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.

A Taste of Heaven

      My least favorite part of the church service is the time when the pastor says, "Now stand up and greet someone you don't know." I know I should be happy to make small talk with the people around me for a few minutes, but it sometimes takes a major effort to smile, introduce myself, and ask the same questions to different people each week. This morning, I kind of chickened out and just watched as Drew made his way over to his friend Hakim (or Akim . . . I'm not really sure). Hakim is from Kenya, and he and Drew share a love of basketball and McDonald's. Another teenagerish boy joined them. As the boys talked, a woman who seemed to be about my age, dressed from top to toe in beautiful native African garb, came over to them, bumped fists, and joined the conversation. I thought, as I do almost every Sunday, how much fun it is to be in a church where multinational interaction like this is routine (even if I don't always join the interaction as I should).
      Revelation Chapter 7 gives a picture of heaven that reads, in part: "After this I looked, and behold, a great multitude that no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the Lamb." If one way to describe heaven is multicultural, then Crossroads Church in Ferney-Voltaire must be a little taste of heaven. Ireland, England, Australia, Ghana, Uganda, Kenya, Portugal, Brazil, Germany, Sweden, Holland, United States, Papua New Guinea, Zimbabwe, new Zealand, South Africa, Canada, Japan, China, South Korea, Czech Republic, Nigeria, Ethiopia . . . . Oh yeah -- France and Switzerland, too. All those nations, tribes, peoples, and languages come together every week. When someone prays for a drought, famine, financial crisis, or government in another part of the world, you can bet they know exactly what they are talking to God about. It makes to world seem more real. It makes God's work in the world seem more real to hear from those who have seen it.
       Worshipping with people from across the globe also makes the world seem smaller. Before we moved to Switzerland, I didn't really expect our family to ever take a European vacation. My parents talking about going to Israel seemed absurd. A trip to Paris seemed indulgent. A trip to Kenya seemed impossible. Those places weren't even real to me. Now, though, I have met people from those places.(Give me a break; I do usually participate in the greeting time.) Paris is real because that's where Steven lives. Kenya is real because Hakim's family is there. Traveling seems less scary, more possible, more sane, when I see that God's people are spread over the earth.
       While thinking about the multiethnic, muticultural, multilingual, multinational nature of God's kingdom is awe-inspiring, what's really fun is Sunday mornings, when all the "multis" sing together, when I play in the nursery with children who don't speak my language, when no two people talking to the church have the same accents, and when a mom in a kanga fist bumps with my son.

The Kind of Week It Has Been, Part II

       This has been the kind of week when you go to the post office to pay a visa fee into the Indian Embassy's account (a procedure you have no idea how to complete), and the friendly postmistress is delighted to help you with this simple task.

       The kind of week when you call the orthodontist to make an appointment for your daughter, and not only is the English-speaking receptionist there to listen to your needs, but she is able to clear a space in a calendar that only last week was packed until the end of August.

       The kind of week when your homeowner's insurance agrees to cover the loss of your son's bike, which was stolen -- after being left unlocked -- from a property in the next town. I wouldn't have given us a nickel.

       Could these showers of blessing have anything to do with the fact that the sun is finally shining on Geneva, after months of what our neighbors are telling is is the wettest and coldest spring in history? (Since we've moved here, we've experienced the city's hottest summer, coldest winter, latest spring. The Swiss are proud of their endurance in the face of meteorological adversity.)

No meteorological adversity here.

       In addition to basking in the sun and the brighter mood it imparts, the aliens have been experiencing the world of travel. We thought we knew a lot about travel already, but going from Switzerland to Spain is only minimally more challenging than driving from Ohio to Indiana. Traveling Western Europe is for dilettantes. This summer, we are experiencing TRAVEL (some of us will experience the actual voyaging part, while others just get to be in on the background work). Johanna leaves for Uganda on July 7. She's going with a group of teens from our church to work at an orphanage in Watoto. It took an impressive amount of begging on her part to convince us that the trip was a good idea. Our concerns, though, were more matters of timing than of fear, either for her safety or for the hurdles it would take to get her Africa-ready. Meanwhile, Drew will depart August 10 for India with a team from my parents' church in Cincinnati. Again, in agreeing to (okay, strongly encouraging), the trip, we gave no thought to the preparation involved in heading to what apparently we are to call countries with "emerging economies."
       First, there are visas. We did have to get a visa to come to Switzerland, but that's only because we were staying. Eric, of course, has all kinds of visas in his passport, but some smart administrator always takes care of obtaining those. Uganda and India are both countries that require visas from US nationals living in Switzerland. So I collected 4 cm x 4 cm photos (on a light background, no smiling), travel itineraries, residence cards. I filled out (or made the kids fill out) application forms that threatened legal penalties for forgetting to dot the i's. I also made my surprisingly successful trip to the post office, since the Indian consulate accepts payment only directly into their account through the postal service. You have to pay BEFORE you apply for the visa, and if you mess up the visa application or pay the wrong amount, TOO BAD FOR YOU. No refunds. Drew and I went to the Indian Consulate yesterday. It did occur to me to be thankful that we live in Geneva, where consulates and embassies abound. We could have had to make a long drive or send our documents by mail, necessitating a long wait. I told Drew that, despite the nail-biting care with which I checked and rechecked the list of items to submit,  there was a good chance we would be missing something and the trip would be for naught. As it turned out, I was right and wrong. We had Drew's Swiss residence card, but what the consulate wanted was a copy of the card. Did the consulate have a photocopier? No. No? An office without a photocopier seemed unusual, but I didn't bother questioning, because the intimidatingly reserved man behind the window directed us to a nearby copy shop, where, for 40 centimes, we made our own copies, returned, and received the coveted rubber stamp. The man gave us a number and told us to come back between 5 and 6 p.m. on June 10 to pick up the visa'd passport. He did not mention how many unmarked bills we should bring to the pickup.
       I gave Johanna's materials to a youth leader at church, who is taking care of getting all the visas. I hope that will proceed hitch-free.
       The visas were a spring breeze compared to the vaccinations. We had been advised to go to the Tropical Medicine Center at the University of Geneva Hospital, and we had been told that there could be a wait. I decided to avoid the wait by showing up before the center even opened. Many other people had the same idea, only they showed up even earlier. We were number 64. One child and I read our books peacefully (at least we got seats -- those who arrived after the center opened weren't so lucky), while the other child, whom I will not identify, proceeded to become grouchier and grouchier, driven by a mortal fear of shots which was only intensified by the wait. We overhead a woman who was frustrated with the receptionist about something that involved an "opération de changement de sexe" (I am not making this up). We also amused ourselves for part of the time by trying to guess which doctor we would get. We hoped it wouldn't be the dark-haired man with the glasses, because he seemed impatient and difficult to understand. Of course, after two hours, it was he who called out "soixante-quatre." He was impatient, especially with my attempts to speak French. He told me that he would speak French, since he didn't speak much English, but I should speak in English. For some reason, my brain found this arrangement challenging, and he snapped "English" at me when I accidentally tried to use the French word for "orphanage." He was also difficult to understand, partly because he was not a native French speaker and pronounced some words very strangely (it takes one to know one). We spent several minutes trying to figure out whether Johanna needed a vaccination for "rash." After he explained that it is what happens when an animal bites you, we understood it to be rabies ("rage" in French). We decided that she'd probably be able to get the medical attention that she needed at the orphanage (that's where I became confused about what language I was supposed to be speaking and got reprimanded).
       I will say that the impatient doctor did spend 45 minutes with us and only charged us for 15, and that perhaps a passel of non-francophones needing shots for two different developing economies would be a lot for anyone to take on a Wednesday afternoon. We left after two shots for Drew and three for Johanna, bearing prescriptions for malaria pills and diarrhea medication, pamphlets about being careful in the sun, and lists of medical supplies to take along. I was also bearing a significantly lighter wallet. As a consolation, however, impatient glasses man had given us our very own yellow "carnets de vaccination" to replace our messy photocopies of the kids' vaccination records (at which he had sniffed scoffingly). Now we feel very organized and official.
     

Members of the Uganda group from Crossroads Church before their 140 km
fundraising bike trip around Lake Geneva.

     

The Most Beautiful Place in the World

       My excuse for not having written in three weeks is that we had company. Never mind that the company was only here for one of those weeks, that I had plenty of time for pleasure reading during that time, or that I wasted at least as many minutes on Facebook as it would have taken me to write a blog. I don't have another good excuse, so I'll play the company card.
       I enjoy having company. First of all, having guests makes me feel like I belong here. After all, I usually have a better handle on local attractions, restaurants, transportation, etc. than visitors from other countries. Sometimes I even speak more French than they do. Guests also provide an excuse to pull out the traditional Swiss recipes: tartiflette, raclette, fondue. And having people to entertain means that we get to do entertaining things, such as climb the steps at Saint-Pierre Cathedral, tour the chocolate factory in Gruyères, and eat ice cream at least once a day. Another of our favorite things to do with guests is to use the Carte Journalière train passes, which allow the holder to go anywhere on Swiss public transportation during a 24-hour period. This time, we took the train to Lauterbrunnen, a town in the Bernese Oberland famous for (probably) having inspired J.R.R. Tolkien's drawings of Rivendell. It's true, anyway, that Tolkien hiked there and that he drew pictures of the mountains and waterfalls surrounding the Lauterbrunnen Valley that look uncannily like the pictures he later drew when creating Middle Earth.
       The Lauterbrunnen Valley is the most beautiful place I have ever visited. They say that it has 72 waterfalls, and I can vouch personally for at least half that many.

The Valley

       Lauterbrunnen is beyond Interlaken, a 3 - 4 hour train trip from Geneva, depending on the route. On the way there, we took the more scenic (longer) route, which chugged through Alps for most of the way. We arrived at the Lauterbrunnen train station in time for an early lunch. I was glad I had packed picnic stuff, because the grocery store was closed for one of those holidays that were originally part of the church calendar, but are now just excuses for everyone to take the day off.

The view from the bench where we ate lunch. 

     We bought drinks (and pastries, of course) at a bakery, which was open despite the holiday. The Dutch woman behind the counter advised us that the best thing to do with the few hours that we had in the area was to walk to Stechelberg, a town about 4 miles down the valley. She didn't mention that the famous Trummelbach Falls were on the way, but about 40 minutes out of town, the yellow "Wanderweg" sign directed us to a detour leading to those falls. I had read that the falls were inside a mountain and reached by a lift of some sort. I couldn't quite picture what that meant, but we decided to check it out. A short ride on what was basically a slanty elevator took us about halfway up the falls; then we were on our own with steps. The falls are, literally, inside the mountain. They are a sight that is unique, powerful, and a bit scary. I was glad the kids were old enough to be smart about staying away from the edge. 

Inside the mountain with Trummelbach Falls

The power of the water was amazing.

And the noise

Looking down on a waterfall

Looking up to the daylight

       I wondered at first how people had discovered the falls, seeing as they are, indeed, trapped inside the mountain itself. When we exited, however, it became obvious. The noise of the falls, thunderous up close, was clearly audible from the outside as well. 

       After the detour, we continued our walk toward Stechelberg. The sun was shining -- as it had not been in Geneva for close to a week -- and we paused to take some photos with the locals.

Johanna poses with her new friend.

The cow was not interested in looking at the camera.

       Although Stechelberg is not a big place (pop. 255, says Wikipedia), we had a bit of trouble finding the local ice-cream store. Some friendly Brits led us to the right spot, and we bought large sundaes to celebrate the walk, the sun, the cows, the falls, and the day. Then, time becoming short (and some legs becoming sore), we boarded a yellow Post bus back to Lauterbrunnen and the train. Eric wondered if the people who live in the valley appreciate the splendor with which they are surrounded. He thinks that, to them, it might become simply background noise.

They might be looking at Staubbach  Falls, one of the highest waterfalls in Europe, here.

The wildflower-filled fields added to the beauty.

Cows graze at the bottom of another fall.

I don't believe it for a second.

The Kind of Week it Has Been

       You know the kind of week when you go to the store to buy a stick of gum for a science experiment, only to realize that sticks of gum are a rare commodity in Switzerland (gum here comes in pellets). Then you arrive back home to find that actually, that experiment isn't for two days, and what you really need is an egg.

       Or the kind of week when you drive 45 minutes to the big sports store and learn, upon reaching your destination, that May 1 is a national holiday in France, and the store is closed.

       Or when you are halfway to the bank and realize that you can't deposit a check without your husband's passport.

       Or when the landlord tries to make you feel like the mold in the basement is your fault because you didn't leave the windows open (in the winter?).

       Or when you summon up all your courage to make doctor appointments for two of your children, having researched carefully how one says "check-up" in French (and written down your telephone number so you don't forget it in a panic). Then, when you take the children to the office, you somehow get shuffled out after a short (though pleasant) conversation and without the doctor even looking at child number 2. And, while it is perfectly acceptable that the doctor's English is limited (I realize that I am living in a foreign country), and that this, combined with your limited French, probably is what caused the lack of the check-up you had so courageously requested, it is a little odd, given the fact that the office advertises itself as "resolutely bilingual." On second thought, they probably meant French and German, so it isn't odd at all.

       That is the kind of week it has been around here. It's been the kind of week that makes me want to hop on a plane and head back to America . . . or maybe just hide under the covers for a week or so.

       I have been debating whether I should wallow in a simmering stew of pique or try to rise above the annoyances of life. In an effort to tip the scales toward rising above, and in the "glad game" spirit of Pollyanna, I am going to share a few people/things for which I am thankful. In order to preserve anonymity and to make the whole thing more whimsical, I have decided to give everyone an alias based on a school supply (I'm sitting in the office right now, so that's what I'm looking at). Because I am trying to appreciate French-speaking Switzerland, I will use the French words for the school supplies.

       1. Calculatrice, the woman who has helped with the ins, outs, unders, and throughs of homeschooling, fearlessly navigating mazes of red tape. She's been homeschooling here in Geneva for close to 20 years, and she knows all the tricks. As an added blessing, she has a daughter Johanna's age, and we have become friends. In this transient expat world, I am thankful for friends. She also recently introduced me to . . .

       2. The International School Book Room. This is a true bargain -- the kind that would actually be a bargain even in Cincinnati. Used literature, textbooks, travel guides, picture books, all for under 3 francs each -- or 20 for all you can stuff in a bag. An almost-new Algebra text for 3 chf? Rifles for Waitie for 1? I had to keep slapping my hands away to avoid buying more than I could carry.

       3. Feuille de Papier (see, I told you this name business would be fun), my running buddy. As all of us with running buddies know, an hour or two a week is better than therapy. Feuille is, unfortunately, returning to the US this summer, but we have shared aches and angst for more than a year now, and our Thursday runs are the highlight of my week.

       4. Stylo, the new(ish) youth pastor at church. Just when I was lamenting the fact that my kids didn't have coaches, teachers, or others outside the family to encourage and motivate them (because that is just not the Swiss style), Stylo shows up. Musician, athlete, man of God, and bearer of the coolest short dreadlocky hair ever. He's taken an interest in all the kids -- taking Drew and Johanna to work in the train station soup kitchen, coming over most Fridays for Bible study and silly games with Luc and friends, inviting Drew to a high school boys Bible study.

       5. Tableau, a woman from church whom I have known, slightly, since we moved here. She also home schools, though we had never really talked about it. Recently, we somehow started talking about how expensive French teachers are and how sometimes it might be nice for our boys to have someone else in their classes. It's grown into a tiny homeschool co-op for next year. She'll teach science (a subject that makes me tired), I'll teach English (her greatest fear), and we'll hire a French teacher and split the cost. It's an answer to a prayer I never even prayed, assuming that a co-op was out of the question here. Finally, someone who can think outside the box!

       Make fun of Pollyanna all you want, I have to say that I'm feeling better already. And, I haven't even gotten to my final item for the evening . . .

       6. My new Garmin Forerunner. Eric bought me this gadget for my birthday, and while I thought it was a nice gift, I had no idea how much I would love it. I can see my pace, my milage, the elapsed time, and the calories burned. At the end of each mile, it beeps with my time, and it congratulates me when I achieve a PR. Coolest of all, I can plug it into the computer and wile away time that I should be spending sweeping or something by looking at altitude changes, second-by-second pace, and other vital details of my last run. The fact that the Garmin is pink was, I think, supposed to keep at least some family members from stealing it. That has completely failed, as my run log includes runs from all three kids -- including the ones who were supposed to be put off by the pink. I just have to keep them from logging a 5k, or I will never get another PR.

The Garmin. No one else wanted to pose for a picture.

   
     

Cooking

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       This is spaetzle. I learned how to make it the winter before last, in Germany. My parents' friend, Christoph, who taught us all how to make spaetzle, would not, I think, be pleased with this effort. No matter what I do, I always make the noodles too large. Nightcrawlers, I think he called them. This spaetzle has spinach in it (for nutrition) and is cooked with bacon and onion (for deliciousness). It's also good with beef stroganoff, cheese, or lentils and carrots (which is how Christoph made it). 

      I have always liked to cook, but moving to Geneva has sent me into another culinary gear. Eating out here is expensive and, frankly, not that great. Eating in is expensive, too, but we have to eat somewhere. Plus, unlike cleaning, which I can generally do without, cooking is relaxing and fun. I've learned how to make spaetzle, coq au vin, crême brulée, chocolate mousse, tartiflette, fondue, raclette (which is hardly cooking), French onion soup, Paris-Brest, and my latest favorite . . . fish tacos. 

       Most weekends, I find myself cooking for some kind of company -- A birthday party, Luc's Bible study, Drew and Johanna's youth group, the winners of the Olay auction item: "Dinner with the Americans," sometimes even my own friends. I am all for cooking for company: Company gives me an excuse to try new recipes, make dessert, and buy these really yummy cracker appetizer sticks that taste like olives and rosemary. I like to set the table with our gold glass goblets and the BIG dinner plates. Events for kids aside, in Geneva, having friends over for dinner is usually a dressy occasion. A meal of several courses is expected, and the guests bring flowers or bottles of wine. I like it. Recently, however, I developed a yearning for a casual dinner, the kind where you call up a friend and say, "If you're not busy, why don't you come over for pizza." Maybe it's more that I developed a yearning for that kind of friend. 

       If there is one thing I have learned in the past 20 months, it is that in Geneva, You're On Your Own (see "The Gold Star" from 9/23/12). If you want the kind of friends who don't mind if you serve them pizza, it is your job to find them. So I racked my brain for our most "casual" friends, and settled on two families. One has an American dad and the other lived in the U.S. for seven years, so I figured the idea of pizza night might not fall completely flat. I warned them that it was only pizza (from Dominos) and drinks. Very casual. Nothing fancy. i.e. Don't bring me flowers because I'm not making dessert and there will be no cracker sticks. I was a little nervous anyway. Other than another American family who once had us over, I have never actually heard of anyone in Geneva inviting adults over for pizza. Not only that, but after 6 p.m. on Friday, Dominos will not let clients in the door to pick up their take-out. The pizza must be delivered, and you do not want to know what delivery pizza for three families would cost in Geneva. Nobody around here eats dinner before 7:30 or 8 p.m., so the pizza was going to be kind of coldish, too. I did break down and make some carrot and celery sticks, and another mom said she'd make flan.

       As I had advertised, the pizza was nowhere near as impressive as coq au vin, and our paper plates, paper-towel napkins, and everyday drinking glasses were not as beautiful as the usual guest-ready table. Our guests, however, were excellent sports. One even said she thought it was a good idea. The other mom said that her daughter later told her it was the best pizza she'd ever had. (I'm glad she likes cold take-out). I was thankful to see that, while I may not yet have the kind of close and relaxed friendships I did in Cincinnati, I at least have some friends who are willing to give it a try.

         Last weekend we again had company for whom I did not cook. Eric was the chef, an unprecedented event that had its inception in his running group of three guys. One of them suggested a challenge in which each man would cook dinner for the three families, doing all shopping, preparation, and cleanup without help from his wife. For some men, this may be no big deal. For Eric, it was a nail-biter. He can travel the world, give presentations to company presidents, and evaluate advertising copy with one hand tied behind his back (although why he would need that skill, I'm not sure). Company dinners, however, are not his metier. 

       These runners/chefs decided to call themselves the Men of Men. I'm not sure what the name means. Is it Men of Men in the sense that the Bible calls Jesus King of Kings and Lord of Lords? Are they saying that of all the men in the world, they are the ultimate exemplars? (I could get on board with that.) Or is it Men of Men like one might say "Men of Faith" or "Men of Integrity"? They are describing a quality that they possess. Or is it, rather, more like saying Men of Topeka or Men of Crossroads Church -- a means of identifying their particular group? I didn't ask. Who am I to mess with a great idea by questioning its title? It would be like complaining that the diamond ring came in the wrong color box.

       Familiarity may breed contempt, but it also breeds comfort. I could whip up a taco dinner -- even for company -- with hardly a thought. If I had to give a presentation on the future of beauty care to a company president, however, I might be a little nervous. I might not know where to begin. This is how Eric felt about the tacos. He did a good job, though, with no help from me (but a little from Lucas, who made the shortcake for dessert and generally provided moral support). He even used the gold goblets and big plates. His guests brought not only wine, but energy bars (this is a running group, after all). This weekend is Men of Men dinner #2, and Eric is delighted to be finished with the hard part. Now he can watch his friends sweat.

The Men of Men. Eric has borrowed the gear from our usual chef.