BIG

     

America's BIG highways, flanked by some lovely BIG trees.

Madame Guenat, whom I have mentioned before as my elderly Swiss friend, frequently makes the comment, "America is a big country" (only she says it in French so it's much prettier). She has never been to America, but what she usually means is that she understands that something bad that happens in one area (like the movie-theater shootings in Colorado, for example), doesn't necessarily reflect the tenor of the whole country. I always find this a very kind thing for her to say to me. "Big" of course, is a relative term. When I showed Madame a map of the U.S. and explained that we would be living in Maryland while my parents were in Indiana, her initial thought was that we could probably drive from one location to the other in a few hours. She was shocked when I told her that it would take ten -- and more shocked when I told her that if we wanted to drive from Baltimore to visit my sister, who lives in Utah, we would be on the road for more than 30 hours (if we didn't stop). Big indeed.
       America's bigness (distances, people, portions, buildings) is something that Europeans sometimes disparage. At times I have been tempted to agree: It all seems so unnecessary. But after last week in the U.S., I have decided that big is not always bad. Take, for example, the trunk in our rental car (which was only midsize). We could fit our three suitcases and one backpack with plenty of room to spare, leaving the seats free for their intended cargo -- the people. I was also enchanted by all the enormous trees lining the highways. We didn't see buildings or billboards as we drove from D.C. to Baltimore, just piles of lush green.

Trees along the highway.

        Then there were the malls. Say what you want about consumerism, but on a sweltering day, there's no place like a freezing mall for a walk (yes, I am becoming an old person). And all the predictable stores are -- predictably -- in one place, requiring no venturing into killer humidity.

The smaller of two malls that we visited.

       I am not a universal fan of big, of course. Big roads are hard to cross on foot, particularly when big lines of big cars are barreling along them. Big portions in restaurants seem at first like good value, but we found ourselves unable to finish anything we ordered (we need to get smarter about sharing, clearly). Also, it's hard to suggest getting an ice-cream cone when you haven't finished your dinner. Especially when you're the mom. So big, for me, is a mixed bag. One thing I love about American Big, though: Big Coffee Mugs.

A sculpture on the harbor in Baltimore. It's not particularly American, I guess, but it's BIG. And I like it.

My Morning of International Crime

       Switzerland does not use checks. To pay for something in Switzerland, one usually uses cash or a credit card. To pay for something big (braces for your teenaged daughter, for example), one does a wire transfer. It took us a bit to adjust to this system of payment. It seemed strange and a little insecure to just  punch in a few numbers on the computer or fill out a form at the post office. It was hard to believe that the money was going to actually end up where it needed to be when there was no physical evidence of its travel. Over the past two years, however, wire transfers and cash have become a way of life, and no checks = no problem. No problem until we returned to the the U.S. this week, where, interestingly enough, they do use checks. In the United States, they use checks for all kinds of things: paying enrollment fees at homeschool co-ops, remunerating people who inspect the chimney, and, of course, providing earnest money when one makes an offer on a house.
       We had two main purposes in this trip -- first, we wanted to look at schools, and second, we wanted to find a house. We had about four days to accomplish both, so my formidable organizational powers were at full throttle. We searched online, drove through neighborhoods, talked to a Realtor, toured schools, examined roofs, boilers, bedrooms, and kitchens, found a house. We were clicking along like the well-oiled moving machine that we are, until I read through the 50 pages of contract required to make an offer on a house and got to the part where it said something like: "The buyer will provide earnest money in the form of a check for $5000 . . . ." A check. The machine's gears slowed a bit -- having been thoroughly Swissified over the past two years, we hadn't even thought to bring the check book on this trip. I wasn't  a hundred percent sure that the check book wasn't packed with the pots and pans on a freighter on its own little voyage to America. No problem. I am flexible. We'd go to the bank for a cashier's check. That seemed like a super idea until I searched for the nearest Fifth Third Branch. It's in Pennsylvania. So, okay, we'll get cash. Nope -- the real estate company couldn't take cash. Weird, because cash is, after all, money, right? But okay, we'll do a wire transfer. Sorry, that's cash, too (even if it's invisible and electronic). So I decided we would get a money order. Having no idea how to purchase a money order (and only a vague notion of what a money order actually is), I did what all good researchers do and googled it. I learned that one can purchase money orders at the post office with a debit card.
       The next morning, I dropped Eric off at the P&G office in Hunt Valley and headed to the Cockeysville Post Office. I had both of our passports, both drivers licenses, our Swiss debit card, and Eric's American debit card (mine had expired). I was prepared for anything. I figured I'd quick pick up the money order, go get a haircut, have a nice lunch, and then meet the Realtor at the house. I am efficient.  I am Getting It Done. The post office was not crowded, and I told the nice lady behind the desk that I wanted a money order for $5000. No problem, except that post office money orders only come in amounts of up to $1000, so I'd have to buy five. Fine. Can I pay with my debit card? No problem, except that sometimes debit cards have a limit. Did I know if mine did? No idea, as 1) I hadn't used it in over a year, and 2) $100 is a large withdrawal for me. Also, I would have to fill out special identification information to go on record as having purchased more than $2000 worth of money orders in one day. Because I was going to use Eric's debit card, I needed to provide his information. Good thing I have his social security number, telephone, birthdate, and shoe size all filed away in the old noggin. I smugly told the lady that I had his passport, too, if she wanted it. Everything was fine until I swiped the card, which was promptly denied. The clerk said we were probably over the limit, so we cautiously tried several amounts, with larger ones being denied, until we succeeded in paying for $3000 worth of money orders. I then decided we'd try the Swiss card, which didn't work at all.  The next step, the clerk explained, was to call the bank to have them increase the limit.
        Waiting on hold with Fifth Third to ask them to increase my credit limit so I could buy more money orders, I started to feel a little conspicuous. I offered a brief prayer of thanks that the post office was (still) not crowded, and a more fervent prayer that someone would answer the phone. I typed in Eric's social security number, his debit card number, the PIN code from his card, then an actual person answered and asked for my social security number, which, naturally, I couldn't remember after all those other numbers. It was at this point that I started to feel, just a bit, like some pawn in an international money-laundering scheme. I did finally remember my own identifying information and, in quite a bit more time than in takes to write this, our debit limit was raised. Victory!
        Defeat. I swiped the card repeatedly with no result. The clerk patiently voided out the rest of my order while I scuttled off to a corner to re-call Fifth Third. After again proving who I was by answering multiple questions which would have been easy for someone with an actual address and telephone number but were challenging for the temporarily homeless, I learned that I had increased the limit on my debit card, not Eric's. This was great news, except that my debit card, as the attentive reader will well remember, had expired. Not only could I not increase the limit on Eric's card (though we share an account!), but my repeated efforts to use it had alerted the Fraud Department, and now his card was entirely blocked. Could they talk to my husband? Well, no. I am calling you on his cell phone, since mine doesn't work in this country. He is in the bowels of P&G, inaccessible to a badge-less civilian. Nonetheless, unless I could reach him, the machine was at a standstill.
       I told the nice postal clerk I'd be back (which I'm sure warmed her heart), and headed to P&G. I didn't use the GPS because I am a bloodhound with an unfailing sense of direction. After driving several times in a large and traffic-filled circle, I turned on the GPS and found P&G. I explained to the receptionist/guard dog that I needed my husband, and he had no phone, and could she call someone back there and have them find him? She reached someone on the third try. Eric only had to provide his blood type, mother's maiden name, amount of his last deposit, and the name of the queen's firstborn son in order to have the fraud alert removed from his card. He explained why his wife had made all those bizarre attempts on his card, and assured the bank that indeed, I was his wife and not the kingpin of crime. Then he called another number to have the credit limit raised. Then I returned to the post office, which turned out to be about 200 feet from P&G. So much for the bloodhound.
       "Next," said the lady at the post office counter with a smile. Then, "Oh, it's you." But this time, the transaction proceeded hitch-free, and I walked out of the building with an envelope full of money orders. I can't explain why I still felt, just a bit, like I had pulled off something shady.
       I should be able to draw a lesson from all this, but I can't quite figure out what it might be. Take your checkbook with you, stupid? That seems a little specific. People are usually pretty nice and patient, even if you are behaving in a bizarre and suspicious manner? I'm not sure that's a helpful moral. Maybe my lesson this this: Switzerland isn't the only country where it's difficult to get around if you don't know (or remember) the rules.

The Latest Surprise

      Parenting is nothing if not surprising. As I parent of young children, I would hold out my hand to take the chewed gum without “ew” even crossing my mind. I would say things like, “Please stop drawing on your toenails with permanent marker.” I would put baby Lucas in his carseat on top of the running dryer for naps, because that’s how he slept best. My favorite moment of parental surprise comes from a friend, who, talking to her preschool daughter, found herself saying, “Put on your underwear before you sit on the dog.” I should not be surprised that parenting keeps coming up with surprises. I do have to say, though, that it surprises me very much to be writing the words, “Right now, I have three children on three different continents.” 

       I remember a point, early in my marriage, when I decided that Eric and I were the kind of solid, un adventurous folk who would probably never even take the family to Disneyland. Instead, we’ve sent our daughter to Uganda, which according to the Center for Tropical Medicine at the University of Geneva Hospital, is an incubator for malaria, typhoid fever, bacterial diarrhea, plague (of all things), schistosomiasis (I don’t actually know what that is), and rabies. We have left our 16-year-old son alone, not only in the house, the town, or even the country, but without immediate family anywhere on the european continent. And we’ve sent out youngest by himself on an airplane to Cincinnati (okay, Cincinnati is pretty tame, but alone on an airplane for the first time is a little scary, parentally, even if, of all of our children, the youngest is the one I would vote most likely to be able to navigate an airport). Meanwhile, Eric and I are dueling laptops in a hotel room in Hunt Valley, MD, whiling away the long hours between our jet-lagged 4:30 a.m. wakeup and our 9:30 meeting with the relocation expert. The great thing about jet lag is that we have already been on a long walk, eaten a leisurely breakfast, answered emails, shaved, and showered. The downside is that by dinnertime, we’ll be zombies -- but no silver lining is cloudless.

        Flashback two months to May, the kickoff for the events that culminated in this summertime family sprawl. We were with relatives at the Maison Cailler in Broc, waiting for our tour of the chocolate factory, having spent a lovely morning at the Gruyères Castle. Eric’s cell phone rang, which is not that unusual, seeing as it was a Friday and he had taken the day off. He talked for what seemed an unusually long time. When I asked him what was up, I received the ominous reply, “Big news. I’ll tell you later.” It was providential that were were at Cailler, because there is nothing like free all-you-can-eat chocolate to distract a person from troubling thoughts. Of course, the big news turned out to be that the Aliens were no longer to be strangers in a foreign land. We were going home. Sort of. Actually, we were going to Baltimore, Maryland, home of P&G’s cosmetics business. Drew’s first reaction was that he hadn’t thought that Eric’s job could get any more girly than face cream. But now Dad’s learning all about eyelash curling, eye liner tones, and the difference between lipstick and lip gloss. 

        So for the past two months, Maryland has figured large in my thoughts. Before that, I can say that my mind had rarely touched on the state. I knew that the capitol was Annapolis, because Lucas (having entirely missed US history in our move) memorized  the states and capitols last year. I also remembered that the TV show Homicide, which Eric and I used to watch occasionally, was set in Baltimore. So a move to Maryland doesn’t really feel like a move home, any more than it might feel like moving home for someone originally from Marseilles to move to Geneva. Okay, they speak the same language, but . . . . 

So the adventure continues. Will the reentry into American culture be smooth or fraught with turbulence? Will the Aliens find a house that they like as well as their Geneva home? Where will the Alien children go to school? Will any churches have members speaking with cool accents and wearing traditional garb? Will I have lost the ability to drive? Is Chipotle really as good as we remember? Stay tuned.

Happy Fourth of July!

       I had grand visions of a big -- or at least stirring -- Fourth of July celebration this year. Several things conspired against me, not the least of which was that we live in Switzerland, where the Fourth of July is just the day between the third and the fifth. The American International Club does host a gathering, but it was going to cost us 35 chf each, and it was not clear from the webiste if there were even going to be any fireworks. Location was not my only adversary, however. With no holiday from work, Eric would be home late and have to awaken early -- not a combination conducive to extended festivities. Furthermore, he was not the only working member of the family. Drew has begun his summer job at a nearby pony camp (turns out he's allergic to ponies, but that's another story). He wouldn't return home until after 7, and would have to be back at 8:30 the next morning. Plus, he had spent Wednesday night in the stables, so was pretty tired to begin with.
       Thus, a quiet evening at home seemed like our best bet. Our American friends were all out of town, so it would be just us. I hadn't started planning early enough to order paperware, but I did find some red, white, and blue napkins (although I had to combine two napkins to get all the colors).

I thought the knife-and-fork arrangement looked vaguely military.

       I decided we'd have a traditional cookout (except that in addition to burgers, we had these delicious white sausages wrapped a bacon -- a little Swiss touch to the day). Seeing as neither Lucas nor Johanna was gainfully employed, I told them they had to help with dinner. Lucas offered to make a chocolate pie for dessert. Johanna wanted to make dessert, too, but agreed to make Grandma Emy's potato salad instead. A barbecue cannot be built on sweets alone.

Drew with the food.

The food. The laptop is there for Spotify, which provided our  patriotic accompaniment.

The chocolate pie.

The chocolate pie with a sparkler falling into the cream and making a burnt spot.  Unfortunately, the burnt spot didn't taste like creme brulée, but like burnt.

         I am not the full-time griller in the family, but Lucas and I did our best to start the charcoal and get the burgers and sausages on. We were thankful when Eric came home to rescue us (and the food) from cookout incompetence. Dinner was delicious, if low-key. Then we decided to spend the time between finishing the food and dark in watching 42, the new movie about Jackie Robinson. What's more American than baseball and the struggle to overcome racism? The movie was enjoyable and well worth seeing, although I think the story of Jackie Robinson and Branch Rickey deserved an even better film to tell it. The movie took us until 10:30 (22h30 here in Geneva), when it was time for the best version of fireworks we could muster -- some sparklers I found at the grocery store.

We decided that since the sparklers were for sale in the grocery, they were probably legal.

And anyway, our driveway isn't very visible from the street or any other houses (a fact that the burglars last year appreciated as well).

A cooperative ball of sparks.

Drew showed us how to use his camera to do light painting, which added some panache to the display. This is my attempt at "USA."

. . . and Luc's attempt at a lovely design . . . 

. . . and one of the stars from the Stars and Stripes.

Johanna impresses even herself.

Eric controls his enthusiasm.

      So that was the Fourth, Alien in CH style.

Budapest

   

Quads and lungs burning, I raced against the descending escalator, regretting not having left my heavy backpack with Joan at the bottom. The girls -- Johanna and Joan’s daughter Sarah -- stood at the top of the escalator, blocked from following us down by two Hungarian Metro guards. Apparently, we didn’t have the right tickets, a fact which the guards had failed to catch when they let Joan and me go by, but had managed to notice with our daughters. Had I been thinking clearly -- or been in a remotely familiar place -- I might have looked for an easier way up. As it was, I just wanted to rescue the girls by the shortest route possible. Thankful for early morning hill repeats -- and a fairly short escalator -- I reached the top. If you’ve never run up a down escalator, my advice for you is to beware the end, where it flattens out. I didn’t quite trip, but it would have been a painful fall if I had. We found the right tickets (not without trying several broken machines first), and made our way back down to the platform, where we boarded the blue metro toward Budapest.

          Had a similar scenario unfurled in Geneva, I think the guards would have let the girls follow us, trusting that we would all return to spend the proper amount of forints on our tickets. Geneva is a trusting city in a way that others -- Rome, for example -- are not. In Rome, I think the lack of trust may have to do with a fear that someone really would run off with an ice cream cone without paying. In Budapest, I wonder if the fear is bred more from close to a century of trouble. The city (and country) found itself on the losing side of both World Wars, then under communist oppression until 1989. It hasn’t had that many years to rebuild and re-imagine itself. I can’t speak for how life might have changed for a real citizen of Budapest since then. I can only say that, in those few years, the city has become a vibrant tourist destination.

         Our trip to Budapest was, technically, a “Voyage d’Etude,” or study trip, organized with another mother and daughter who homeschool. The girls raised money for the trip by holding two bake sales, one at the Rive Market in Geneva’s center, and one outside a grocery store. It’s a mark of the generosity of Genevans -- and their comfort level with bake sales and study trips -- that the girls raised enough money to cover flights and lodging. The lodging was outstanding, in location if not in luxury. We stayed in a small apartment right next to St. Stephan’s Basilica, in the center of the Pest side of the river. Saint Stephan, as it turns out, was Hungary’s first king, crowned in 1000 AD. He also gave Hungary its start as a Christian nation (hence the “saint’ part of his name). The basilica, like so much else in Budapest, was a large and impressive structure. Budapest seemed like a large city to me -- meaning that the things in it were large, at least compared to those in Geneva. The Danube is wide, the buildings are huge, even the blocks used in construction are massive. 

St. Stephan's Basilica by night

The first night in town we walked up to the Castle District, the part of the city that was originally Buda. Here, we learned a bit about King Mátyás, who lived in the 1200s. He apparently liked to hunt and was in love with a peasant girl named Ilonka. He also built a beautiful church. We descended from the area on the Siklo, which is a funicular offering a great view of the river and buildings lining it. Our apartment was on the hot and noisy side, but I slept well enough that I have no idea if the St. Stephan’s bells chime between 11 p.m. and 5 a.m.

The Mátyás fountain, which shows the king  as a hunter. Ilonka is on the right.

The Chain Bridge by night, as seen from Castle Hill.

 

       The next day, Johanna and I ran across the Chain Bridge, along the Danube, and back across another bridge. We made the exciting discovery that not only does Budapest have a McDonalds, but that it is open for breakfast. We made plans for an Egg McMuffin run the next morning. Our first real educational event was a visit to the Hungarian National Museum. I have no pictures because one has to get special permission to take them, but there were lots of picture-worthy items. Jo and Sarah liked the costumes best -- garb and weaponry of the tribes that, one after another, inhabited the area to dresses from the Hapsburg Era and military uniforms. The last tribe before St. Stephan was the Magyars, which explains why that is the Hungarian word for “Hungarian.” Hungary is called Magyarország. This confirms my opinion that every country should be universally called by its name in the native language of its people. Otherwise, it is just too confusing. Who would ever guess, for example, that Germany, Deutschland, and Allemagne are all the same place? In a further spurt of educational spirit, we toured Parliament. If the Hungarian parliament is not the most impressive political building in the world, it has to be among the top.

A hallway in Parliament.

The chamber where sessions of Parliament are held.

Brass cigar holders in the hallway outside the meeting room. They're numbered so representatives could find their cigars between sessions.

Parliament and the Danube -- both massive. The Parliament is entirely symmetrical.

      After so much learning, clearly it was time for a shopping break. We headed to Váci Utca, the main retail street in town. Besides the standard fare of C&A, H&M, and Claire's, we browsed souvenir shops selling handpainted wooden ware, embroidered peasant blouses, and lots of paprika. He also found a lovely store that sold dried flower arrangements (a bit difficult to transport on Easy Jet) and scented soaps (the better gift option for our backpacks). And no vacation is complete without ice cream. I will not share how many times we ate ice cream during the trip, but it was quite an impressive number.

Our favorite ice cream place made the ice cream into flowers on the cones.

Johanna with her ice cream.

Johanna with her ice cream and my ice cream.

       I had to leave Budapest the next morning. Johanna stayed with our friends for another day, and they were able to visit the Terror Háza (not terror like horror movies, but terror like Nazis and communists). Johanna said it was very interesting, if upsetting. They also checked out the Central Market, which us a more traditional shopping experience than Váci Utca. And they ate more ice cream.