Merry Christmas!

Some of you have already received this Christmas letter. For those who have not, Merry Christmas. For those who have, I give you the gift of the 10 minutes you would have spent reading this. Enjoy a cup of coffee.

If I were a DJ, this is how I would spin the year . . . .

January: “Dooley” by the Dillards (Back Porch Bluegrass). It’s not the words of this song that are meaningful, as it would take someone with much greater depth than I to draw lessons from “Dooley, sittin’ by the holler; Dooley, tryin’ to make a dollar.” Rather, we played the song to remember the fun of Grandma and Grandpa Waggener’s visit, which included watching the Dillards on The Andy Griffith Show. We also celebrated Luc’s 12th birthday this month with a treasure hunt party.

February: “Unafraid” by Amy Grant (Somewhere Down the Road). This is what we tried to be, with varying degrees of success, as we slid down the slopes of the Jura Mountains in nearby France. What the kids like about skiing: Challenge, danger, adrenaline rush. What the parents like about skiing: The peaceful ride up the mountain on the télésiège, the beautiful view from the top of the run, the relief at having reached the bottom of the hill unbroken.

March: “All Things Bright and Beautiful” by Cecil Francis Alexander. We saw the first crocuses and flowering plums of spring in our neighborhood. We also had a fancy-dress mystery dinner party to celebrate the 14th birthday of our own bright and beautiful Johanna.

April: “Wonderful” from the musical Wicked. The title describes not only the show, which we saw in London’s West End during Easter break, but also our whole experience in that city. We saw some friends from Cincinnati, walked through the city’s beautiful gardens, and rode the London Eye. We also enjoyed the opportunity to speak English, and eat Krispy Kreme donuts and Chipotle. Our favorite thing, though, was probably the Sherlock Holmes Museum. It’s not that it’s so impressive; it’s just that we’re such fans!

May: I chose “Shake, Rattle, and Roll” by (take your pick) Big Joe Turner, Bill Haley, or Elvis Presley for the soundtrack to our trip through Northern Italy, which included miles of rolling along the confusing Italian motorways and the rattling and shaking of an earthquake in Padua. Eric (clearly more heavenly minded) chose “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands” (a traditional American spiritual) to remind us who made and upholds all creation: whether it is the earthquake and the sinking of cities or the beauty of the Mediterranean at Venice, the lake at Como, and the mountain as we waited (interminably) to pass through the Mont Blanc Tunnel into Italy

June: “Try to Remember,” from The Fantastiks. Try as we might, we can’t think of a single interesting thing about this month. No vacations. No milestones. No disasters. Even our family member who had a birthday (Eric) turned a ho-hum 41.

July: “Ohio” by Over the Rhine (Ohio). We spent most of July back in the U.S. (Michigan and Indiana, too, but those states don’t have as cool songs). It was great to b If I were a DJ, this is how I would spin the year . . . .

January: “Dooley” by the Dillards (Back Porch Bluegrass). It’s not the words of this song that are meaningful, as it would take someone with much greater depth than I to draw lessons from “Dooley, sittin’ by the holler; Dooley, tryin’ to make a dollar.” Rather, we played the song to remember the fun of Grandma and Grandpa Waggener’s visit, which included watching the Dillards on The Andy Griffith Show. We also celebrated Luc’s 12th birthday this month with a treasure hunt party.

February: “Unafraid” by Amy Grant (Somewhere Down the Road). This is what we tried to be, with varying degrees of success, as we slid down the slopes of the Jura Mountains in nearby France. What the kids like about skiing: Challenge, danger, adrenaline rush. What the parents like about skiing: The peaceful ride up the mountain on the télésiège, the beautiful view from the top of the run, the relief at having reached the bottom of the hill unbroken.

March: “All Things Bright and Beautiful” by Cecil Francis Alexander. We saw the first crocuses and flowering plums of spring in our neighborhood. We also had a fancy-dress mystery dinner party to celebrate the 14th birthday of our own bright and beautiful Johanna.

April: “Wonderful” from the musical Wicked. The title describes not only the show, which we saw in London’s West End during Easter break, but also our whole experience in that city. We saw some friends from Cincinnati, walked through the city’s beautiful gardens, and rode the London Eye. We also enjoyed the opportunity to speak English, and eat Krispy Kreme donuts and Chipotle. Our favorite thing, though, was probably the Sherlock Holmes Museum. It’s not that it’s so impressive; it’s just that we’re such fans!

May: I chose “Shake, Rattle, and Roll” by (take your pick) Big Joe Turner, Bill Haley, or Elvis Presley for the soundtrack to our trip through Northern Italy, which included miles of rolling along the confusing Italian motorways and the rattling and shaking of an earthquake in Padua. Eric (clearly more heavenly minded) chose “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands” (a traditional American spiritual) to remind us who made and upholds all creation: whether it is the earthquake and the sinking of cities or the beauty of the Mediterranean at Venice, the lake at Como, and the mountain as we waited (interminably) to pass through the Mont Blanc Tunnel into Italy

June: “Try to Remember,” from The Fantastiks. Try as we might, we can’t think of a single interesting thing about this month. No vacations. No milestones. No disasters. Even our family member who had a birthday (Eric) turned a ho-hum 41.

July: “Ohio” by Over the Rhine (Ohio). We spent most of July back in the U.S. (Michigan and Indiana, too, but those states don’t have as cool songs). It was great to be back at our home church, to spend time with beloved friends, and to see our dear families. Okay, going to Costco was pretty outstanding as well. 

August: “Celebrate” by Mika (Origin of Love). From the decadent fun of spending hours on the couch watching the London Olympics to visits from several friends and relatives, to finally getting to know our Swiss neighbors, to basketball camp, soccer coaching, and cooking classes, August was a month filled with energy and joy. 

September: “(What a) Wonderful World” by Art Garfunkel (The Singer). The song that begins “Don’t know much about history, don’t know much biology . . .” aptly sums up our dive into homeschooling in Switzerland. It’s not so much the academics about which we felt so ignorant, but rather the Swiss system, which is, predictably, rule-driven and inflexible, but ultimately, full of quite pleasant and helpful people. Drew remains at IIL, where his knowledge is his own. This month also brought his 16th birthday, celebrated with a “Mom, can I have a few friends over” get-together that turned into a 25-guest fiesta. Good thing his friends are polite and like to help clean up!

October: “Barnatro” by Ejnar Westling, popularized in the 1930s by Swedish folk singer Lapp Lisa. We visited the frozen North (the southernmost section, at least) this month. We loved seeing the country and reconnecting with relatives, including some of Lapp Lisa’s great-grandchildren. The Swedes are friendly, coffee-and-sweets-loving, and almost completely anglophone. Good thing, as our Swedish standbys of “tack” and “hej” will only get you so far.

November: “Run On” by Cantus (That Eternal Day). Yes, we do realize that the song has nothing to do with our early morning jogs or competitive race efforts. Nonetheless, it’s a great song to listen to while running, and this month was full of that. The Trans’Onesienne was the 17th and the Escalade on Dec. 1. It makes it into November, though, because of the Cours du Duc. This run began on Nov. 30, in France, and followed the route that the Duke of Savoy took in 1602 when he came to attack Geneva. He was repelled with a pot of hot soup, and the Genevois have celebrated the event ever since.

December: “Great Is Thy Faithfulness” by Thomas O. Chisholm. The past year brought literal (and figurative) mountaintop experiences, some thorny valleys, and quite a bit of monotonous trudging along familiar paths. We’re thankful to God -- in every situation -- for his unwavering faithfulness.

May he bless your Christmas and New Year with his unending love. e back at our home church, to spend time with beloved friends, and to see our dear families. Okay, going to Costco was pretty outstanding as well. 

August: “Celebrate” by Mika (Origin of Love). From the decadent fun of spending hours on the couch watching the London Olympics to visits from several friends and relatives, to finally getting to know our Swiss neighbors, to basketball camp, soccer coaching, and cooking classes, August was a month filled with energy and joy. 

September: “(What a) Wonderful World” by Art Garfunkel (The Singer). The song that begins “Don’t know much about history, don’t know much biology . . .” aptly sums up our dive into homeschooling in Switzerland. It’s not so much the academics about which we felt so ignorant, but rather the Swiss system, which is, predictably, rule-driven and inflexible, but ultimately, full of quite pleasant and helpful people. Drew remains at IIL, where his knowledge is his own. This month also brought his 16th birthday, celebrated with a “Mom, can I have a few friends over” get-together that turned into a 25-guest fiesta. Good thing his friends are polite and like to help clean up!

October: “Barnatro” by Ejnar Westling, popularized in the 1930s by Swedish folk singer Lapp Lisa. We visited the frozen North (the southernmost section, at least) this month. We loved seeing the country and reconnecting with relatives, including some of Lapp Lisa’s great-grandchildren. The Swedes are friendly, coffee-and-sweets-loving, and almost completely anglophone. Good thing, as our Swedish standbys of “tack” and “hej” will only get you so far.

November: “Run On” by Cantus (That Eternal Day). Yes, we do realize that the song has nothing to do with our early morning jogs or competitive race efforts. Nonetheless, it’s a great song to listen to while running, and this month was full of that. The Trans’Onesienne was the 17th and the Escalade on Dec. 1. It makes it into November, though, because of the Cours du Duc. This run began on Nov. 30, in France, and followed the route that the Duke of Savoy took in 1602 when he came to attack Geneva. He was repelled with a pot of hot soup, and the Genevois have celebrated the event ever since.

December: “Great Is Thy Faithfulness” by Thomas O. Chisholm. The past year brought literal (and figurative) mountaintop experiences, some thorny valleys, and quite a bit of monotonous trudging along familiar paths. We’re thankful to God -- in every situation -- for his unwavering faithfulness.

May he bless your Christmas and New Year with his unending love.

The -- Somewhat Tardy -- Report From the Duke's Race

      As those who have read this blog for the past year will doubtless remember, it was in December of 1602 that the Duke of Savoy staged an attack on Geneva. The attack was, in legend, anyway, repelled with the aid of a pot of hot vegetable soup tossed out the window onto the attacking soldiers by a woman known as Mère Royaume. Four hundred and ten years later found me lined up with a couple thousand other slightly loopy runners to reenact the voyage that the duke took as he came from Savoy to attack the city. When I signed up for the race in October, it seemed like such a fun idea. Eric and I were going to run the 17k together. We would take the bus to Reignier, France, in the evening for the race, which would begin at 9:30 p.m. The night run, crossing from France to Switzerland, the novelty . . . it all seemed unique, adventuresome, and far in the future. Then a work trip to London made it impossible to Eric to join me, and the adventure started to take on a darker tone. Running 10 miles in the dark by myself started to seem a little silly. Not to mention scary. Silly, nevertheless, has yet to stop me (though scary sometimes does). So, after a half-hour bus ride to Reinier  during which I sat next to a Portugese man who explained his running exploits in a mixture of English, French, and Spanish, and after sitting in a drafty gym for two hours waiting for the race to start and trying to decipher the conversations around me, there I was. As I stood, shivering, with all the other runners, I had to ask myself one question: Why had the Duke thought it was such a good idea to attack in December, of all months?

      

My view as I waited for the race to start. Everyone was given headlamps, which made for an amazing view of  a chain of lights snaking up the hills. It was an amazing view for those of us in the back, anyway.

      A cannon shot started the race. We were in blocks, and I think the organizers arranged the blocks so that the fastest runners went first, followed by the slowest, then the middle. At first, I passed person after person. Then, as each faster block behind me caught up, I found myself passed by waves of runners. Not very inspiring, but since one was not allowed to enter the race without being able to finish in under two hours, I had known from the beginning that I would be among the slow. I had been worried that I would be running all alone in the dark. The opposite was true. I'm not sure how many people were out there with me, but it was difficult to even find a place where I could move my arms without whacking someone.We passed a drum corps dressed in what I can only assume was traditional Savoyard costume. People around me were singing, "Nous sommes les Savoyards!" 

      As we ran on and I warmed up, the cold became less of an issue, and my question about the December attack was replaced with another: Why had the Duke chosen such a hilly route? We weren't exactly going over the Salève mountain -- but we weren't quite going around it either. Thanks to the early morning hill repeats that Johanna makes me do, however, I managed the hills with something close to aplomb. And just a short hour and 40 minutes later, I was coming into downtown Geneva  seeing the lights, the cheering crowds, and -- best of all -- the finish line. I was delighted that, while we had followed the duke's course, we had escaped the duke's boiling vegetable greeting.

      Another Escalade tradition is the Marmite Run, which took place the next night. I don't know how wearing costumes and parading around the city ties into the history of the Escalade, but I think almost any excuse to dress up is a good one. Johanna participated with a friend from the U.S. and one from Germany (a very international crowd). They dressed up as the Butcher, the Baker, and the Candlestick Maker. Eric and I took them downtown, but there were so many people in the parade that we didn't see them once from beginning to end. Typically, even though it was a costume event, lots of people ran it. These Swiss people are just not kidding.

The costumes were Grandma's idea -- a great one, I think. The only problem was that
Jo's bloody cleaver and apron scared people who didn't know the nursery rhyme.

It was difficult to take good pictures of the moving marchers in the dark. This is a gigantic dragon.

Here are some Marie Antoinettes followed by frogs.

One of my favorites -- Christmas windows.

Snowballs wearing Santa hats.

In Which the Elder Aliens Party in Berlin

In front of a map of divided Berlin that was part of an outdoor exhibition on the wall.
The hats were our first Berlin purchase. That city is cold in December.

      Lo these many years ago, we celebrated Anniversary #10 in Las Vegas. While that city is probably worth seeing for it's unique nature, it made me think of what Hell must be like -- hot, loud, and full of vice. Little did we know that a decade later, we'd be celebrating our 20th anniversary in Berlin . . . or that Berlin would be a lot closer to home than Las Vegas. If Las Vegas is Hell, then Berlin must be Heaven -- it's cold, full of beauty, and they drink their coffee in mugs almost as large as the steins they use for beer (although I understand that actually, "In Heaven There Is No Beer," which is fine with me).

      Despite these positive qualities, Berlin may seem like something of an odd anniversary destination -- one might ask, why not Paris, Venice, Antibes, or something more traditionally romantic. We chose, in our patented practical style, by pulling up the Easy Jet website, typing in the weekend we wanted to go, and selecting from among the deals offered. Upon further reflection, however, Berlin actually is an  appropriate place to celebrate a marriage. Through it's history, the city has been assailed by trials from within and without. Berlin can't have always been an easy place to live. Yet it is a place of great beauty and depth, and a place that is continuing to build and grow. What more can a marriage ask for than a history like that? 

       After four days in Germany's capital, it has definitely become one of our favorite destinations, one to which we hope to return. What's so great about Berlin?

#1. History. Berlin's stormy history makes the city a fascinating place to visit. We spent hours learning about the abuses of the Third Reich in Topographie des Terrors, a museum built on the site of the SS and Reich Security headquarters. Outside of the building stands one of the longest remaining sections of the Berlin Wall. 

The Berlin Wall outside the Topographie des Terrors. The holes are from treasure hunters
 who wanted to take a piece of history away with them.

Memorial to the Jews killed in World War II.

      We visited Checkpoint Charlie. The sign is the original one, I think, but the checkpoint itself is a reconstruction.

The sandbags and plaque commemorate the standoff between American and Soviet tanks in 1961.

      We spent more hours in the German History Museum learning about the years from the end of World War 1 through the present. We also visited the display on the Reformation. We could have learned about ancient history to the 1900s as well, but didn't feel able to digest any more information that day.

I never realized that Cranach painted Luther's wife as well. The pictures were meant to
be an argument in favor of marriage by the clergy.

2. Architecture. Despite the destruction of war, Berlin in chock-full of amazing buildings. 

The Berliner Dom

The Reichstag

The Brandenburg Gate. I found it very interesting that Napoleon took it to Paris for a few years.
I wonder who he got to do that job.

Charlottenburg Castle (a Christmas market was assembling in front
of the castle, but nothing was open yet, unfortunately).

3. Food. Probably it is because our heritage is more German than French, but we loved the food in Berlin. Big breakfasts. Sausage and sauerkraut. Delicious baked goods. None of these ridiculous beautiful, tiny portions intended to please the eyes more than the stomach. The Germans like food. They don't put up with exorbitant prices, either. We did have one funny dining experience. We were sitting at a table in a crowded restaurant when an older woman came up and motioned toward one of our two empty chairs. I assumed that she wanted to take the chair to another table, and so I nodded and smiled. She and her husband promptly joined us at our table. Their English was limited. Our German more so. Nevertheless, Eric managed to carry on a conversation. I wish we could have talked more to them, as we learned they had grown up and lived in East Berlin. I'm sure they could have added to our historical perspective. As it was, the situation was somewhat awkward. My parents, who lived in Germany for a year before I was born, assured me that table sharing is perfectly normal. That kind of efficient use of resources is probably why the country is doing comparatively well economically.

Eric in our favorite restaurant, right around the corner from the hotel. No one joined us at the table here.

   

4. The Christmas Spirit. Berlin is full of Christmas decorations, Christmas music, and Christmas markets. The lights and festivity make the water darkness not only bearable, but kind of cozy. We heard a wonderful Christmas choir concert in the Franzosischer Dom, which the city built for the Huguenot Christians fleeing France after the Edict of Nantes was revoked. I'm sure the Huguenots  would have loved the ancient and modern hymns. I know we did.

The Christmas market outside the Franzosischer Dom. We found wooden molds
for springerlies -- one of our favorite Christmas cookies.

The Best Worst Pie Ever

       I went running with EuroSMAC last week. As I may have mentioned, it's been a little wet around here, and the trail was a little splashy. We slogged through some serious mud, baptizing our fancy running shoes. Then we charged up a rocky and uneven hill at a speed far zippier than my usual trot. This is what I get for running with teenagers. So I decided that, as revenge for their efforts to improve my fitness, and since I was hearing a little whining about the mud and hills, I would share some of the wisdom that comes with age.
       "Girls," I began (pant . . . gasp). "Did it ever strike you that sometimes the worst experiences make the best memories?"
       I was thinking about the run, made both more difficult and more memorable by the adversity. Then I thought about how many of the experiences I've shared in this Blog are memorable because they were difficult. Climbing the Salève wasn't fun at the time. Neither was being lost in Italy. Being locked in a subterranean garage was certainly no picnic. But how much more memorable were those experiences than all the times I have successfully parked the car, all the pleasant hikes along flat trails, and all the smooth car trips we've taken (actually, I don't think there have been any of those). When I told the dad of EuroSMAC's other member my musings, he said that adversity is memorable because our lives are easy. If life was full of adversity, it would be the moments of respite that we remembered. I'm sure he's right, but that's more philosophical than I really want to be right now. Right now, I want to write about The Pie.
         It was Thanksgiving, and I was probably in my early teens. We were at my Grandma Emy and Grandpa Bob's house in Indiana with all the aunts, uncles, and cousins. My dad and his sister, my Aunt Jane, decided, with no discernible provocation that this year, they would bake a pumpkin pie. This was not a decision made lightly. Pumpkin pie is my dad's favorite dessert. He often asks for it for his birthday, which is in July. In addition, our family includes several experienced and fully competent pie makers. Nevertheless, Dad and Aunt Jane would make the pie. And they would do it right. From the beginning. From scratch. No Libby's canned pumpkin for them.
          I think the first mistake was the pumpkin they chose. Whether from pure lack of knowledge or from a desire to use up leftovers, they cooked up a Jack O'Lantern pumpkin, rather than the small variety usually used in pies. Actually, maybe the choice was motivated by a good old American love of the large. Without a blender, they simply cooked and mashed the pumpkin flesh. They then mixed in the Carnation milk, spices, eggs, and heaven-only-knows what else, and poured it all into a crust they had made. Probably the crust was made from stone-ground whole wheat flour, in some sort of misguided effort to make the pie healthful. Then they slid the whole thing in the oven.
           The pie was stringy, chewy, with crust like cardboard. In an effort to redeem the whole thing as a joke, they covered the top with shaving cream and set it out on the sideboard. No one was fooled. As a culinary experience, the pie may have been among the worst I have seen; it is, nevertheless, one of my favorite holiday memories. Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Cozy

      It is November in Geneva with a vengeance. Saturday night, it was raining so hard that even I didn't want to go out for dinner, so we decided to order pizza. Dominos exists here, and, if one is a COMPLETE BABY about making telephone calls in French, one can order pizza online. Further, if one does not want to venture into the rain to withdraw cash from the bank machine down the street, one can pay online with a credit card. Perfect. Except that when I tried to pay, I was directed to a page that informed me that all the redirects required by the payment process had left my computer lost in cyberspace. I tried again, received the same message, and started to worry that perhaps somehow I had just ordered two Hawaiian pizzas (and cheesy bread and Cinnastixs -- hey, we're hungry over here). So I nicely asked Drew to call Dominos and ask if we had ordered twice. He nicely did, only to be informed that they had no order from us. Pas de pizza. I tried one more time online (I am not a quitter), then called the other Dominos in Geneva, just to make sure. Nothing. So I did what I should have done all along and told the patient man on the telephone what we wanted. In my flusteration over trying to repeat my phone number in French, I forgot to ask if I could pay with a credit card, so guess what . . . we had to go out in the rain anyway. Later, I saw a message in my email from a company called Saferpay, telling me that my credit card payment of 57 chf had indeed been successful. Twice. We kept waiting for the doorbell to ring with our other two pizzas, but they never came. The lesson here seems to be, "Quit being such a coward about the phone calls, and you'll be able to stay inside where it's warm. And save hundreds of francs into the bargain."

      The good thing about nasty fall weather is that it makes staying inside where it's warm that much more blissful. So, in the spirit of warmth, here are some things that make November cosy.

1. The sugar bowl. I don't know what it is about a sugar bowl. I don't even like sugar in my coffee. But there is something about this piece of crockery that just says, "come in and curl up."

2. The Estonian Philharmonic Chamber Choir. I heard about this group and how it survived through years of communism in a radio segment called, "The Singing Revolution" (The World and Everything in It, Nov. 10. http://www.worldmag.com/podcast/worldandeverything.cfm if you're interested). The story was so lovely that I looked up the group on Spotify. The music perfectly captures the feeling of being inside in candlelight watching rain run down the windows.

3. And speaking of candlelight, the darker days allow for more hours of candle burning. This one, with the candlestick made in my grandfather's furniture factory from the tulip tree that grew near his home, makes me feel connected to my forbears and so is particularly comforting. The marshmallow-scented one from Migros isn't bad, either.

4. The Thanksgiving Tree. Years ago, in an effort to extend my favorite holiday, I started having the kids attach leaves to a paper tree that we taped up in the kitchen. Each leaf bore something for which we were thankful. The idea has evolved, and now we use an actual tree . . . okay, a branch, but it's 3D, anyway. So far, we've been thankful for football, friends, memories, an available God, running, and, I'm pretty sure, video games. We range from the sublime to the trivial by the minute.

5. Soup. It's such a great meal. On Saturday, a person could cook up a pot of say, chicken vegetable soup with gnocchi, and on the following Wednesday, the family could still be enjoying a tummy-warming dinner in a pot. I did promise to make something different for dinner tonight. Chili?

The Aliens Visit the Old Country, Part One

       Spurning all advice from people who had actually visited the country, we spent the last days of October and first days of November in Sweden. Turns out, our advisors were right. The country is cold and dark this time of year, even though we confined ourselves to the southern 20 percent. The truth is, we just couldn't manage a summer trip, and as it turns out, the purpose of the trip wasn't really sightseeing, anyway.
        For those of you who may not know, my mother's parents are both from Sweden, having moved to the U.S. as adults and met and married there. Many members of both families stayed in Sweden, meaning that I have a host of relatives there, mostly of the second-cousin-once-removed variety. I've met many of them at reunions in the U.S., and I was in Sweden as a 7-year-old, but Eric and the kids hadn't met most of the family. We're a 2-hour, 35-Euro plane flight away, and clearly, it was time to go.
        Because of the time of year and because we are not entirely loony, we decided to focus on my grandfather's family, who mostly live in southern Sweden. My grandfather Martin spent the last years of his life in Göteborg, which is Sweden's second-largest city (about the size of the greater Geneva area). He apparently shared my enthusiasm for public transportation, spending his days riding the tram from one end of the line to the other with stops for lunch and coffee. We planned a tour that began with a flight into Copenhagen and a train ride across one of the longest bridges in the world (16k from the Danish coast to Malmö, Sweden, where a cousin lives with her family). We were then going to take the train to the other side of the country (a ride of only 1 1/2 hours, as opposed to something like 24 hours from top to bottom, which, if you haven't seen a map lately, gives you a good idea of Sweden's shape). My mom's cousin, Tonnie, lives in Sölvesborg on what has to be one of the world's loveliest properties, sitting on about 3 miles of Baltic coastline. Then we would take the train to Göteborg to visit the trams and some other cousins there.

At Nyhaven in Copenhagen. We actually had sunny weather the first few days,
and Copenhagen is well worth seeing, even in the cold. 

Nyhaven again.

The Little Mermaid of Hans Christian Andersen fame. She sits in the harbor in Copenhagen, and is the city's most famous landmark. She's also one of the world's most disappointing landmarks, because she is really unexpectedly little. We were saved from devastation by the fact that my dad had forewarned us.

       My initial impression of Sweden is that it is much more like America than Switzerland. First of all, nearly everyone speaks English. My cousin Lotta said that Swedes like Americans, like America, and like to practice their English with Americans. My young cousins told us that they speak such good English because they watch a lot of YouTube and play a lot of video games. Hmmm. When I mentioned that in Geneva one kind of has to know a little French to get around, one young cousin was shocked, telling me that in Sweden, if you are making a doctor appointment, you can talk in Swedish, English, or even Italian if you want. In addition to the language, Sweden has adopted some parts of America about which I am not so crazy . . . there seem to be McDonald's and Burger King restaurants on every corner, and shopping malls and traffic abound. Convenient for sure, but I have to say that I like the quaint bakeries and narrow streets in Switzerland and France. Nonetheless, I do appreciate the larger cups of coffee up north, but I think the Americans probably adopted that from the Swedes, and not the other way around. It's a chilly place.

       The Swedes, or my relatives at least, are also outstandingly hospitable. One cousin made wonderful dinners every night, then invariably apologized for them, saying, "I hope you can eat this."  Another cousin insisted on driving us the four hours from Sölvesborg to Göteborg, even though we had planned to take the train. Everywhere we went, people opened their homes and took time to visit with us. We weren't allowed to pay for anything -- not even our toothpaste and shampoo at the grocery store. Strangers were friendly, too, asking where we were from, offering directions, and generally being far more open and smiling than the Swiss (which, okay, isn't difficult).

Tonnie's place on the Baltic. It's called Bjorkelund, though I'm not sure I have the spelling right.

Lucas braving the rocks at Bjorkelund.

Our guesthouse. The hot tub on the porch was a highlight for the kids, especially Lucas.

While we were in Sölvesborg, Tonnie took us on a tour of Småland, which is famous for glass factories. This was taken in the Kosta Boda factory, which also has an outlet mall. He's making wine glasses, I think.

The Småland tour included some family history, as that is where my grandfather (and his brother, Erik, who was Tonnie's dad) grew up. Anne Svensson was Martin and Erik's sister, who died quite young. Their father is also buried in this cemetery, but we didn't know where to find his grave.

          In Sweden, we also realized how much French we actually know. While we can conduct daily business in French, our Swedish is sorely lacking. Despite the fact that most people there speak English, a few of my older relatives do not. I had foolishly underestimated what a barrier this would be. We spent one whole morning driving around with Tonnie, and about all we understood was "titta," which means "look." I, and I think the rest of the family, too, felt bad that we couldn't communicate to Tonnie (and a few others) how much we appreciated their hospitality and how interested we were in them. A few of the younger members of the family plan to remedy this problem at some point in their lives. Until then, a big "Tack så mycket" (our other useful phrase) to all the wonderful people who made the trip one of our favorites.

Johanna, typically, found little friends everywhere, from Isa in Malmö . . . 

       

. . . to Esther, whose family (nobly representing my grandmother's side) traveled 12 hours
from Umeå to see us in Göteborg.

The boys made friends, too. Drew is way happier to be eating Swedish pizza with
 his third cousins than he looks . . . really.

       

News from the Collège de Tirelonge

      One of Johanna's recent lab reports for Physical Science bore the conclusion: "We should find out the names of supplies in French before we go shopping." Here's why:

      The experiment called for hydrogen peroxide which -- silly me -- I assumed would have a name that sounded similar in French. I couldn't find anything of that description, so I picked up a brown bottle of something from the first aid section of the supermarket. The bottle looked like a hydrogen peroxide bottle, so I thought we'd give it a try. Well. The experiment involved filling a balloon with oxygen, which was going to be produced when we mixed the hydrogen peroxide with yeast. We were then going to release the oxygen near a candle burning under a glass jar, at which point the candle would burn brighter, demonstrating an important property of oxygen. Whatever I bought produced nothing when mixed with yeast, which I suppose is better than the alternative (that I bought something explosive). I then had an inspiration. We would mix vinegar and baking soda, which produces some kind of gas, fill the balloon with that, and see what happened. Those of you who know more about chemistry than I can already guess the results. The balloon filled nicely with gas, we released the gas into the jar with the candle, and the candle sputtered out (actually, it didn't even sputter, because some vinegar had gotten into the balloon as well, and it doused the candle immediately -- and made a mess of the kitchen counter). A quick visit to Google informed me that what we had produced was carbon dioxide gas. I comforted myself with the knowledge that Albert Einstein, Winston Churchill, and even Oprah Winfrey were at one time considered failures. (I learned this from a blog entitled "50 Famously Successful People Who Failed at First.")

      I will be making frequent returns to that blog, as homeschooling in Switzerland does present some unique challenges. Yesterday, Luc, Jo, and I had a meeting with the children's doyens. These people are basically guidance counsellors, who are each assigned to work with one grade level of children in the local public school. They follow that particular group all through their middle school years, which I think is a nice idea. Anyway, we should have met with them earlier, but it takes me a while to work up to making French phone calls, and I had some others earlier on the list. The two worst things about going to meetings which I have set up on the telephone are: 1) I am always a little nervous that I have the wrong time, since in addition to the numbers being in French, they also use 24-hour time. So I had written down 16h30, but you never know. 2) Unless I remember to ask for the spelling of the person's name with whom I am meeting, I usually have no idea what it is. This time, I had forgotten to ask, so all I knew is that we were meeting with a woman whose name sounded like it began with "s." Before the meeting, I had written down the things I needed to find out or obtain: Scope and sequence for history, geography, and the sciences, so the children could choose paper topics; French textbooks, which I had been told I could get for free; and previous-year copies of the Evacoms, which are the standardized tests the kids will take in May. I gave myself a strict pep talk about not leaving the meeting without answers to my questions, and I told the kids to look as happy, smart, and well-adjusted as possible. They had to go to running practice right after the meeting, so in their Stade Genève track suits, they at least looked sporty.

       The good things about the meeting: There was a nice big sign hanging from the ceiling directing us to the secretariat, where we were supposed to present ourselves. The staff mailboxes were in plain view, and only one doyenne had a name that began with "s." The doyens spoke less English than I do French, so they were very patient with me. Best of all, I did not have to ask a single question, as they were outstandingly prepared with website recommendations, a calendar of test dates, and textbooks for not only French, but math and English as well. Also, all of this took only about 20 minutes.

       The bad thing about the meeting: The kids hopped on the bus to Stade Genève right outside the school, leaving me to walk the mile home carrying a stack of 15 textbooks.

       The good thing about the textbooks: Whenever we start to develop inferiority complexes, we can open up the English workbook and knock out a few exercises.

Forme des phrases complètes avec les mot suivants:

a) can/speak/I/French/.

b) Julie/the/Can/piano/play/?

c) can/Denis/not/baseball/play/.

I'm feeling smarter already!

       

The Cows Coming Home

      I'd like to open this post with a few random observations, each a propos of nothing and none interesting enough for a blog of its own. Then I will move to the real topic, which involves more pictures of cows than you've ever seen (probably), and certainly more than I've ever taken. (In the spirit of crediting sources, thank you to a dear friend for the "observation" idea. I do realize that it was yours first.)

      Observation #1: This has been a really successful cooking week. I baked brownies from scratch that actually tasted as good as brownies from a box. I also welcomed the autumn chill with risotto and my first run at polenta (with pumpkin -- so yummy). To top it off, Johanna, Lucas, and I stretched the meaning of nutrition class to allow us to make our own Asiago cheese bagels on Friday. Although the project did involve several steps (including boiling before baking -- who knew?), it was actually surprisingly easy, and the bagels, though not Panera, were outstanding.

     Observation #2: All of a sudden, our family is consuming astonishing amounts of food. I understand that this state of affairs is considered normal for households with (almost) three teenagers, but still . . . . I am at the grocery store daily. Good thing it's a short walk.

     Observation #3: Every time we meet someone's grandmother, she comments on how handsome Drew is. He is beginning to develop a complex about this; while it's always nice to be complemented, he'd prefer to hear about his good looks from the teenage girls. I told him that the phenomenon is due to the fact that he is handsome, but in a very non-threatening, "I will have your daughter home by 10 p.m." kind of way, rather than in that smoldering, dangerous way that may attract the younger set. Someday, he will appreciate this. Perhaps.

      Observation #4: As with everything else about the Swiss, the Swiss chapters of Boy Scouts of America are not kidding. Lucas just returned from a 9-hour hike up a mountain in Kandersteg. Even allowing for 12-year-old exaggeration, that's a long hike. Amazingly, he said he'd do it again given the opportunity. Clearly, there is some brainwashing going on. Actually, it was probably the outdoor cooking that made it all worthwhile for him.

     And now, on to the cows. Last weekend was the Desalpes festival in St. Cergue, which is a town in the Jura mountains about 45 minutes from here. The Desalpes celebrates the cows coming down from their summer pastures in the mountains to their winter pastures at lower elevations. I had heard that the cows have flowers on their head and come down in troops, led by the herdsmen. Last year, when I suggested that we go see this spectacle, I was met with moaning about getting up early on a Saturday and who wants to go see a bunch of cows, anyway. So this year, I announced that I was going, and people could come or not, as they wished. This, as it turns out, is a brilliant strategy. Everyone except Drew bit (he has a Saturday morning job teaching English, so he had a legitimate excuse).

We had pictured the cows ambling slowly down a grassy path. Instead, they thundered -- or at least jogged -- through the streets of the village. Apparently, they were eager to reach their winter pastures.

The herdsmen all had matching outfits, which I assume were traditional Swiss cowherd garb.

These two were leading the troop, carrying a sign with the name of their family or farm.

You can see one of the flower-bedecked cows here. They didn't all have flowers; just the ones in the front of each herd.

The bells were huge and loud, in a nice, pastoral kind of way. They had them for sale for 300 chf a piece.

Here's my best cow picture. Lots of them had evergreen branches with tissue flowers on their heads, rather than actual flowers.

Some of the herdsmen seemed kind of nervous that their cows would run out of control and trample someone. Also, there were signs everywhere disclaiming responsibility for adults, children, or animals injured by the cows. We didn't see any injuries, though. When the loudspeaker announced the next "troupeau,"  people pretty much moved to the side to give the cows their space. And to avoid being splattered with . . . well, I'm sure you can guess.

More cows.

And still more cows. This was my favorite herding family, too.

Between the parading cows, dancers performed traditional Alpine dances.

It looked very much like Dutch dancing, except that they didn't wear wooden shoes, and they shouted a lot in the middle of the dance.

A band accompanied the dancers.

Leading a herd.

Cows with headdresses.

      This is about half of the pictures I took, but I think it is adequate to get the general idea of the concentration of cattle. We did not invest in a 300 chf cowbell, but we did buy some local honey and some cheese . . . emmentaler, of course. We returned home cold and wet from the rain, but I don't think I was the only one who was happy to have experienced the Desalpes.