more quickly than Professor Philippe recovered from his hilarious laughter at my attempt to make conversation: "Il a beaucoup de cheval," (he has a lot of horse -- which doesn't make sense even in English), rather than what I meant to say, which was, of course, to comment on the amount and thickness of Drew's curly hair: "Il a beaucoup de Cheveux."

In other news . . .
I had a successful foray to the wine store, somewhere I rarely went even in the English-speaking world. The man there was very patient with me, and repeated everything about three times in three different ways until I understood. He also recommended a good wine for the party with Eric's co-workers and told me to come back again and try to speak French with him. I made coq au vin for the party, and it turned out really well (thanks, Sarah!). In fact, I've been eating leftovers all this week. My favorite thing about guests here is that they always bring presents!

I learned valuable lessons about the British grading system (the kids are in a British school). Apparently, a 15/20, or 75 percent, is actually a good grade. Even a 12 or 13 out of 20 is considered perfectly acceptable. Furthermore, the expectation is that grades will rise as the year progresses, which is the opposite of what usually happened back home. I was having fits about some of the grades the kids were bringing home, but was enlightened at the information night. I approached the science teacher with, "I know (name deleted to protect the truly innocent) isn't doing very well in your class. . . . " She responded with, "S/he is doing just fine. I have no worries." I heard this from teacher after teacher, but didn't really believe them until finally the math teacher, who is very sweet and also new, pulled me aside and explained the whole system to me. What a relief.

I will end with some pictures of the road we take to and from the bus stop. It is not only a two-way road, but it is always full of pedestrians, motorcycles, and bikes. Okay Genevans, we know you are thin and agile and drive itty-bitty cars, but come on!

The Alien in the Kitchen

Here is where I spent most of the weekend. Fortunately, cooking is the one household chore that I actually enjoy! The onslaught of cuisine was precipitated by the knowledge that the weekend was going to be full of company -- also something i enjoy.

Chapter One: Cooking for the Spanish Guests (Les Invites Espagnol -- I'm not sure how to type an accent, so those of you who know French are going to have to grit your teeth here).

Johanna invited her friend Giulia to spend the night on Saturday. Since Giulia's parents are responsible human beings, they thought they'd like to meet us before they let their daughter move in temporarily. So I invited Giulia's mom to stay for a bit and chat when she dropped Giulia off. She asked if she could bring the little sisters, and I said sure. Johanna and I decided that we'd better offer coffee or tea and bake something to go with it. So Johanna worked on a lemon cake mix. Meanwhile, Drew was pressed into service making brownies and Luc making fudge (both for youth group the following night -- see chapter three), while I worked on some taco meat (for the same occasion). The kitchen was full, all the pots and pans were in use, and we expanded our brains by translating the directions on the mix boxes (German, French, and Italian -- take your pick) and converting grams and mililiters to cups. We leaned some wonderful new vocab (e.g. demouler -- to take something out of the pan). Our conversions weren't perfect (it's hard to measure .441 cups when 100 grams is called for), but they must have been okay, because our baked goods turned out nicely. And when Giulia's entire family showed up to make sure we weren't crazy people, we were very glad we had the lemon cake ready.

Johanna and I were confirmed in our surmisal that coffee and cake was the right treat to serve when it turned out that Giulia's mother's family is in the vineyard business, and their vineyards produce a very nice wine that is trendy in New York City and other hip and cosmopolitan places. Imagine if we had served them our 4-CHF-a-bottle Aldi wine! Giulia's mom looked at our grapevine outside and pronounced it hopeless. Oh well. In a very interesting sidenote, Giulia's dad was an exchange student when he was in high school in Harbor Springs, Mich. -- right by where my family has vacationed for my whole life. We had a good chat about the Pellston Airport, Highway 31, and the Mackinaw Bridge.

The next morning, we introduced Giulia to Swedish pancakes with maple syrup (which, I know, isn't really Swedish). She liked them very much.

Chapter Two: Cooking for Our Fellow Ohioan

On Sunday afternoon, Andrew Brinkerhoff came over for lunch. I think most readers of this blog will recognize the name, but if not, he's an MHA grad, and his dad is still the academic dean there. Andrew has an intership at CERN, which is a nuclear physics lab located right over the French border. We actually didn't really know Andrew, having only met him a few times, but how could we pass up the chance to connect with a fellow Cincinnatian? Plus, we were hoping Andrew could help us understand the recent breakthrough experiment at CERN, which involved sending particles faster than the speed of light, apparently. (Andrew did explain it, although that does not mean we understand. Furthermore, he said that most of the scientists at CERN are pretty skeptical, although the experiment seems valid on its face.)

In celebration of America and Americans, we pulled out the barbeque sauce and had chicken and potatoes. (In celebration of European boulangeries, we had some great bread, and in celebration of our very own Swiss yard, we had apple crisp).

We were all very full, and Drew said, "Do I have to eat again?" The answer, of course, was yes, because it was time for . . .

Chapter Three: Cooking for the United Nations

Okay, not really. I really cooked for the church high school youth group, but church does sometimes feel like the United Nations. The pastor pointed out on Sunday morning that we are such a diverse church that we often cannot understand one another when we talk -- even if we are (as is occasionally the case) all speaking English.

Interestingly, finding people to cook for the Sunday night youth group seems to be difficult, because this is the second time I've done in in about a month. Since I really don't mind, and since I'm not doing much else to help out,  I think I should probably offer to do it on a regular basis. The only tricky thing is figuring out what to make for 20 teenagers. I did tacos (surprisingly, the bigger grocery stores around here all have corn chips, salsa, and Old El Paso seasoning packets), along with the desserts the boys had made the day before.

Apparently the United Nations likes Mexican (although that may be one of the few nationalities not represented in the group). They, however, do not like lettuce as much as advertised (I had been told some of the girls just like salad, so I sent along a big bag -- or maybe they not only just like salad, but they just like a teeny bit of salad). We now have a refrigerator full of salad melange.

Upcoming cooking adventures include:

The P&G Olay Brand Managers Come to Dinner, in which the Alien tries to impress people from Greece, Holland, and Germany with nothing but a chicken, a bottle of wine, and a tree full of apples (Opening Saturday, Oct. 15)

and

The Great Quince Jelly Bash (Thursday, Oct. 20), in which the Alien and her friends attempt to turn rock-hard, inedible, mealy green fruit into a beautiful rose-colored condiment. The good news is, most of the friends are from England, where quince jelly is not even strange.

As a reward for all the hours in the kitchen, the Alien plans to spend some serious time at the Onex Boulangerie/Patisserie, where she has recently discovered almond croissants. (How many croissants a week constitutes gluttony, do you think?)

Just Life

October 3, 2011

Everybody’s life is a little extra bizarre and stressful from time to time. Last week was definitely one of those times for us. And although we certainly had weeks like that back in Ohio, some of the week’s events do seem particularly Genevan in character. Eric was out of town in Barcelona and Brussels for three days of last week. He’s been traveling about every other week – which makes his life a little bizarre and stressful all by itself. Back on the ranch, things were pretty calm until Thursday morning. Biking home from dropping the kids off at school, I suddenly noticed Drew biking up behind me. He had forgotten his P.E. clothes and was coming home to get them. Momentarily forgetting that driving is the slowest way to get around, I told him to go on back to school, and I would bring his clothes in the car on my way to Bible Study. Then I asked, “When do you need them?” The answer, “In about 25 minutes,” took too long to sink in. By the time I realized that I would never have the clothes back to school on time, he was gone. Not knowing what else to do, I biked home as fast as I could, found the clothes, threw them in the car, and took off, praying all the time that somehow the traffic would flow smoothly. It didn’t, and as I reached the school, the bus carrying the students to P.E. was headed down the street. I continued driving, discouraged and frustrated, when I saw another bus pulling out of the school driveway, coming toward me. The traffic was so slow that, as we passed, I could see Drew in the window right next to mine. I gestured wildly, and the girl behind him opened the window so I could toss the clothes through as we passed. An answer to prayer – though not the one I expected! Pulling forward, I found that, in an effort to avoid scraping the side of the bus, I was touching a fence set up around a construction zone. The sound of metal scraping the side of our rental car made me want to cry. Miraculously, however, the car had only the smallest possible ding in the side. Starting to feel like I was in the kids’ book, Fortunately and Unfortunately, I drove home (I had forgotten my shopping list and bags for hitting the cheaper supermarkets in France after Bible Study). To conclude that story, although I definitely earned some Supermom points with Drew, he was unable to find a place to change, and so the whole effort really seemed to be for naught.

                On Friday Lucas was hoping to have some friends over, but he had been dilatory about collecting phone numbers or emails for the moms, and so I wasn’t sure anyone was going to show up. The plan – on our end, anyway -- was that Emmanuel, Luc’s friend, would come around 6 and stay until 9. Lucas wanted to watch a movie, so it was going to be an easy play date for me. Imagine my surprise when, while walking my bike up the enormous hill on the way home from school, I received a call from Emmanuel’s mother, asking if she could drop him off right then and pick him up at 7. Lucas also mentioned that his other friend, Cheska, might be coming at 6, although I had had no contact with his mom, either. I prayed for calm as my super-planner self met the unexpected. Emmanuel, who is from Canada, is taller than me (at 11 years old), and he turned out to be a delightfully nice kid. He and Lucas played soccer, skateboarded, played table tennis, and then at 6, the doorbell rang, and there stood Cheska (mom from India, dad from Madagascar, lived in the Netherlands and Geneva – I include these details just because I think everybody here has such an interesting life history!). He turned out to be a great kid, too, and the three played more table tennis, ate my taco salad, and watched MacGyver. Cheska’s mom lost track of time and ended up coming to get him around 9:30. Not at all the evening we had planned, but really great, all the same. I felt like our first foray into having kids over was a success.

On Saturday, buoyed by the success of our previous weekend’s hiking excursion along the Rhone, I decided that the whole family should hike up the Saleve, which is a small mountain near Geneva. So we hopped on the bus headed downtown, in order to catch the Number 8 bus to Veyrier Douane (for those who, like me until a month ago, had no idea what a douane is, it’s a border crossing – something that has become a huge part of our life since moving here, as whatever direction we travel, we end up in France. I even accidentally biked to France last week.). One of the important things that we have learned about the bus is that, just because two stops have the same name, that does not mean they are in exactly the same place. So when we disembarked from the 2 bus in Rive, we were not surprised that we did not see the bus stop for Number 8. After we wandered around a bit, a passing bicyclist (who turned out to be a British professor at the University) took pity on us and guided us to our stop. We had, of course, missed our connection, and then narrowly missed boarding the wrong bus (just because they have the same number does not always mean they go to the same place). We did, however, finally arrive at the douane, crossed over, and began our hike.

I had read on the internet that one could walk from the duoane to the top of the mountain in about 90 minutes, then take the telepherique back down. This seemed like a great idea, and indeed, turned out to be true, as far as the information went. What the post I read neglected to mention (probably because any dummy should have known) was that, while the Saleve may be a relatively small mountain, it is still a MOUNTAIN. And, as any dummy should know, mountain paths generally go UP. Being from the rolling but non-mountainous state of Ohio, we did not really comprehend the meaning of this truth. After a Saturday morning spent hiking straight towards the sun, we now know the difference between a hill and a mountain. On the plus side, the scenery was lovely and it was a great feeling of accomplishment to make it to the top. My wonderful, gracious family was, astonishingly, not angry with me for suggesting the climb, although they said they’d rather not do it again. Ever.  We celebrated with dinner in the land of free pop refills (Ikea) and a trip to the electronics store, Interdiscount, where, within 15 minutes,  both Johanna and I succeeded in knocking over displays and we purchased a toaster that has slots too thin for any slice of bread known to man.

I told Eric that I often feel like I’m starring in “The Three Stooges Do Geneva,” and the feeling continued on Sunday. We had planned to drop our rental car off at the airport after church, because we were going to pick up our new car on Monday. We found the rental car place, and all was well until the attendant asked about the trunk cover. We had, of course, removed the trunk cover a month ago, put it in the garage, and not given it a thought since. We explained this to him, and told him we’d bring it back before 6 that night. In my mind, this was a great plan, because Drew and Johanna were going to have to take the bus to youth group that night, and we could go with them as far as the airport. So, at 5:11, we were back on the bus, carrying the trunk cover, which really did look suspiciously like a rocket launcher. We arrived at the airport, returned the cover, and put the kids on the Y bus toward church. They had with them detailed instructions for the trip home, but I was still nervous – they would have to change buses twice, and they’d never ridden alone before. They were game to try, however, and as there wasn’t much choice, we took a deep breath and prayed that they would be okay.

Youth group ended at 8:30 p.m. At 9, Drew called to say, “Mom, don’t worry. We’re running a little late, but we’ll be fine.” They had boarded the right bus, but heading the wrong way. So they rode all the way to the end of the line, waited for the driver to take his break, and then rode back to the airport, where they (finally) caught the 23 bus back home. They arrived just before 10, and Drew thought it was the most fun he’d had all week. Johanna wasn’t quite as enthusiastic, but she hadn’t been scared, she said, just hungry. With all the time they spent on buses that day, they could have made it across Switzerland.

Flexibility and patience have never been chief among my virtues.  If there is one lesson I need to learn more than any other, it is to release the illusion of control in my life. I would say that the past week, and this whole move experience, is proving to be an excellent school for learning the truth of Proverbs 19:21: “Many are the plans in a man’s heart, but it is the Lord’s purpose that prevails.” If I am a really good student, can I graduate soon?