The Gold Star

I don’t cook on Sunday evenings. Sometime’s we’ve had a large and late lunch. Sometimes the kids are at youth group. For whoever is around and hungry, though, we have a rule for Sunday supper: “You’re on your own.” The kids actually love it, as it is permission to make a dinner of anything from a bowl of cereal to ice cream and salami. When we moved to Switzerland, however, we discovered a broader application of the whole “you’re on your own” principle. Want to know where to dump your garbage? “You’re on your own.” Interested in your kid’s progress in school? “You’re on your own.” Wondering  how to turn the heat on, where to sign up for the local 5K, or what the neighborhood noise policy is? On. Your. Own. That is, of course, until you break a rule. At this point, depending on what you have done, you will (1) hear a sharp rap on your car roof as you are stopped at a red light, and roll down the window to have the angry bicyclist demand, “Didn’t you know this street was for residents only?” (2) receive a polite letter in the mail informing you that the piece of correspondence that accidentally blew out of your trash bag into the street is INTERDIT or (3) be informed -- in March -- that someone in your family has hardly turned in any math homework all year. In Switzerland, a friend recently quipped, everything is either mandatory or it is forbidden. The only problem is that, for newcomers, it can be difficult to figure out which is which. 
Sometimes all this mystery gets to me. Johanna and Lucas have been running with a team for about a month now. I still don’t understand how races work -- if there are any. It took repeated emails to get someone to explain how one purchases a uniform. And frankly, I’m still not sure we’ve payed the appropriate enrollment fees. Likewise, for homeschooling, I was helpfully directed to Planet Études, the website where I was told I would find all I needed to know about scope and sequence for the Swiss public schools. I set out last week to plumb the depths of this website -- or at least to try to figure out what concepts I needed to make sure we covered in math -- only to be met with an impenetrable fog. My understanding of French was less a problem than the organization of the website, which has math topics listed, not by grade level or any other discernible system, but in a huge chart with labels like “M11” and “M34.”
So, after navigating the uniforms, surviving without a washing machine, writing innumerable emails trying to track down the Geneva Boy Scouts, successfully finding a TUMS substitute for a physics experiment, and facing an hour of coffee in French, all with a husband in either Moscow, Frankfort, or Madrid, I was feeling like maybe someone should notice my efforts to get along, fit in, and FIND SOMEONE WHO WILL TELL ME SOMETHING. What I wanted, in fact, was a Gold Star. I told this to Drew, who was both unimpressed with my achievements and unsympathetic to my desire for a reward sticker. But really, sometimes I think I have a Gold Star coming, and I wish someone would recognize it and give me one. It would be a reward for effort, of course, not necessarily success, something kind of like a participation ribbon for the science fair. 
I realize that I am not the only person in this situation. Geneva is full of expats, many with far larger challenges than finding a Boy Scout troop. I recently heard about a woman who had her wallet stolen and then was in a head-on car collision, all in her first month here. And I don’t think for a minute that it is any more difficult to have a broken washer, a traveling spouse, or a confusing website in Switzerland than it is to have any of these issues in say, Cincinnati. We all face innumerable hurdles every day. Sometimes, just getting something that looks like dinner on the table feels like a notable accomplishment. So, to anyone reading this, I would like to say, “Good try. Nice effort. Keep it up.” And here’s a Gold Star. You know what it’s for.

Great Is Thy Faithfulness

The sermon last Sunday was on Gideon. I am feeling a bit like that particular Bible character these days. God keeps proving faithful, and I keep going around with this knot in my stomach like maybe he won’t the next time. “No, but could you just make the fleece wet . . . ?” I think I am so stupid and keep making such a mess of things that even God won’t be able fix it this time. Oh me of little faith.

This time, it started with the washing machine. It broke on a Friday after 5 p.m., which around here means no hope of reaching any repair people until Monday after 9. So on Monday at 9, I did what any homeowner would do and called the service number on the machine. The lady on the other end nicely reminded me that I am no longer a homeowner, and if I wanted my washer fixed, she had to deal with the landlord. Here in Geneva, one does not deal directly with the owner of one’s rental. Instead, one goes through an intermediary known as a regie. So I emailed our regie, only to receive the all-too-ubiquitous automatic out-of-office response. Was I supposed to let the dirty clothes pile up for a week while Valerie sunned herself in the Canary Islands? Well, no, she had left the email of a compatriot, Jacques, whom I could contact in an emergency. That gave me a moment of pause, until I decided that 3 kids + 4 sports - any desire to familiarize myself with the genevois laundromat system = EMERGENCY. I emailed Jacques, who promptly replied that he would send a “bon de travail” either to or for me (in French, as in English, the indirect pronoun can be the same).I looked up the term, discovered that it means “work order,” and paused again. Was he sending the work order for me to a company who would then appear at my door at some unspecified date? Or was the work order coming to me, and then I would . . . do what? Fix the washer myself? I emailed my friend Carol, who, having lived in French-speaking countries for seven years, often knows the answer to these kinds of questions. She said (1) the work order would go both to me and the company, probably by mail; (2) then I would have to set up the appointment; and (3) this whole process could take a long time, and I needed to throw a fit in order to get action. I decided to begin with a very small sniffle, and sent a deferential email to Jacques asking how long this whole bon de travail business was likely to take, because I have three children and, after all, we already established that this is an emergency. Jacques, whom I was liking better with every email, sent the work order as an attachment with the words “TRÈS URGENTE” on the bottom. I don’t know if he was laughing in his sleeve or not, but it got the job done. When I called Proménagér, the lady said she’d send someone over in the morning. She also mentioned that the parts for our refrigerator, which the same company had been working on fixing for about a month, were finally in.

When the repair man showed up, he said he was there for the refrigerator. I said great, thanks, but what I really want fixed is the washer. He seemed confused, but when I showed him the all-powerful bon de travail, he said he’d take a look. To shorten the story, his diagnosis was grim. Madame, he said, I cannot fix it. You need a new washer. By this time, of course, what with all the emailing and calling and fixing of refrigerators, it was Thursday morning and my washer had been broken for more than a week. Despite a few trips to the laundry rooms of understanding friends, the piles were beginning to mount, and I was beginning to hear things like, “Mom, where is my P.E. shirt?” and “Mom, I have no clean socks.” 

So, again reverting to my American do-it-yourself spirit, I called Conforama and ordered a washing machine. After all, that’s what homeowners do when the repair man says they need a new washer. Ah, but madame, you forget that you are not a homeowner, and you have no control over the destiny of your laundry. This is what Jacques informed me when I emailed him to say what I had done. Actually, what he said was, “You aren’t allowed to order a washing machine.” Well, darn. I just did. Now what will I do with this 700 chf piece of equipment due to arrive at my house? If it had been Wal-Mart where I bought the washer, of course, I would just call and cancel the order. In fact, if I had bought the washer at another store five years previously, Wal-Mart would still probably take it back. This, however, was not Wal-Mart, but Conforama, a Swiss appliance chain. How gracious would they be? How expensive a hole had I dug this time? This would not have been such a big deal if I didn’t find myself in situations like it so often. The Swiss Athletics Championships. Climbing a mountain, the angry family in tow. Lost in Paris. In a coffee shop sitting across from an elderly woman who speaks no English. 

The Conforama website contains the comforting words, “satisfied or your money back.” Buoyed by that hope, I called the store. Sure, I could cancel the order, but I had to do it at the store, not online or by phone. By this time in was Saturday, and my forbearing husband offered to come with me on this quick errand.  Armed with my printout of the sale, we approached the customer service desk, waited in line, and were told that, actually, we needed to be in the other customer service line, just around the corner. We followed the people who had been waiting in front of us (at least we weren’t the only clueless ones). At the next desk, the clerk helpfully created a receipt, which we were to take, he explained, into the store, to the welcome desk. At the welcome test, we were told, naturally, that we were going to have to take our documents to the other welcome desk. Clearly, this was all part of a plan to frustrate people into keeping their unwanted merchandise. My hypothesis was confirmed when we arrived at the other welcome desk and found no one there to welcome us. Eventually, a woman showed up and told us we could only get store credit. Emboldened by impatience, guilt, and absolutely no desire to spend 700 chf on anything else in the store, I told her we didn’t want store credit, and that the website had said money back . . . money. She nodded, seemed unperturbed, and said we’d have to talk to Michelle, who would be over by the televisions. She then uttered, in English, the words, “no hair.” The picture that leaped into my mind -- of a tall, slender, bald woman with several tattoos and piercings -- was not what we saw by the televisions. This was, of course, because it was bald Michel whom we sought, a stocky man with a white beard and no hair on top. I have got to stop thinking like an American.

“We don’t want store credit. We want money,” I told Michel, regretting my inability to phrase this request in a more elegant and persuasive fashion. I was anticipating an argument, but he nodded, signed the receipt, and handed it back. Sure that our ease in accomplishing this mission meant we had actually failed, we headed next to the cash register, with Eric planning all the way the big TV he would buy with the store credit, since we clearly were not getting our money back. I was paying attention to my stomach, which had begun its familiar churning about the time we reached the second welcome desk. At the register, however, the cashier looked at the document and opened the drawer to give us -- not store credit or even money back on our credit card -- but 700 chf in cash. 

A few weeks ago, the pastor said that God loves seeing us get ourselves into trouble because he loves to get us out of it in surprising ways. The worse trouble, the more fun it is to rescue us. Of course, a broken washer or even foolishly wasting several hundred franks hardly rank as serious trouble. But still. They are poor things, but mine own. 

My authorized washer from the regie is supposed to come tomorrow . . . sometime. The piles are getting pretty high. When I think of all the folding to come . . . that is, if the machine gets here . . . and when I wonder what it will cost and who will pay for it, I feel that sickish feeling in my stomach. 

"Come on, God, now if you could just have the ground be wet . . . .”

I’m still waiting for the moment when we conquer the Midianites with nothing but a flashlight and a canning jar. 

“Greetings, mighty man of valor.” Ha, ha.

But it’s only a farce if you don’t know how the story ends.

The alien with the defunct washer on what I hope will be the washer's last night at home.

Il Va Y Avoir Du Sport!

Back in the States, our family used to enjoy track meets. Some of us ran, some watched, some helped. So when the coaches at Stade Genève (the athletics club that Luc and Johanna belong to) asked for volunteers to help with the Swiss Junior Athletics Championships, I encouraged the family to get involved. I am, for those who have not yet divined my deeper motives, on a continual campaign to make Geneva our home. I felt like participating in the meet might help with that effort. The family (some more reluctantly than others) agreed -- or at least agreed to humor me.

I tried to be completely transparent about our French abilities. I told Vanessa, who sent out the initial “help wanted,” that if she had a job for people who didn’t speak French, we were happy to oblige. Nonetheless, Eric was somewhat worried when he was assigned the job of “host.” Further, I questioned my success at communicating when I received an email addressed to “Fils,” which I later figured out was intended for Drew, (“fils” is “son” in French). Somehow, in my broken French, I had communicated, not only that I had a son, but that I had actually named him Fils (which the gentleman reading the note must have found odd). Nonetheless, I set myself down to translate the email describing our duties. I thought I had a fairly good handle on the job, but decided that I would send the whole note through Google Translate, so that I could make sure I understood without bothering Vanessa. The results were not encouraging. Here, for your reading pleasure, is what I got:

Your task will be to manage the rally to accompany athletes locations and transmit that leaves law.

Clocks in the stadium should be given to the time, and if this should not be the case down the clocks will be hidden. You will need your watches time clock stage ... If at the end of the call athletes are not present and the leaves are already parties with athletes when .. it will be too late for latecomers.

For hosts and hostesses: Your task will be to accompany the series or groups of disciplines on their sites. Once there you will let the commissioners to whom you have given the competition leaves (leaf starter switch). It will also put the leaves in the anemometer.

On the plan attached you will find the number 3.

I give you an appointment:

- Saturday 11 am at the stage of Bout-du-Monde to take your t-shirts and your good to install and corridors if we took behind the plant on Friday. The first athletes to present to you 12.

I ask the young shuttles silence and a sober, no more mobile on the stage, or headphones.

I think I have toured the situation and thank you again for your commitment.

After that tour of the situation, I joined Eric in his concern. What if we failed to get the leaves in the correct anemometer, and then it was too late? What should we do with the number 3 when we found it? And what if one of the young shuttles (neither silent or sober) set off the leaf starter switch and the clocks all came out of hiding? I devoted many nights to prayer, fingernail-biting, and questioning why this had seemed like such a good idea.

The  day of the championships was sunny, clear, and warm -- really too warm for the athletes, but lovely for volunteers, even nervous ones. It turned out that the people in charge of the hosts and hostesses spoke excellent English, and that our job (which was to take athletes to the starting line), required only knowing where each event started and being able to motion for a group of teens to follow. Best of all, as this was a championship for all of Switzerland, most of the athletes didn’t speak any more French than we did. It was even kind of fun to watch the French-speaking Geneva volunteers try to resurrect their  schooldays German to communicate with the kids participating. I could see them counting in their heads trying to find the right German number, “ein, zwei, drei . . . vier -- Bahn vier!”   just like I do in French. And half the time, they used the English, “Follow me!” assuming that it would make more sense to the athletes than the French, “On y va!”

Drew had a job shuttling heat sheets (turns out, that’s what the “leaves” were) from the office, and Johanna and Luke carried baskets for the athletes’ gear. In a spirit of honesty, I do have to say that being a track-meet volunteer will not rank among my favorite Geneva memories -- it was actually kind of boring to watch people we didn’t know compete. Nonetheless, it is a memory. And we all got cool t-shirts with the intimidating Stade Genève red, yellow, and black logo. Not every Ohioan can say that.

Je Suis Toujours Perdue

        I am somewhat reluctant to include this post, which I wrote as my "final" in French class. Firstly, those of you who can read French will probably find so many mistakes that I will be embarrassed for the rest of my life. Secondly, those of you who don't read French won't really get anything out of it.

        So, it would be fair to ask, why include such a potentially mortifying and/or useless piece of writing? Three reasons:

1. I haven't written another post yet this week, and in case I don't, at least I've met my self-imposed goal of one post a week.

2. This blog is where I'm preserving Geneva memories, and this is one of them.

3. Despite its flaws, most of which I can't even catch because my knowledge French is so basic, I am actually kind of proud of having written something in French. Perhaps those of you with a similarly elementary knowledge of French (enough to understand; not enough to catch errors) will enjoy it!

J’aime penser que je suis une femme vraiment intelligente et capable. Je peux apprendre très vite tous les noms des pays d’Afrique; j’ai lu toutes les oeuvres classiques en anglais; je peux lire un plan et monter une bibliothèque. Je peux cuisiner et je peux monter un vélo. Mais souvent, dans ma vie, je suis perdue.

Je me souviens une fois quand j’étais petite, et je suis me promenée chez mon amie, qui s’appelait Emily. J’ai marché et j’ai marché, mais je n’ai pu pas trouver sa maison. J’ai pensé que j’avais marché pendant des heures et des kilomètres. J’étais sûre que j’avais raté la maison parce que j’avais marché trop loin. J’étais épuisée et j’avais peur. Les maisons étaient gigantesques et pas familières. Enfin, j’ai arrêté une fille plus grande que moi qui jouait dans son jardin, et je lui ai demandé où habitait mon amie. Heureusement, elle savait. J’ai dû seulement marcher quelque mètres en plus, et ensuite, je suis arrivée. 

Une autre fois, quand j’étais plus grande -- peut-être j’avais 12 ou 13 ans -- je suis me baladée dans la forêt avec mon ami, Jerry. La forêt appartenait à mes grand-parents, et je pensais que je la connaissais bien. Mais après des heures, quand nos jambes étaient tellement fatiguées, nous sommes arrivés à une route vraiment inconnue.  Nous avions passé une barrière presque un kilomètre avant, et nous n’étions pas encore dans la forêt de mes grand-parents. Après peut-être un kilomètre, nous avons rencontré un homme qui conduisait un camion très vieux. Il nous a dit que la maison des mes grand-parents était à plusieurs kilomètres sur la route. Nous lui avons demandé de  nous emmener dans son camion. Nous nous sommes plaints que nous étions trop fatigués pour marcher. Mais l’homme nous a dit, “L’essence, c’est cher.” Et il est parti dans un nuage de poussière.

Le problème était pire quand je suis devenue maman, parce que maintenant, ce n’est pas seulement moi-même qui est toujours perdue, mais la famille entière. Chaque fois quand nous allons dans une nouvelle ville, j’emmène mon plan et j’étudie la route. Mais chaque fois, nous nous  perds. Nous sommes perdus dans toutes les grandes villes d’Europe: à Paris, à Londres, à Barcelone, à Venise. Nous ne sommes pas perdus à Rome, mais c’est parce que nous ne sommes jamais allés à Rome. Quand nous sommes arrivés à Genève il y a un an, nous nous sommes perdus presque tous les jours. Pendant plus qu’une heure, nous avons cherché l’Office Cantonal de la Population. Enfin, nous l’avons trouvé -- c’était à 400 mètres de notre maison!

Mais le pire moment, j’étais seule. C’était en octobre dernier, et je me suis arrêtée chez mon amie pour lui donner des confitures. Je suis passée une porte, et j’ai garé la voiture. Quand je suis retournée, je n’ai pas pu trouver ma voiture, parce que il y avait une grande porte en métal. Je ne savais pas lire le français, et de toute façon, personne était là. J’ai erré dans le garage, en panique. Je me suis demandée ce que je pouvais faire et j’ai pensé à ce que mon mari ferait quand je lui aurais dit que j’ai perdu la voiture dans un garage genevois. Je me suis presque affolée, quand j’ai trouvé un bureau dans lequel il y avait un homme. J’ai essayé en français: “Ma voiture . . . je vais dans le parking, et la porte est ouverte. Je reviens, et la porte est fermée! Je ne sais pas pourquoi!” L’homme était très gentil et très calme. Il m’a montré un ascenseur pour le parking, et il m’a emmené jusqu’à ma voiture. Il m’a montré que, si j’avancais, la porte s’ouvrait. Je l’ai remercié encore et encore, jusqu’à ce qu’il pense que j’étais folle. 

Peut-être mon problème avec le fait d’être perdu est parce que j’aime le chanson qui s’appelle en anglais, “Amazing Grace.” La fin de la première strophe dit:

“I once was lost, but now am found; was blind, but now I see.”

(Une fois j’étais perdu, mais maintenant je suis été trouvé; j’étais aveugle, mais maintenant je vois.)