This One's Full of Adventure, Introspection, and Aliases Based on Traditional Swiss Foods

Picture the worst possible nightmare for an active but shy 12-year-old boy. I can imagine that it might involve spending part of your summer vacation in a sweltering classroom filled with unfamiliar students and a teacher whom you have never seen before, taking tests for which you aren’t prepared . . . in a foreign language. In fact, that is how Lucas spent part of last week. Johanna too, although since she is a studious but outgoing 14-year-old girl, the scenario was perhaps marginally less nightmarish.

And what cruel forces conspired to create this torturous situation? Well, as with most torturous situations in which young people find themselves (like consuming lima beans or organizing dresser drawers) this one was precipitated by their mother, that is to say, me. Having decided that just living in a foreign country did not pose a sufficient challenge, I determined that it would be a good idea to gain first-hand experience with an area of Swiss policy into which even the Swiss themselves rarely venture. In short, we decided to homeschool our two younger children. The explanation behind why we decided to do this is not nearly as interesting as the path down which this decision has taken us during the last month or so.

Unlike in some European countries, homeschooling is legal in Switzerland -- at least in Geneva Canton it is. (Independent as the Swiss are, they let the individual cantons make their own laws about things like education.) Still, only about 1 percent of people in the canton choose to take advantage of the opportunity afforded by the law to pursue “l’enseignement à domicile.” This may have something to do with the Swiss mindset about education (more about which below), and it may have something to do with the fact that these people love their children and don’t want to put them through the pain through which I have put my children -- and will need to continue to put them -- in order to meet the Swiss requirements for homeschooling. 

So, having decided that we needed a little more excitement in our lives, and having been put in touch with a woman who has homeschooled in Geneva for two decades and could help navigate the system, we began the process. It started innocently enough -- I sent off a letter stating my reasons for wanting to homeschool and the subjects that my children would be studying. I learned two things through this letter. 1. “Accuser réception” is the equivalent of the American “signature confirmation,” and 2. “accuser réception” is quite an expensive service (11 chf). Both things, I felt, were worth knowing. As I sent the letter in August, everyone at the Service de Scolarité was on vacation. Nevertheless, on the very Monday when the staff there was expected to return, I received a phone call from a charming woman whom we will call Madame Rosti, and who has subsequently become an important figure in our lives. Madame Rosti conducted the first part of the conversation in French (one of her great charms in that she has a very comprehensible accent and speaks quite slowly). When she figured out that I was having a difficult time explaining my “motif” for homeschooling in French, she graciously allowed me to switch to English (I tried to be similarly easy to understand). With her speaking French (and a little English) and me speaking English (and a little French), we carried on a pleasant conversation, the upshot of which was that the children would have to take the placement exams for the Geneva Public Schools. I explained, pleasantly, that this would be difficult for the children, as they had only studied French for one year. She replied, pleasantly, that they had to do it anyway, since it was “the first step.” I responded, pleasantly, that I guess if they had to, they had to, but they weren’t going to do very well. And she agreed, all very pleasantly. 

Her colleague, whom we will name Monsieur Raclette, was also very pleasant. That is, until I balked (pleasantly though repeatedly) at his insistence that the kids take IQ tests in French. Frankly, I did not feel convinced that the tests would be particularly indicative of their abilities. He called, Lucas answered the phone, and, upon learning that I was not available, Monsieur Raclette proceeded to give Lucas a (possibly not so pleasant) earful about how his mother had no right to think that her children didn’t have to do what all the other children in Geneva had to do. Part of me (the independent American part) wanted to remain firm in my refusal to comply with a request so ridiculous. Another part, however, understood that we were in Rome and had better behave like Romans if we wanted to make any progress. Further, being constitutionally a rule-follower myself, I have a lot of sympathy for the Swiss proclivity for sticking to established procedure.

Thus, the first part of last week was spent in math tests, French tests, and IQ tests (for Luc), Math, French, English, and IQ (for Jo), and many hours in the Service de Scolarité’s cafeteria (for me). In fits of sympathy and guilt, I bought the kids McDonald’s, iced tea, eclairs, and other unusual treats during those two days. Wednesday was a day off, and Thursday we all returned for a meeting with Madame Rosti. The meeting lasted well over an hour, and was conducted, as the telephone call had been, in both English and French, since both of us were more comfortable speaking our native language, but were quite able to understand the other. We did have someone there to translate if necessary (whom I will call Mrs. Tartiflette, since I really want to use another alias here). This definitely made me feel better, even though we didn’t use her services much. Madame Rosti truly seemed like a good person, kind and clearly concerned above all with the welfare of children. Though her experience with homeschoolers was limited, she nevertheless had a generally positive view of the option, provided, of course, that we followed the rules. 

Most of the rules are not problematic. I have to fill out forms. The children have to meet with a Geneva-approved nurse, social worker, or child psychologist partway through the year. We have to teach French, English, math, history or geography, and a science. German is a rule, too, but I was able to persuade her that in our particular case, German (though a lovely language) would not be a useful one and would take valuable time away from the other subjects. She wanted the kids to do some kind of P.E. and some kind of art, but seemed content with whatever we proposed in those areas. 

The only part of the rules that seems a bit harsh is that in May, the kids have to take what is basically the Geneva equivalent of the Iowa Tests or the SATs. These tests will be, naturally, in French. In lieu of the tests for science and history/geography, they will write papers on a topic that we choose, but which must be at least partly in French. I tried to persuade her that the Iowas or SATs would be a reasonable substitute, but she remained unmoved, informing me, with utmost pleasantness, that they were welcome to do those in addition to the Geneva tests.

As a mom, I am somewhat mixed in my reactions to this requirement. On the one hand, I want my children to learn as much French as they can while they are in Geneva. Having to take tests and write papers in French will certainly be a good motivator. On the other hand, I feel the grip of pity and panic that this might be too much to ask of my sweet babies. 

As a detached observer, however, I think I have to come down on Madame Rosti’s side. Geneva is about 40 percent expat. Some people stay for a year or two. Some people stay for 20. For whatever length of time we are here, however, we are part of the society and culture of Geneva. Clearly, it is impossible to have a working society and culture if you do not have a common language. Geneva already has a huge subculture of people who don’t speak French, which has to provide many challenges for the natives. I have no sympathy with my fellow expats who act as though, because there are so many of us, the city should speak our language and bow to our customs. Of course it is frustrating for me when I can’t understand what someone is saying or make them understand me. That, however, is my problem to solve. And what the Service de Scolarité is doing by requiring my children to “be approaching” the maternelle level of French is working toward a solution. 

Where I seriously differ with Madame Rosti is in her view of whose responsibility all of this ultimately is. She said something very telling during the meeting, along the lines of: “Homeschooling is built on my trust of you. I am trusting you to provide your children with a good education. I will not come to your house and check, because I trust you.” Well. I’m glad that she trusts me, but how different that is from the mission statement of Mars Hill, which says that the school is there to assist parents in the education of their children. Education is a parental responsibility. The Bible tells us to bring up our children in the nurture and admonition of the Lord, and the choice of how to do that -- and the burden of doing it right -- is ours. If I fail to educate my children well, it’s not Madame Rosti or anyone in the government -- Swiss or American -- to whom I am ultimately accountable, but to God.

Happy Anniversary!

     Tomorrow, it will be exactly one year since our family arrived in Geneva. The day was record-breakingly hot for Geneva (about 90), we were gritty-eyed and stiff from 18 hours of traveling, and the first thing we had to do was tour the house with our relo lady to meticulously record every tiny nick and scratch so we wouldn't be charged upon moving out. Nevertheless, we were thrilled to be in our new home, in our new city, in our new country, and on our new continent. Other than our relo lady (who promptly quit her job and left no forwarding address), we knew no one in the city. When we filled out the kids' school forms, we put the name of Eric's administrative assistant as our emergency contact. It's a good thing no one ever needed to call him, as I'm not sure he even knew that he was our emergency contact and he certainly would not have recognized the children had he met them in the street.
      Some experienced expat had told us that we had better plan some fun activities right away, so we wouldn't be sucked into the despondent slough of phone service connections, grocery store sticker shock, and bookshelf-assembly headaches. So on one of our first weekends here, we set off for Chamonix, France, which is about an hour away and is the site of Mont Blanc, the highest peak in Western Europe. Chamonix was outstanding (See "We're Hiking in the ALPS!"), and so began the adventure.
      Naturally, the fact of an anniversary has given rise to some moments of introspection. This past weekend, we again went to Chamonix, and it seemed like a microcosm of all that has changed for us in a year. Last time, we went alone, not knowing where we were going or what we were going to do when we got there. This time, we were visiting our friends who have a chalet (see "I have a friend. . ."). We walked in the Alps, with views of the town of Chamonix and of the Aiguille du Midi, which is the highest peak of Mont Blanc that one can reach by cable car (and no, we still haven't done it, which I know is lame, but 160 chf is a lot to pay for the right to say you've been to the top of Mont Blanc). We left Johanna home with another friend, who was spending the weekend with us, and they spent the afternoon with yet another friend, who lives close by and has a pool. We knew enough to ignore the GPS when it wanted us to go through Geneva instead of around, and when we ordered snacks in a mountain refuge, we used our French without a second thought (okay, at least without terror).

This photo and the one below show our views as we walked. A year has not dulled my awe at the beauty of the mountains.

Another indication of change: I had to keep bugging Drew to take these pictures, since he was having so much fun with his friend on the walk.

         We have friends. We have a church. I can sign Johanna up for horseback riding lessons in French. I have loyalty cards at all the major grocery stores. Our hearts no longer skip a beat at ground beef that costs $10 a pound. Johanna has a regular babysitting job. Drew coaches soccer. Lucas knows the way to the basketball court. We had our (Swiss) neighbors over for dinner. Sometimes our phone rings and it's not a wrong number (although usually they still want to speak to Monsieur Albert Leman, whoever he is). Sometimes someone rings the doorbell and it isn't a repairman. We eat raclette. I can make crême brulée, spaetzle, tartiflette, and coq au vin. I have a library card and a regular date with my octogenarian amie Madame Guenat for the Bibliobus and coffee. God is good.
         Johanna and I were riding the bus the other day when she said, "It's too bad that we live in Geneva, because now I either have to miss Geneva or miss Ohio. We can't live in two places at the same time." And that, for me, sums up the bittersweet consequence of what has been a very good move.

It's Just One Big Party Around Here

    From the time we moved here nearly a year ago until the end of July, we had no television reception. Our TV sat in the basement, used for weekend movies and periodic episodes of Sherlock, Andy Griffith, and Lost. In all those months, I experienced not a single moment of longing for network television. Two weeks ago, though, all that changed. I called our cell phone company to order streaming television coverage. I not only okayed rearranging the living room to accommodate the set, but I carried the massive thing upstairs myself (aided by Drew). And I plunked myself down on the sofa for more hours than I have in years. All of this was spurred on, of course, by the 2012 Olympic Games.
     For our family, these games have been the best ever. For one thing, the kids are old enough to have their favorite sports (Drew: Swimming; Johanna: Track and Field -- called "Athletics" by the BBC; Lucas: Basketball and Boxing). Our whole family loves distance running. We watched the men's 10,000 meters live, late one night, and I cannot believe that our elated screams at seeing an American place in that event for the first time in more than 50 years didn't bring the police to our door. Just to show we're not completely nationalistic, we were yelling equally for the Brit who beat him. My other favorite finish was the women's triathlon, in which the American came from behind to catch the lead three, only to be outsprinted in a nail-biting close. I wasn't happy to see her miss out on a medal, but at the same time I was delighted to see Switzerland win a gold and Sweden win a silver, as those are two other countries I cheer for whenever possible (along with the Netherlands). The other thing that made this Olympics the best for us was that we watched it in real time, all day, on the BBC. We loved the coverage, which was enthusiastically patriotic but not overbearing. "Chariots of Fire" at the medal ceremonies was stirring every time. Also, really, I never realized the great commentary I was missing on U.S. television. I've never before heard anything to match, "What a brilliant swim! Oh my goodness me!" or "He not only broke the record; he smashed it asunder!" Nor have I heard as many delightfully articulate speeches from athletes who didn't win, but were so happy to have participated. (When the focus shifted from swimming, and the U.K. started raking in the medals, those speeches slowed somewhat.) We loved South African swimmer's Chad Le Clos's dad, who couldn't stop talking about what a "beautiful boy"his son was. We loved watching Kenyan David Rudisha quietly dominate the men's 800 meters. And okay, we loved Usain Bolt's antics -- and athleticism -- as well.
     I'll admit that there is something ironic about the fact that I have been parked in front of a screen for hours each day, eating ice cream and jelly beans, all for the purpose of watching people who are in outstanding physical condition do amazing feats of athleticism. It's ironic, but oh so fun. And now that the closing ceremonies have ended, I will get off the couch and take a jog.

       We have taken some brief pauses in our Olympic immersion experience to experience the other big event of the summer around here -- the Fête de Genève. For the first two weeks of August, the lakefront is transformed into a giant carnival, with rides, food booths, and bands. The rides and food were ridiculously overpriced. (A friend said, of Geneva prices in general, "Think of the most you could possibly pay for something . . . then double it." He's from London. When you're from the U.S., you triple it.) Nonetheless, two parts of the fête were completely worth it. Saturday night we climbed a hill in Bernex, the town just next to Onex, and watched what is touted as the world's second-largest fireworks display. It was 50 minutes of nonstop color and light, and though our view was not up close, it was hassle free. Drew opted for the in-town view, meeting friends close to the lake. He was in the center of the sound and fury, but had to run almost three miles home afterwards, as all the trams were stuffed to capacity. His jog was spurred into a sprint by repeated texts from Dad: "Where are you?" "What are you doing?" and "You need to be home NOW!" Drew's exhaustion upon entering the house was worthy of an Olympic marathon.
        The other great part of the fête took place Sunday afternoon. Waiters and waitresses from all of Geneva's restaurants lined up carrying trays for the 16th annual Cours des Garçons de Café.

The waiters prepare for the event with a quick smoke. Clearly, the standards here are not quite Olympic.

Moving quickly along a 1.8k course carrying a loaded tray is not a walk in the park, however. By the end, the  participants were sweaty and worn. The full-dress outfits didn't help.

The leading servuese

          The course record for this event is just over 10 minutes. Whoever did that must have been jogging, because 1.8k is over a mile. No one ran this time, though, and we were very disappointed to see several people cheat by rearranging their bottles and glasses or holding the tray with two hands. Nonetheless, it was not an event I would have done well in, so who am I to snipe? Maybe instead of that jog, I'll head out for a power walk with a tray in my hand. Then when Rio adds Waiter Racing to the 2016 Olympics, I'll be ready.

Summer Skiing

       Ever since I read that the ski lifts are open for hikers, I have been chomping at the bit to go check out our favorite slopes in their summer garb. Last Saturday I finally had the chance. While the resort may not be quite as exciting in the off season as it is when one can zoom down snowy slopes, it was definitely worth the drive.

Johanna and her friend speed down the luge. Whoever owns Col de la Faucille is trying to make it exciting in the summer. The luge was fun, but overpriced and lacking the athletic thrill of skiing. I'm just saying this because I think it's true; I didn't actually ride the luge myself, since I could walk down the hill. 

The view from the telecabine. I think that, in winter, this is the hill we  call the Big Blue Hill, to distinguish it from the one I prefer -- the Little Blue Hill.

       I was hoping that we could ride up the mountain in the chair lifts and enjoy the fresh air. Instead, the only things running were the enclosed telecabines. The view was still good, but the ride was kind of stuffy. I felt soft for riding up the mountain at all, as most people there were hiking both up and down. This is the kind of thing that always happens in Switzerland when we feel like we are doing something really outdoorsy and athletic. We head out to the mountains for an afternoon of strenuous hiking, only to find that all the geriatric Swiss and the moms with babies on their backs have already been both up and down the mountain several times.

The view of Lake Geneva from the top of the mountain.

Atop the Little Blue Hill

Same place as the above picture. Drew and Eric are relaxing and checking Olympic scores while Lucas climbs some rocks he found. We had no idea all those rocks were beneath the snow!

My favorite slope. We walked down this one.  Turns out, there's a whole road under the snow. It made me appreciate how much snow must fall each winter to completely change the look of the mountain.

        We marveled at the view of Geneva from the top of the mountain, tried (unsuccessfully) to find our house, and I shooed the children away from the edge. They kept saying, "It's not steep, Mom!" I kept saying, "I don't care. Move back!" I started to enjoy the hike more when we were far from any edges that anyone could conceivably tumble from. The outcroppings of gray boulders appearing amid the greens and pastels of the summer flowers were enchanting, as were the mossy trees. The best news of the day, however, was the fact that our favorite crêperie was open for business. I was also extremely proud of Eric, who has mastered some of the most important words in French -- those required to order his own Nutella crêpe
     
     

Lucas, Jo, and Ariana enjoy crêpes. They're good even in the summer!

Happy Birthday to Switzerland

      I started writing this on August 1, which is Swiss National Day. For us, this means that Eric was home from work on a Wednesday, which is a great treat, and that the grocery stores were closed (less of a treat). I was curious, though, about what the day means for the Swiss. My first assumption was that the reason that August 1 isn't called Independence Day is that the Swiss have always been -- politically as well as socially -- independent. That, it turns out, is only sort of true; parts of Switzerland were occupied by the Hapsburgs in the 1300s and overtaken (briefly) by Napoleonic France. What is true, though, is that National Day isn't celebrating independence. In fact, it's actually celebrating interdependence. What happened in 1291, is that the leaders of three groups -- the people of the valley of Uri, the democracy of Schwyz, and the community of the valley of Unterwalden (all of which are in what is now central Switzerland) -- got together and made an agreement. These typically Swiss gentleman were apparently not particularly interested in extending their territory or conquering any other people groups. According to the Federal Charter of 1291, what they wanted was: "the proper establishment of quiet and peace." And on that modest yet worthy platform was founded the Swiss confederacy. Uri, Schwyz, and Unterwalden became the first three Swiss cantons.
      Later on (in the 1350s) Glarus, Zug, Lucerne, Berne, and Zurich joined up. Others joined through the years, ending with Neuchatel, Valais, and Geneva in 1860. Now Switzerland has 26 cantons, all dedicated to preserving quiet and peace, mostly through the liberal use of traffic cameras and a police force extremely responsive to noise complaints. The national goals have expanded, of course, to include cleanliness, hedge conformity, and unity in cheese production. Efforts in the early 20th century to add "Service with a Smile" to the national charter were rejected in a referendum, though the sparing use of a subdued "Bonjour," or (in German-speaking cantons), "Guten Tag" was approved.
       The communities around Geneva each have their own August 1 celebration. We headed over to check out what was going on in Onex.

Here's a carnival for the kids at the Onex Mairie (City Hall).

And here's the soup supper, band, and platform for the reading for the 1291 Charter.

       We have been in the area long enough that we actually saw someone we knew at the celebration -- a German couple from church, who were there with friends, to whom we were introduced. The whole place smelled like raclette cheese and fireworks, which, in a typically Swiss fashion, were confined to a barricaded pen and monitored by the police. The band played some inspiring music, and the mayor prepared to read the 1291 Charter. It all seemed festive but staid, as befits a celebration of peace and quiet.
        When the sun went down, however, the mood changed. We were home by this time and, by standing on the street in front of our home, we were able to see a 360-degree fireworks display coming from the communities of Lancy, Bernex, Plan-les-Ouates, and Plainpalais. Americans, of course, love their fireworks on July 4, but I have yet to see a U.S. fireworks display that compares to the European ones. When the Swiss come out of their shells, they really come out. The pyrotechnics continued until about midnight, when the raucous dance music started. We turned on the fan, put the covers over our heads, and tried to sleep. There is a limit to my enthusiasm for patriotism-by-association.
       The next morning, I went outside, expecting to see the shells of burnt-out bottle rockets littering the neighborhoods. I didn't see a stray paper wrapper or cardboard tube. The spirit of the Swiss had returned.