My Favorite Thing

     Geneva is a great place to live, and I find so many things here for which to be thankful. One aspect rises to the top, though, as the aspect that I will miss the most when we have to move (which I’m trying not to think about). It is not the pastries and chocolate, which are excellent, but hardly life-changing. It is not the mountains, which I love much more than realized I would, but I can survive without (I'm almost sure). It’s definitely not the coffee, which is high-priced and not very good. The true alteration on our lifestyle comes on wheels about every 6 minutes. I am deeply in love with the Number 14 Tram.

            My enthusiasm for public transportation was born the first time we drove a car in Geneva. Equipped with sneaky speed cameras, traffic lights timed to coordinate never, roads that begin, end, change name, and turn with no warning, and laws and customs favoring pedestrians, bikes, and motorcycles, Geneva is a driver’s nightmare. I have a friend from London who says she’d take London traffic over Geneva’s any day. She spends close to two hours a day picking up her daughter from school and taking her home – a round-trip distance of perhaps 10 miles. After a few trips through the city, we concluded that we would do almost anything rather than drive around here, up to and including never going anywhere (Migros and Coop both have delightful grocery delivery services, so where do we really have to go?).

            Nonetheless, I’m not really a stay-at-home type. My first forays into getting myself around sans car included biking and walking, both of which I love. They are great exercise, I can learn the names of the streets at low speed, and, as I said before, Geneva loves walkers and bikers. On the other hand, while one certainly can – as I have – bike and/or hike in a skirt and/or heels, it’s far more comfortable to travel in casual garb. Living in a European city, however, means that there are a limited number of places one can appear in casual garb. In addition, the items one can carry on foot or bike are also limited. I can lug a six-pack of liter water bottles home from the Lancy Center (about 400 meters away), but I wouldn’t want to carry them much farther. And unless I invest in a bike basket or a trailer (not a bad idea, actually), carrying stuff while steering a bike is even more difficult. Finally, with the advent of winter, the days became short, cold, and often foggy or rainy, making outdoor travel much less appealing. So it was around the end of October that buses and trams began to take on a rose-colored glow for me.

            You know what people say about water – the more you drink it, the more you crave it? That is what is happening with me and public transport. I not only take the tram to French class, which is in the highly congested Plainpalais neighborhood, but I’ve even been taking the bus on Thursday mornings to my Bible study at church, which is in France, not even a bad drive on the motorway. It takes twice as long to get there on the bus, but I can read, do my French homework, look out the window, and relax, without worrying that the cameras on Pont Butin are snapping 100 chf pictures of my license plate as it speeds by at 3 kilometers over the limit. Last night, Eric and I went to a play and took the 21 bus right to the door of the theater. The kids ride the bus to school, to the mall, and to friends’ houses. Drew takes the train when he babysits. They love the freedom, and I love not having to spend all afternoon and evening carting them hither and yon.

            Nothing is perfect this side of heaven. Sometimes we have to stand on the bus because it’s so crowded. This happens particularly in the mornings when students and commuters pack the main routes through town. I can’t carry a week’s worth of groceries on the tram, or my fellow riders would give me nasty looks. Yesterday, I missed the bus to Bible study, which meant I also missed my connection and ended up riding a strange pink and purple bus and arriving 30 minutes late. Occasionally people on the bus smell funny, though (since we are in Switzerland) they are hardly ever loud or obnoxious. Some people might consider the accordion player who frequently boards the 15 tram and passes his coin purse while playing Alpen tunes to be a drawback, but I actually love the music (and I admire the fact that he is doing something to earn money, rather than just begging), so I always give him francs. We saw a huge group of Swiss Army soldiers on the tram last week. One gave Lucas a Swiss Army chocolate bar. Where else would that have happened? I find out about plays, concerts, and new cures for colds on the placards and screens in the bus. I can enjoy the scenery without having to worry about running into a curb or missing my turn.

            My mom tells me that in his final years in Sweden, my Grandpa Martin would spend all day riding the trolleys around town, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. It was his entertainment, transportation, and contact with the outside world, all rolled into one. So if I one day decide, just for kicks, to take the 12 Tram from Palettes on the west side of town all the way to Molesuillaz on the east, I will be not only fulfilling a dream of mine (okay, I know it’s a strange one), but also following in the family tradition.

           

Our First Swiss Birthday Party

Candles in the pizza (Luc isn't a big fan of cake, so we had ice cream bars instead.)

     Saturday we celebrated Luc's 12th birthday (in French, he has a "douzaine" years -- which sounds a lot like a dozen to me). It was our first birthday party in Switzerland. Drew turned 15 in September, but continuing in his quest to be our least-expensive child, he didn't want a party (also factoring into the decision was the fact that we had been here for about two weeks and really didn't know anyone to invite). Lucas, being the social bug that he is, wanted a party with all 50 or so of his best friends. Birthday parties here are big -- like, rent out a hotel ballroom kind of big -- and we neither can, not want to, compete with that. So we talked Lucas down to inviting his 15 classmates over for a homemade treasure hunt and homemade pizza. It ended up that we had 12 Year 7's, including Lucas. I have said before on this blog that Luc has a really nice group of friends, and I was struck again by that fact at the party. The gang was totally up for our exhausting 90 minute trek all over Onex and Lancy to find and decode the clues we'd hidden. They read their maps, jogged at least a couple of miles, stuck with the hard-to-solve ciphers, and were great sports -- both about winning the treasure chest of gold-wrapped chocolate bars and coins -- and about losing it. (The winners shared nicely, and our carnozet floor was littered with gold foil from the wrappers.) We had three teams of four kids each, with Drew, Johanna, and Eric providing direction and managing the safety of the crew. I had spent the week planning, and split my time during the party between hanging out with Johanna's group and setting up clues at home.
     Besides the fact that they are all enthusiastic, polite, and personable kids, Luc's friends also exemplify what I have mentioned before as one of our favorite parts about living here, which is the opportunity to get to know people from all different cultures. Luc's guest list included kids from Germany, the United States, South Korea, Spain, South Africa, Great Britain, France, Sri Lanka -- and even two who have spent their whole life in Geneva (though neither is, of course, Swiss; that, unfortunately, seems to be the underrepresented group in all our gatherings). As a side benefit, while we were racing madly around the neighborhood (in a completely non-disruptive Swiss-approved fashion, of course), I met one of the neighbors. She asked (in English that sounded completely American to me) if we were doing a treasure hunt. We chatted, and I found out that she is Italian and her husband is English, she came here with P&G several years ago, and has two small children (I immediately told her that I have two excellent babysitters should she have the need). We still have yet to meet many neighbors besides the lovely gardeners next door, so I was delighted to get to know someone else.

Johanna directs the Mafia game.

     After the hunt, the kids headed to the basement for food and games. They played Mafia, which does not have to involve as much shrieking as seemed to be drifting up the stairs. Every time we went downstairs to check on the injuries, however, the gang was sitting quietly.
     In my extremely limited experience, many European kids don't like cake -- it's too sweet. Happily, neither does Lucas, though I'm not sure it's for the same reason. So we put the candles in the pizza and had ice cream bars for dessert. Another difference in European vs. American parties is the presents. First of all, the child whose birthday it is does not open the gifts during the party. Lucas was ambivalent about this tradition; perhaps feeling that he needed someone to appreciate the loot, he asked a few of his closest buddies to stay an extra 15 minutes and witness the gift-opening. The second interesting difference involving gifts (perhaps connected to the first) is that most people gave cash. Some gave gift cards, and a very few gave actual gift items. Lucas was delighted with this custom, as it means he can go shopping, which, inexplicably, he loves. I wish I felt the same about the upcoming Nerf-gun-buying excursion -- but I guess that's how the kids feel when I make them spend Wednesday afternoon at the hair-cutting school.
   

Aliens on Skis

At least we looked the part!

     If you live in Geneva, you almost have to ski. During the chilly, gray, drippy winter days, everyone longs for the weekend, when they can head for the sun and the snow of the mountains. I approached the whole skiing thing ambivalently. On the one hand, I love to be outside, I love cold weather, and I love to be with Eric and the kids, particularly if it involves making them be outside in cold weather. On the other hand, while nearly every conversation I have with people here includes mention of the joys of skiing, just about every other conversation works its way around to bad knees, concussions, and broken legs.
     Nevertheless, we decided that we had no choice but to give the sport a try. In October, we drove over to Migros Locaski to rent the equipment (perhaps one day I'll write a post detailing the ubiquity of the Migros grocery chain in every corner of the market). In November, we bought season lift passes, and in early December, I called to schedule a ski lesson for us at the Ecole du Ski Francais. Aldi-Suisse had conveniently offered excellent deals throughout the authumn on gloves, coats, pants, helmets, and socks, so we were equipped with all the necessary gear.
    On December 17 we set out, with Grandma and Grandpa in the car to document the whole day in photos and provide cheerleading support for the team. We had decided to ski in the Jura mountains because they are closer, cheaper, and lower than the more prestigious Alps. We certainly don't need Alpine ski runs at our level of non-expertise. No one could give us an address for Col de la Faucille, the resort with the Ski School. Everyone told us to "go to Ferney, then Ornex, then Gex, and follow the signs." As pathetic GPS addicts, we are not fond of this kind of direction, but we had little choice. We wound and climbed, got lost at least once (what's a car trip without that inevitable sinking sensation when you know you've passed the turnoff and are headed down the mountain?), and arrived about 15 minutes late for our lesson, I'm sure helping to confirm all kind of negative impressions the French ski school people have of American laxity.

Waiting at the Ski School

Our instuctor, a model of patience

     Our instructor wore a Stetson with his red ski school snowsuit and was probably in his 50s. I'm sure that his name was not "Jill," but it sure sounded like it. I'll call him Gill. We had asked for an English-speaking instructor. Gill's English was leagues better than our French, but still on the limited side. The way it worked was that he would explain a concept, we would fail to understand, and he would say, "look me." We would watch him effortlessly walk up a hill, turn, snowplow, or whatever, and then, just like little ducklings, we would try it one by one. I always went last, and was continually recieving instructions to (I thought), "Keep your head forward." Things went much better after Eric informed me that Gill was actually telling me to keep my hands forward. After close to two hours of instruction that included big turns, little turns, stopping, and falling off the pull-lift, Gill released us to try the pistes ourselves. He pointed to a gentle, tree-lined hill over to the right, informing us, "That one is possible for you." We set off to find the chair lifts.

Some ducklings

      As it turns out, I kind of liked skiing. At least, I liked the chair-lift ride up to the top of the mountain, with its incredible views. I also liked the part after I made it past the beginning of the blue hill (which was kind of  steep and croweded), and onto the green piste which branched off to the left. It wasn't so much that the green hill was less steep (which of course, it was), but that it was less crowded. Drew and I share a common fear, not of hurting ourselves, but of skiing uncontrollably and and great speed into someone else. Thus, the little-used green hill is just right for me. I understand that there is a very long green piste at a neighboring ski resort where our passes also work. It takes about 20 minutes to ski down, I'm told. Sounds just about right.

I didn't really like the goggles, but Gill told me to wear them.

This is Drew, although it could just as well have been Eric. The only difference was the color of their helmets.

Grandpa and Grandma made sure that the experience did not go undocumented.



Happy skiers Lucas and Johanna -- Cautious skier Mom



Robbing the Clueless

     I read a lot of detective novels. So I probably should have noticed something awry upon seeing the veranda door open when arriving home from church on Christmas Eve. Instead, I closed the door, leaving my fingerprints all over it and accepting Johanna's explanation that she had seen Lucas go out that way. Like the rest of the family, I was eager for Swedish meatballs, mashed potatoes, and opening presents. We set dinner on the table, built a fire, and were preparing to exchange gifts when Johanna arrived from the computer roomn with the announcement that the window was open and there was a chair in front of it. My first thought was that Lucas had opened it, planning to come through as Tompte with the gifts, which he had been hoarding in pillowcases up in his bedroom. As it turned out, the window was not merely open, but broken off its frame. Dad and Eric set about repairing it (putting their fingerprints all over it), while the wheels in my brain slogged their way through the molasses surrounding them. Finally, I said,
     "I think we should call the police."
    We decided that was a good idea, and then thought to check the veranda. Finding the slider open, we closed it, nicely leaving finger prints all over that one, too. Then I ambled on over to the house of our 80ish neighbor, to ask him to help us call the police because we thought we had been robbed. Eric and Dad continued to destroy evidence at the computer room window as M. Laubacher (a native Swiss who, most providentially for us, spent some of his youth in New York and feels warmy toward Americans) explained that he would have to call from our phone, or the police would not come. I led him up to the master bedroom, which inexplicably houses the only phone jack in the house. I felt a pang of embarassment as I glanced at the mess on the bed. Too bad I hadn't cleaned it all up before we left for church . . . . Wait a minute, I didn't leave the drawers to my bedside table on the bed, nor all those empty jewelry boxes. Holy Cow, I think we've been robbed! In all embarassing honesty, it wasn't until that moment that I realized what had happened. Up until then, I still cherished the lingering belief that one of the kids had broken the window and had just been afraid to own up. None of the kids, however, would make off with my jewelry.
     M. Laubacher reached the police, who told him they would be over in a couple of hours. They couldn't come right away, they explained, because -- no kidding -- they had at least a two-hour backlog of robberies. This, apparently, is some people's idea of last-minute Christmas shopping. The policeman also told M. Laubacher to remind us not to touch anything . . . else.
     Since we seemed to have a little time before the police arrived, we decided to open Christmas gifts, which were all intact, possibly thanks to the fact that they had been up in Luc's room and not under the tree. At 10 p.m., right when he was expected, the Police Investigator showed up at the door. If there's anything worse than being robbed on Christmas Eve, it has to be spending the holiday investigating robberies, but our officer was very nice about the whole thing, let the kids watch him, and even found a footprint which had escaped our bumbling. He patiently explained the deal with robbery in Geneva, which is that there are about 20-40 home burglaries a day, more on the holidays, and more if you are a foreigner. The theives -- the group that hit our home, anyway -- want only jewelry and cash. They don't have networks to dispose of computers and other electronics, which was good news for us. The officer told us that we could install an alarm system if we wanted to, but the police would never be able to make it to the house in time to catch the theives, who only stay inside for a few minutes. He added that, while the police often catch the perpetrators, the courts immediately release them (he couldn't explain why this was the case). M. Laubacher, who came over for a few minutes to make sure everything was okay, added the helpful information that our house has been robbed four or five times over the years, that his house is one of only two in the neighborhood that had not been robbed (yet), and that he and his wife leave some cash both downstairs and in the bedroom whenever they go out, in hopes robbers will just grab that and leave. It was all highly educational, and at least made us feel that we were not alone.
     A few of the pieces of jewelry that the burglars burgled had sentimental value for me, and having one's house robbed can hardly be described as holiday fun. On the whole, however, I feel most sorry for the inspector, who spent his holiday dealing with incomptetent crime victims . . . and the theives, who made off with two drawersfull of costume jewelry for their Christmas gift.