Proud to Be an American?

      When Eric and I came to Geneva last summer to house hunt, I asked our relocation expert if the Swiss disliked Americans. She said something along the lines of, "No more than they dislike anyone else." Which was marginally reassuring. As it turns out, I haven't felt a whisper of prejudice from a single Swiss person I have met. Some of them even tell me that my accent is "jolie" -- and I don't think they are completely making fun.
      What I neglected to ask the relo lady was how the rest of the international community feels about Americans.
      A quote from the year 9 geography text used at the kids' British school:

     "Hannah lives in the U.S.A. She likes science and plays the trumpet. She has just been to Mexico on a school trip. She gets $30 a week pocket money. Sometimes, she wants to be an engineer and sometimes, a writer."

      "Joe lives in Ghana. He is the top of his class at Maths. He plays a lot of football with his friends. He'd like to run a business and buy a nice house for his mum, but he hopes to begin with an office job. 50 pounds a month would be great."

      "Julien lives in Bolivia. He's a shoeshine boy. He earns about 6 pence a customer. He lives in the family shack with no running water, but he studies every evening at a special center. He's learning to read and write and use computers."

     "Misha lives in Nepal. She has never been to school. She helps on a farm and collects firewood for the cooking and looks after her brothers and sisters. She has not seen herself in the mirror for years. They once had one, but it got broken." (Geography for Key Stage 3, Oxford University Press, 2009)

     Why, we wonder, is it the Americans who are pulled out as the oblivious, spoiled elite? Where are the equally blessed Brits, French, or Germans?

     In the mock Treaty of Versailles activity in year 9 and 10 history, the deck is stacked so that those on the American team cannot possibly win. In fact, the teacher told the class that the Americans rarely score more than a point or two out of a possible 30.

       And those of you who have Facebook might have already heard the one about how Drew's American football was confiscated at recess because the surveillants (monitors) were afraid that someone would be hurt by the pointy ends. (Okay, that's probabaly not really anti-American sentiment as much as it is just plain silliness.)

       My husband points out that much of this distaste is really the fault of the American media, which often disseminate the worst of American foolishness while overwhelming the indigenous entertainment industry of the countries into which they flow. When all the kids hang out at McDonald's after school, when words like "week end," "super cool," and "snack" are part of every francophone's vocabulary, and when every store one enters is blaring the music of Snoop Dogg and Bruno Mars, it is easy to see how the locals might start to feel a bit threatened. As a monolith of culture, we are perhaps not putting our best foot forward.

           In a display of the best and worst of human nature, the prejudice against Americans in general does not extend to specific Americans with whom one is actually acquainted (that would be us). My lovely friend from Sri Lanka brought us some wine several weeks ago. She mentioned that she had asked the merchant for advice, and told him she was buying it for her American friends. He expressed horror, I'm not sure whether at the fact that she had friends who were American or that she was going to throw his pearls of wine before swine, so to speak. She told me that she had hurriedly assured him: "Oh, they aren't THAT kind of Americans." Similarly, a friend of Luc's told him that he doesn't like American boys, "but you are the exception." Lucas wisely pointed out to the friend that if he knew another American boy, he would probably be an exception, too.
      It is instructively broadening to be on the wrong side of a cultural stereotype. I find the comments people make funny, rather than offensive. This is, first of all, because they often do have a ring of truth and secondly, because I know that I have my parallel prejudices about other countries. In fact, I would say that the only group around here who is more maligned than the Americans is the Swiss. In both cases, some of the vitriol may be fueled by the sense that we just have it too good and someone needs to take us down a peg or two.
       Not everyone has negative impressions of Americans. I asked one friend what she thought of us, and she said, "Oh, they're always so friendly and enthusiastic" (kind of like an overgrown puppy?).

       The one universal truth of international diplomacy that I have discovered is that no matter how much people may dislike our food, our politics, our gas-guzzling cars, or our clothing, one export that I have never yet seen fail to melt a tough international crowd is the all-American homemade chocolate chip cookie.

When the Clock Strikes Murder

Johanna, aka Jamie Bond, is ready for the party

       We have now survived our second birthday party in Geneva, and are home free until September (I guess unless Eric or I decide we want a party). This one was relatively easy, because early-teen girls are really pretty cooperative. It was also quite fun, even for me as a spectator. I had suggested to Johanna that she might consider a murder mystery party, and she jumped on the idea. For the uninitiated, one can purchase kits for these parties online and they include characters (usually with goofy names like Yuna Vers -- the astronaut -- and Cheque Penne -- the banker), clues, and directions for hosting a party. While setting up such a party (particularly a dinner party, as we had) requires some effort, it is nowhere near as challenging as, say, coming up with a complex treasure hunt. Johanna liked this particular kit because it required the guests to come dressed for a masquerade ball.

Roxy Rich (5 times a widow -- her wealthy husbands all died in mysterious circumstances), Mag Niffie (thinks she's the greatest), and Jacky T. Pressen (dry cleaner) en masque

Yuna Vers

Pepper Keegrip (TV producer) with Jamie Bond. Jamie/Johanna is eating a deviled egg, which I learned how to make  especially for the party. Johanna loves deviled eggs. I do not. At least they are pretty simple to make.

      We opened with appetizers and punch in the carnotzet. I was delighted to be able to use the room as it is intended. We even had the guests enter thorough the carnotzet door, and Eric played bartender. They opened their first clues, chatted, and played human bingo, rewarded by the Migros version of Starburst. Then came what was, for me, the highlight of the evening -- the dance competition. The kit suggested this game; we never would have thought of it, since, except for Luc, we're not big into dancing. It was hilarious, though. I put the guests into four groups and gave each group a style of dance (they drew country, 80s, and ballet). They then had 10 minutes to prepare a routine to Taylor Swift's, "Tell Me Why." Everyone was focused, competitive, and sporting about the whole thing.

The Ballet Team

The Country Dance Team

The 80s Dance Team

       I think Eric declared the 80s team the winner  (rewarded by sour gummies). We then moved to the dining table, where guests were served salad, bread, spaetzle, and their next clues. Drew (having -- characteristically -- opted to attend the party in a more casual and behind-the-scenes fashion than his brother and sister) had made a movie quotes quiz to amuse the party goers between discussion of clues and bites of spaetzle. Again, the winners received gummy candy. It's a good thing they weren't a few years younger, or they would have been growing rambunctious from sugar consumption by this point. Halfway through dinner, Lucas (Sherlock Tracy) left the room, as instructed on his clue. He came back, his face white with paint, a paper sparking cider bottle (complete with bloodstain) taped to his head and a sign that read, "Someone at this party is wretched and killed me!" That's when the fun really started. Armed with another round of clues and "fingerprint results" the guests tried to figure out who was the culprit.

Everyone is growing suspicious. The one on the right is Cha Cha Merengue (dance teacher, of course).

The guests study their clues. That's Bameril Lacrosse (chef), Dolly Dee Seiner (doll designer), Cheque Penne, and Yuna Vers.

Lucas (Sherlock Tracy) in his "victim" attire. The detective turned out to be the victim!

      In the end, over bowls of trifle, the murderer finally confessed. DO NOT READ ON IF YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW THE END! Bameril Lacrosse, the famous chef, had killed Sherlock to stop him from telling about Bameril's early disastrous attempts at cooking and his neglect of his pet hamster. Roxy Rich told everyone that, while she hadn't hit Sherlock with the cider bottle, she had accidentally spilled the fast-acting poison from the secret compartment in her ring into the ice drawer, so she hoped that no one had ice in their drink. We rewarded those who had guessed correctly with -- that's right -- more gummy candy. After all, how often does one's daughter celebrate her 14th birthday?
      The party was a success and I think everyone had fun. After a weekend of cooking, cleaning, decorating, cleaning, and entertaining, however,  I was really ready for a break. I miss many things about the U.S. (mostly people, actually), but what I really missed by the end of the weekend was Penn Station Subs -- a place to eat out with casual food that tastes good and doesn't set us back more than 100 chf an outing. It was, however, not to be. Maybe this summer.

EuroSMAC or the 5:30 Rabbit

     The still-unfolding Tale of the 5:30 Rabbit happens at the intersection of several strands of life in the Admiraal/Alien household, so bear with me as I weave the story.
     Strand One: I wrote a while back about Johanna joining a local running team. Unfortunately, due to some health issues, she had to quit (it was hard to explain all the throwing up in French). Recently, she has begun to run with a girl in Luc's class at school. Johanna has been teaching Ariana all the cheers, rituals, and stretches from her beloved Ohio team, SMAC. They girls have been running a few times a week, and are calling themselves "EuroSMAC." I even asked the coach of the original SMAC team to order some t-shirts for them.
      Our funniest EuroSMAC story yet happened two weeks ago. I had been running with the girls after school, but wasn't sure I could make it that day, so I emailed Ariana's dad to ask if it was okay if they ran alone. He wrote back, saying it was fine, as long as the area where they were running (a park near the school) was safe. I responded that I thought it was perfectly safe, and said something clever like, "I've never seen anything scarier than a big dog on a leash." I should know better. As it turned out, I decided to run with the girls, and it was a good thing I did. They were ahead of me and I saw them run up a hill and immediately back down. Then I saw a large number of policemen running through the park. Turned out, a policeman had told the girls to go back downthat  the hill so that they wouldn't interfere with an arrest, which was actually in progress, right that minute, at the top. We watched it all from a safe distance, and I would say that, overall, it was slightly more disturbing than a large dog on a leash. On second thought, perhaps the presence of so many policemen actually proves my point.

Johanna, Ariana, and the Alien (no, Johanna doesn't have anything in her eye -- she's just being goofy)

     Policemen and large dogs aside, EuroSMAC introduced Ariana to intervals last Thursday. For those who may not know, intervals (a.k.a. repeats) involve running a set distance, at a high rate of speed, and doing it several times in a row with rests between. As the default coach of this startup team, I was very impressed with our foray into intervals. We may be small, but we are potentially fleet ("we" being, of course, the under-15 section of the team, which does not include me). Johanna was excited, too, first about Ariana's potential to run a 6-minute mile by the end of our track season, and secondly, about her own potential to break 5:30 and set the SMAC record (whether an unofficial time on a Swiss track would count is another matter). I was also happy. I have been praying for the past two years that Johanna could use her running talent to bless others in some way, and her "coaching" Ariana seems like an answer to that prayer. At the same time, my heart has been a little bit broken over the loss of what might have been a quite successful season in Cincinnati. As much as I pray that winning will not be an idol, I have to admit that it is fun to see my child win. This seemed like a good compromise -- a goal for Johanna and an opportunity to help a friend reach a goal, with no real winning or outside glory involved. So pause this story for a moment and proceed to . . .

     Strand Two: Johanna looked like a skinny, featherless baby bird when she was born. Nevertheless, she continues to grow and has somehow gotten to the point that tomorrow, she is going to be 14 years old. This is disconcerting for her dad and me, but not nearly so disconcerting as the fact that, for her birthday, what she wants MOST IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD is a pet rabbit. This rabbit, she says, would somehow make up for the fact that she doesn't have any friends in the neighborhood while simultaneously providing a valuable witnessing tool (?). Probably it would also improve her French, teach her to cook, and give her hair a healthy sheen. We are not really a pet family, the extent of our experience with indoor fauna being several fish and a hamster (now all deceased). Johanna diligently researched the costs associated with a rabbit, including the price and feasibility of moving the creature back to the U.S. when the time comes. Her friends were all set to buy her the rabbit, cage, food, and accessories as birthday gifts. The huge snag in this near-perfect plan was Dad, who said absolutely no pets of any kind. No. We had weeping, wailing, and yes, gnashing of teeth. Johanna is nothing if not determined (which is a nice way to say stubborn as a mule). This brings us to . . .

     Strand Three: Fathers and daughters. French kids call the teacher's pet "le chouchou," which pretty much sums it up. The picture of a father wrapped around his daughter's little finger is a truism for a reason. But Daddy seemed pretty firmly entrenched in his refusal to allow rodents to join the family.

      Can anyone see where this story is going?

      Another truism is that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. This may be true for some men, but food isn't really Eric's weakness. Nor is it cars, books, shoes, or even collegiate sports. Johanna, however, knows exactly what makes her dad tick. So when she came home, flushed with excitement over her speedy intervals, the first words out of her mouth were:

      "Dad, if I run a 5:30 mile, can I have rabbit?"

      And we all know what the answer was.

     * * *
 
      Much to my (possibly temporary) relief, this whole rabbit thing is not a done deal. A 5:30 mile is pretty zippy for a 14-year-old. I think Johanna could have done it with the support of her team in the U.S., with the incentive of racing competitors, and with the expertise of her coaches. Right now, she has EuroSMAC, an empty track in Bernex, Switzerland, and Mom. But Robert Browing wrote: "Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, else what's a heaven for." Surely that applies to 14-year-old girls as well.

Getting to Know the Swiss

Flowers outside our front door. We also have daffodils almost blooming in the back.

     I understand from locals that spring is not here and that it could very well snow into April. I'm finding that difficult to believe, however, with the blue skies, bright sunshine, and flowers popping up in our yard. This is my favorite weather: cool and fresh, definitely jacket weather, but not winter. We actually did some yard work on Saturday, and I have washed about a third of the windows in the house. The weekend also included company on Friday, taking Drew to play soccer with friends, and introducing Eric to Philippe of the Ecole Professionelle de Coiffure. All that made me feel like we really live here and aren't just vacationing, which is a nice feeling.
     Adding to my feeling of entrenchment, last week I experienced the Swiss version of door-to-door evangelism by a Jehovah's Witness. The doorbell rang and I answered it. A very polite woman greeted me and began speaking in French. She was talking about the many people who believe that the world will end in 2012, and that these people are actually correct (Eric noted later that they are running out of time as it is already March). I noticed that the magazines in her hand had "Tour" or "Tower" as part of the title, and guessed which she was from. I gave her my now-favorite all-purpose excuse: "Je ne comprende pas de francais" (also delightfully effective for telemarketers). She asked if I would like some literature in English. I told her, "Non, merci." She thanked me and left. I had to laugh, because if any culture is going to have completely polite and non-pushy door-to-door evangelists, it has to be the Swiss.
     The politeness and fear of being a nuisance reaches new and more troublesome heights with neighbors, however. I read before moving here that neighbors will not come to your door when you move into a neighborhood. They see it as rude and intrusive to barge in on a new family before that family is ready for visitors. As the new family, you are supposed to let neighbors know that you are ready for visitors. The book did not suggest how this is to be done. As of yesterday, after six months here, we still only knew one set of neighbors -- the elderly couple who inhabit the house to the left of us. Although we exchanged cards, quince jelly, and chocolates at Christmas, and although the husband was an invaluable help the night we were robbed, I really don't feel that I know them well enough to borrow an egg or a cup of flour. That neighborliness is definitely what I miss most about the United States. I am not alone. Johanna announced on Sunday that she wanted to meet the neighbors on the other side. Because we share a hedge, we had heard their children playing outside from time to time. Because the hedge is Swiss (read: tall and opaque, even in winter), we had never actually seen them. I am neither as brave nor as friendly as Johanna, but I decided to grit my teeth and at least be supportive. I had baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies, so we loaded up a plate and headed next door. All the way, we practiced saying "Nous sommes vos voisines. Nous voudrious dire bonjour et vous donner ce cookies." This means something like: "We are your neighbors. We'd like to say hello and give you these cookies." I'm sure it sounds ridicuous in French, but people here tend to be pretty forgiving if you give the language your best shot. We also practiced saying some other friendly things, but I was sure it was going to be a difficult and awkward conversation.
     It wasn't. I got out, "Nous sommes . . . " at which point, the wife said, "You speak English," and proceeded to carry on the rest of the conversation in practically accentless English. The husband sounded a bit more French, but also spoke English perfectly. They mentioned that they had been debating (for six months, apparently) whether to come meet us, and were very glad we had stopped by. They have a son the same age as Luc, and suggested that the boys get together some time to play football. They told us to stop by whenever we needed something (an egg, perhaps?). In general, they were completely friendly, welcoming, and . . . neighborly. On the way home, I congratulated Johanna on having the good idea to go over there. She said, "They're not very Swiss." I think, however, that she was wrong about that. I think our neighbors are completely Swiss -- they are reserved and reluctant to be a nuisance, but truly friendly. It's at least nice to know that, should we happen to see them over the hedge, we can greet them by name and have a short conversation.

I include this picture of the hedge to make clear the extreme unlikeliness of  a chance meeting  with neighbors!

Coming soon: EuroSMAC or The 5:30 Rabbit