This Post Is Introspective and Uneventful. Skip if You Are Not Interested.

The Alien relaxes with a book and a cup of coffee . . . perhaps
as a reward for accomplishing something difficult, like disposing
of used light bulbs or buying a loaf of bread.  

                Several years ago, my cousin Jack wrote a book that was actually published (so cool . . . Jack, if you are reading this, congratulations again). The book is called The Power of Habit, and one chapter talks about how people can develop good habits and strength of character by doing something difficult every day. He had some name for this practice -- unfortunately, I don't remember what it was. I have been thinking about this concept lately, because this move has opened up many new opportunities to do difficult things. For example, back in the States, when it was time to go to the dentist, we just went. We would already have an appointment set up with the regular P&G dentist from the last time we were there. If we had to change dates, the receptionist would gripe at me, but she would fit us in somewhere. The hardest thing about going to the dentist was the drive there. Yesterday, I had written in my planner to make dentist appointments. Before I could do it, I had to give myself a pep talk (“It will only get more difficult if you wait”), practice saying “teeth cleaning” in French, and even promise myself a reward if I made the call (I could read a few pages of a book I’m enjoying). Even after all that, and after a fairly successful conversation with a kind and patient receptionist, I’m still not confident I know when the appointment is, how long it will take, or if all four of us should arrive at once.

                French lessons are scary too. Thanks to years of teaching English grammar, I can grasp the grammar of French pretty well . . . as long as I have my rules and vocabulary handy to refer to. In a conversation with a real person – even when that person is paid to talk to me – I have much more trouble. If I could just have unlimited time to think about what I wanted to say and write it down, it would be great. That, of course, is not how real conversations work. Then there is my elderly Swiss friend, Madame Guenat. She doesn’t speak English, and she is sweet enough to agree to meet with me about every three weeks to carry on a conversation in French. Truthfully, even if she did speak English, calling up an older person whom I don’t know very well to suggest coffee would be a stretch for me. The fact that the conversation will feel like a fog with a few recognizable words and phrases drifting around in it only adds a level of challenge. Again, I usually have to bribe myself with almond croissants before I will make the call. Then I pray all the way to the Coop Restaurant, where we usually meet.

                Speaking French is not the only opportunity Geneva has afforded for doing difficult things. I am uncoordinated and far from thrill-seeking, so every time we ski, my stomach ties in knots. I hate roller coasters, and skiing is a little like being on a roller coaster by yourself, with no seat belt, and with the opportunity to run into other riders at any moment. I want, however, to spend time outside with my family. Plus I really love the scenery. So I sing little songs to distract myself (Johanna’s trick, and it’s helped her conquer the black hills, so I guess it works).  I also take the nice, slow hill about every other time to let my heart calm down.  

                Going to the post office. Running a road race. Figuring out how to get driver’s licenses. Talking to teachers about my children’s progress. Looking for volunteer opportunities or activities for the kids. Everything is new. Everything is a little bit more difficult than it would be in a familiar place . . . or even in a familiar country.      

                Our dinnertime devotional the other night was on Ecclesiastes 11:9, which advises young people to be happy, and then ends with, “know that for all these things God will bring you to judgment.”  The devotional writer’s interpretation of the passage was that what God will actually bring us into judgment for is for failing to be happy, failing to remember that “this is the day the Lord has made” failing to rejoice and be glad in it. He talked about how a lot of people go about each day with self-imposed burdens of gloom. When we first moved here, everything felt like a challenging adventure. Now, honestly, I sometimes wish I could just pick up the phone and set up an appointment in English or go next door and borrow an egg (I’m sure our neighbors back in the states are shocked how many eggs they always have around, now that we are no longer around to borrow them). The truth is, however, that being here is a huge blessing. It’s not a blessing just because we can see the mountains and we get to take enviable trips and we get to learn a new language. It’s also a blessing because it’s difficult at times – just like life anywhere – and the effort to rejoice in it requires a strength that doesn’t come from me.

                

Barcelona

        Be warned: I’m going to open this post with one of my patented non-expert observations, so please don’t take this to the bank. In my short and limited experience, when comparing people of different nationalities, I have decided that Spanish people are my favorite. This is not to devalue any of my friends of other nationalities, who are fantastic. It is only to say that when considering everyone I’ve met here, the Spanish, as a group, come out on top. They are friendly, fun, family oriented, like to eat, and like to sleep late. So it’s no surprise that when we visited Barcelona last weekend, it also came out on top as my favorite place we’ve been.



Buildings near Catalunya Place



                Even though the weather wasn’t as warm as usual for this time of year (we were told), the temperatures were a good 20 degrees warmer than in Geneva, and – wonder of wonders – we saw the sun! We arrived in the city on Sunday afternoon, and, in typical Admiraal fashion, determined to see as much as we could of the city while putting as many kilometers on our feet as humanly possible. Strictly speaking, this was Drew’s trip, as he had chosen Barcelona as the place in Europe he most wanted to visit. He, however, didn’t have much on his agenda of things to do there beyond consuming as much tapas as possible. Thus, our first stop was a tapas bar, where we sat outside next to a heater and were served by a jovial waiter who teased the kids and laughed at our mix of Spanish, English, and French (whenever I tried to speak in Spanish, French words accidentally came out. Apparently, that is now my default foreign language). The only casualty of our polyglot speech was that Eric ordered hot chocolate and got water (“chocolate” does sound a little like “agua”).

It was (almost) warm enough to ear outside.

                We then headed for Tibidabo, which is an amusement park on a mountain overlooking the city. We weren’t planning to go to the park, but we wanted to see the view and visit Sagrat Cor, a church on the same mountain. We had begun the day with a bus ride to the airport, then Easy Jet to Barcelona (our first experience with Easy Jet was great; we had heard lots of horror stories about overstuffed planes, delays, etc., but experienced none of that), then a train into the center of town. We took another train, another bus, and a funicular (just to mix things up) to the top of the mountain. The view was amazing – the city, the Pyranees (I think) in the distance, and the Mediterranean Sea. It is so exciting for me to see all these geographical features that before I knew only from fourth grade maps! We then decided that it would be quicker to walk down the mountain than to wait for the funicular. After walking for an hour and ending up back at Tibidabo, we decided that we had been wrong and rode down. On the way back to the hotel, we added the Metro to our repertoire of transportation for the day.  I can say that the people of Barcelona are not so busy having fun that they don’t take care of their public transit system – the Metro was clean, on time, and fast, and the T-10 tickets we purchased (10 rides for less than 10 Euro) were the best deal of the trip.

The view from Tibidabo

                We were looking for a restaurant, and while I was perusing an outside menu, the proprietor came out to promote his establishment. He sang the praises of several menu items, informed us of special deals for the “babies,” told us that, while pizza was not on the menu, he’d be happy to whip some up, and generally shooed us into the place in a kind of pleasantly pushy way. Again, our waiter had fun teasing the kids, and the food was great. Maybe we were just really hungry from all the walking. By the time we finished dinner, it was dark, so our visit to the Mediterranean was brief. It was enough to convince Drew that he wanted to return with his camera the next day, though. We did, and I’m sure many of you can guess which family member ended up with wet feet from wading in the sea in February. This nameless person said that the joy of the experience made the wet and sand worth it.

Johanna and the Alien by the Mediterranean

                Besides returning to the sea, our one full day in Barcelona took us to the Sagrada Familia cathedral, which a friend had described, with complete accuracy, as “looking like a church designed by Dr. Seuss.”



Sagrada Familia, which is apparently continually under construction



       Actually, it was designed by architect Antoni  Gaudi, who also designed Park Guell, which was our next stop and probably the consensus favorite. The colorful buildings, winding paths, musicians and vendors everywhere gave the park a festive atmosphere that made the interminable climbs (almost) painless. Barcelona does seem to be a city that keeps ascending.

The famous Gaudi lizard at Park Guell (with Luc and the Alien)

Gaudi's house, which is in Park Guell

       We ended the day by wandering through the Barrio Gotico, Barcelona’s old town, and eating more tapas (of course) on Las Ramblas, a street famous for its outdoor markets but somewhat muted by the unseasonably chilly weather. Our waitress this time was French, and she told us (nicely) that she thinks Swiss people have funny French accents. Probably true, though I certainly wouldn’t know. Strangely, the restaurant menu was in French, English, and Italian, with no Spanish in sight . . . we had clearly chosen a tapas bar that catered to tourists.

                We had to leave the next morning, so we didn’t see the Olympic stadium, the home field of Barcelona’s famously successful football team, or Monjuic Castle. Clearly, it is imperative that we return. Also, I’m not sure that Drew has eaten enough tapas. . . .

Grocery Shopping, Swiss Style

**Sorry . . . it's way too cold to go out and take pictures for this blog. You'll have to use your imagination.**

     If you are a wife or mother, it is likely that two responsibilities follow you wherever you go in the world: They are the responsibility for the house and the responsibility for the food. You may delegate one or both of these responsibilities to kids, helpful husbands, or paid employees, but, if you are like me, you still feel a sense of ownership in these areas.
      In my experience, housecleaning in Geneva is not that much different from in the U.S. I find that I'm doing more myself, since I am at home during the day while the rest of the family is at school or work and since we try to keep Saturdays free for outings. When the kids have a day off school, they can bet I'll earn meanest Mom of the year awards by assigning them cleaning jobs (actually, I think they are so used to this practice that they don't even think it's mean). Many of my friends here employ cleaning help. As soon as I can figure out how to justify this -- given that I have no children at home, no paid employment, and probably do a better job cleaning than anyone we could hire -- I will be right there with them. Until then, however, I'll be cleaning bathrooms weekly and sweeping the floor ABOUT EVERY FIVE MINUTES (our floors are white and we have lots of trees, i.e. dead leaves, around the house).
     So housework here is really not all that interesting. The food situation, however, presents more of a contrast to the U.S., and more of a challenge for me. The first difference I noticed is that one must be more prepared for a grocery shopping trip here than back in the States. If you do not have your coin (it could be 1 or 2 euros or 1 or 2 francs, depending on the store), you do not get a cart. And if you do not have your own grocery bags, you have the choice of paying 30 centimes each to buy them at the store or carrying all of your groceries home in your hands. I am thankful to my friend Nancy, who lived here several years ago, for preparing me for these preliminary shopping hurdles. This was especially helpful because I was severely jet-lagged on my first trip to the grocery, and being denied a cart might have sent me into hysterics.
     The second grocery challenge is the prices. The first several times I went shopping, I emerged from the store feeling simultaneously depressed and panicked. A Swiss franc (chf) is slightly more than a dollar, so milk priced at 1.60 chf a liter caused some serious palpitations, as did ice cream at 8 chf a liter and cereal at around 5 chf for a smallish box. Red meat, which costs about 30 chf a kilogram, (and isn't even very good), seemed as unattainable as the stars. My sticker shock was compounded both by the fact that, having just moved here, we had no stock of food, and by the fact that Drew and Lucas were trying to do the P90X diet and wanted all kinds of specialty items.
      One solution to the price problem is to shop in France, where food is less expensive. I go to Bible study on Thursday mornings in a town called Ferney-Voltaire, and there is a large Carrefour Supermarche near the church. So, it made sense for me to start shopping there on Thursdays. Buying groceries at Carrefour, however, also had its drawbacks. First of all, I hated the place, which reminded me of Wal-Mart on steroids. Not only did I hate the bright lights, packed aisles, and dubious quality of many goods, but I especially hated the fact that I had to bag my own groceries (which is true everywhere in both Switzerland and France. With my huge cartfull of goods, I couldn't fit everything on the belt at once, and the checkers wouldn't let me through to start bagging until the cart was empty, and then I felt like I was holding up the entire line (which not just a feeling, but the reality) while I inexpertly and frenetically tried to shove everything into sacks. I always tried to go to a line where someone in front of me had an even bigger cartload, so at least I would not be alone. The other issue with shopping in France is that there are import regulations on meat, milk, fruit, wine, and all kinds of other things. For example, one can only bring half a kilo (about a pound) of beef into Switzerland from France. That, unfortunately, is not enough to feed our family for a week. Sometimes I went over the limit, figuring that if the broder guards stopped me, I'd just pay the fine, whatever it may be. But I always had a sick feeling in my stomach driving through the douane, whether or not I had contraband orange juice in the back of the car. I am, therefore, thankful for the current weakness of the franc against the euro (kept that way by the Swiss on purpose for people like me), because it means that shopping in France is no longer that much cheaper than shopping in Switzerland.
     Besides a shlep to France, other good shopping options include Aldi-Suisse, which is just like Aldi in the U.S., except that the meat all has little Swiss flags and pictures of the animal it comes from. This is very helpful, seeing that groceries here sell horse meat. I just avoid any packages with little pictures of horses. Even Swiss horses. There is also a store nearby called Aligro, which is sort of like Costco in that it sells large quantities of items (it is, unfortuantely, not like Costco in that the items are cheaper). For the Swiss, "large quantites" means several 1-kilo packages of flour wrapped together with shrink wrap. Then they have to put a sign on everything telling shoppers not to separate items. This is because, in a regular grocery store, people feel free to, for example, take one yogurt carton out of a package or one can of Coke out of the box and buy it that way.
     Another interesting differences between groceries here and in the U.S. is that here, the eggs are not kept refrigerated. This worries me, but I haven't seen anyone dead of salmonella poisoning yet, so I guess it must be okay. Most milk is not refrigerated either, because it is that UHT pasteurized stuff that lasts forever. We buy the refrigerated kind which is, of course, more expensive (but tastes much more "normal" to us). In most stores, you have to weigh your own produce. I have yet to find whole oats in a store here, though they do have surprising items such as taco seasoning packets and Nesquik. The boxed cereal is not as sweet, the sodas are sweetened with sugar rather than high fructose corn syrup, and almost every store bakes its own bread. On the down side, the carts are impossible to push in a straight line. I have not yet figured out why this might be.  The fact that I am now shopping Swiss (mostly) will warm the hearts of my neighbors. One of my friends told me that many locals use grocery bags from Swiss stores when shopping in France to avoid nasty comments about not supporting their country.
     My latest wonderful discovery is online grocery shopping. Both of the big local chains, Coop and Migros, have sites. It does take about an hour to order everything online, but I can do it with a cup of coffee at my right hand and the cupboards and refrigerator nearby in case I forget what I have. The groceries come the next evening, and the frequency of coupons paying for delivery has soothed my guilt about taking the easy way out. You'll see, now that I've calmed my conscience about grocery delivery, soon I'll be justifying the hiring of a maid to do my housework.