Proud to Be an American?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When the Clock Strikes Murder

Johanna, aka Jamie Bond, is ready for the party

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

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

Yuna Vers

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

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

The Ballet Team

The Country Dance Team

The 80s Dance Team

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

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

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

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

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

EuroSMAC or the 5:30 Rabbit

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

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

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

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

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

      Can anyone see where this story is going?

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

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

      And we all know what the answer was.

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

Getting to Know the Swiss

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

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

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

Coming soon: EuroSMAC or The 5:30 Rabbit

This Post Is Introspective and Uneventful. Skip if You Are Not Interested.

The Alien relaxes with a book and a cup of coffee . . . perhaps
as a reward for accomplishing something difficult, like disposing
of used light bulbs or buying a loaf of bread.  

                Several years ago, my cousin Jack wrote a book that was actually published (so cool . . . Jack, if you are reading this, congratulations again). The book is called The Power of Habit, and one chapter talks about how people can develop good habits and strength of character by doing something difficult every day. He had some name for this practice -- unfortunately, I don't remember what it was. I have been thinking about this concept lately, because this move has opened up many new opportunities to do difficult things. For example, back in the States, when it was time to go to the dentist, we just went. We would already have an appointment set up with the regular P&G dentist from the last time we were there. If we had to change dates, the receptionist would gripe at me, but she would fit us in somewhere. The hardest thing about going to the dentist was the drive there. Yesterday, I had written in my planner to make dentist appointments. Before I could do it, I had to give myself a pep talk (“It will only get more difficult if you wait”), practice saying “teeth cleaning” in French, and even promise myself a reward if I made the call (I could read a few pages of a book I’m enjoying). Even after all that, and after a fairly successful conversation with a kind and patient receptionist, I’m still not confident I know when the appointment is, how long it will take, or if all four of us should arrive at once.

                French lessons are scary too. Thanks to years of teaching English grammar, I can grasp the grammar of French pretty well . . . as long as I have my rules and vocabulary handy to refer to. In a conversation with a real person – even when that person is paid to talk to me – I have much more trouble. If I could just have unlimited time to think about what I wanted to say and write it down, it would be great. That, of course, is not how real conversations work. Then there is my elderly Swiss friend, Madame Guenat. She doesn’t speak English, and she is sweet enough to agree to meet with me about every three weeks to carry on a conversation in French. Truthfully, even if she did speak English, calling up an older person whom I don’t know very well to suggest coffee would be a stretch for me. The fact that the conversation will feel like a fog with a few recognizable words and phrases drifting around in it only adds a level of challenge. Again, I usually have to bribe myself with almond croissants before I will make the call. Then I pray all the way to the Coop Restaurant, where we usually meet.

                Speaking French is not the only opportunity Geneva has afforded for doing difficult things. I am uncoordinated and far from thrill-seeking, so every time we ski, my stomach ties in knots. I hate roller coasters, and skiing is a little like being on a roller coaster by yourself, with no seat belt, and with the opportunity to run into other riders at any moment. I want, however, to spend time outside with my family. Plus I really love the scenery. So I sing little songs to distract myself (Johanna’s trick, and it’s helped her conquer the black hills, so I guess it works).  I also take the nice, slow hill about every other time to let my heart calm down.  

                Going to the post office. Running a road race. Figuring out how to get driver’s licenses. Talking to teachers about my children’s progress. Looking for volunteer opportunities or activities for the kids. Everything is new. Everything is a little bit more difficult than it would be in a familiar place . . . or even in a familiar country.      

                Our dinnertime devotional the other night was on Ecclesiastes 11:9, which advises young people to be happy, and then ends with, “know that for all these things God will bring you to judgment.”  The devotional writer’s interpretation of the passage was that what God will actually bring us into judgment for is for failing to be happy, failing to remember that “this is the day the Lord has made” failing to rejoice and be glad in it. He talked about how a lot of people go about each day with self-imposed burdens of gloom. When we first moved here, everything felt like a challenging adventure. Now, honestly, I sometimes wish I could just pick up the phone and set up an appointment in English or go next door and borrow an egg (I’m sure our neighbors back in the states are shocked how many eggs they always have around, now that we are no longer around to borrow them). The truth is, however, that being here is a huge blessing. It’s not a blessing just because we can see the mountains and we get to take enviable trips and we get to learn a new language. It’s also a blessing because it’s difficult at times – just like life anywhere – and the effort to rejoice in it requires a strength that doesn’t come from me.

                

Barcelona

        Be warned: I’m going to open this post with one of my patented non-expert observations, so please don’t take this to the bank. In my short and limited experience, when comparing people of different nationalities, I have decided that Spanish people are my favorite. This is not to devalue any of my friends of other nationalities, who are fantastic. It is only to say that when considering everyone I’ve met here, the Spanish, as a group, come out on top. They are friendly, fun, family oriented, like to eat, and like to sleep late. So it’s no surprise that when we visited Barcelona last weekend, it also came out on top as my favorite place we’ve been.



Buildings near Catalunya Place



                Even though the weather wasn’t as warm as usual for this time of year (we were told), the temperatures were a good 20 degrees warmer than in Geneva, and – wonder of wonders – we saw the sun! We arrived in the city on Sunday afternoon, and, in typical Admiraal fashion, determined to see as much as we could of the city while putting as many kilometers on our feet as humanly possible. Strictly speaking, this was Drew’s trip, as he had chosen Barcelona as the place in Europe he most wanted to visit. He, however, didn’t have much on his agenda of things to do there beyond consuming as much tapas as possible. Thus, our first stop was a tapas bar, where we sat outside next to a heater and were served by a jovial waiter who teased the kids and laughed at our mix of Spanish, English, and French (whenever I tried to speak in Spanish, French words accidentally came out. Apparently, that is now my default foreign language). The only casualty of our polyglot speech was that Eric ordered hot chocolate and got water (“chocolate” does sound a little like “agua”).

It was (almost) warm enough to ear outside.

                We then headed for Tibidabo, which is an amusement park on a mountain overlooking the city. We weren’t planning to go to the park, but we wanted to see the view and visit Sagrat Cor, a church on the same mountain. We had begun the day with a bus ride to the airport, then Easy Jet to Barcelona (our first experience with Easy Jet was great; we had heard lots of horror stories about overstuffed planes, delays, etc., but experienced none of that), then a train into the center of town. We took another train, another bus, and a funicular (just to mix things up) to the top of the mountain. The view was amazing – the city, the Pyranees (I think) in the distance, and the Mediterranean Sea. It is so exciting for me to see all these geographical features that before I knew only from fourth grade maps! We then decided that it would be quicker to walk down the mountain than to wait for the funicular. After walking for an hour and ending up back at Tibidabo, we decided that we had been wrong and rode down. On the way back to the hotel, we added the Metro to our repertoire of transportation for the day.  I can say that the people of Barcelona are not so busy having fun that they don’t take care of their public transit system – the Metro was clean, on time, and fast, and the T-10 tickets we purchased (10 rides for less than 10 Euro) were the best deal of the trip.

The view from Tibidabo

                We were looking for a restaurant, and while I was perusing an outside menu, the proprietor came out to promote his establishment. He sang the praises of several menu items, informed us of special deals for the “babies,” told us that, while pizza was not on the menu, he’d be happy to whip some up, and generally shooed us into the place in a kind of pleasantly pushy way. Again, our waiter had fun teasing the kids, and the food was great. Maybe we were just really hungry from all the walking. By the time we finished dinner, it was dark, so our visit to the Mediterranean was brief. It was enough to convince Drew that he wanted to return with his camera the next day, though. We did, and I’m sure many of you can guess which family member ended up with wet feet from wading in the sea in February. This nameless person said that the joy of the experience made the wet and sand worth it.

Johanna and the Alien by the Mediterranean

                Besides returning to the sea, our one full day in Barcelona took us to the Sagrada Familia cathedral, which a friend had described, with complete accuracy, as “looking like a church designed by Dr. Seuss.”



Sagrada Familia, which is apparently continually under construction



       Actually, it was designed by architect Antoni  Gaudi, who also designed Park Guell, which was our next stop and probably the consensus favorite. The colorful buildings, winding paths, musicians and vendors everywhere gave the park a festive atmosphere that made the interminable climbs (almost) painless. Barcelona does seem to be a city that keeps ascending.

The famous Gaudi lizard at Park Guell (with Luc and the Alien)

Gaudi's house, which is in Park Guell

       We ended the day by wandering through the Barrio Gotico, Barcelona’s old town, and eating more tapas (of course) on Las Ramblas, a street famous for its outdoor markets but somewhat muted by the unseasonably chilly weather. Our waitress this time was French, and she told us (nicely) that she thinks Swiss people have funny French accents. Probably true, though I certainly wouldn’t know. Strangely, the restaurant menu was in French, English, and Italian, with no Spanish in sight . . . we had clearly chosen a tapas bar that catered to tourists.

                We had to leave the next morning, so we didn’t see the Olympic stadium, the home field of Barcelona’s famously successful football team, or Monjuic Castle. Clearly, it is imperative that we return. Also, I’m not sure that Drew has eaten enough tapas. . . .

Grocery Shopping, Swiss Style

**Sorry . . . it's way too cold to go out and take pictures for this blog. You'll have to use your imagination.**

     If you are a wife or mother, it is likely that two responsibilities follow you wherever you go in the world: They are the responsibility for the house and the responsibility for the food. You may delegate one or both of these responsibilities to kids, helpful husbands, or paid employees, but, if you are like me, you still feel a sense of ownership in these areas.
      In my experience, housecleaning in Geneva is not that much different from in the U.S. I find that I'm doing more myself, since I am at home during the day while the rest of the family is at school or work and since we try to keep Saturdays free for outings. When the kids have a day off school, they can bet I'll earn meanest Mom of the year awards by assigning them cleaning jobs (actually, I think they are so used to this practice that they don't even think it's mean). Many of my friends here employ cleaning help. As soon as I can figure out how to justify this -- given that I have no children at home, no paid employment, and probably do a better job cleaning than anyone we could hire -- I will be right there with them. Until then, however, I'll be cleaning bathrooms weekly and sweeping the floor ABOUT EVERY FIVE MINUTES (our floors are white and we have lots of trees, i.e. dead leaves, around the house).
     So housework here is really not all that interesting. The food situation, however, presents more of a contrast to the U.S., and more of a challenge for me. The first difference I noticed is that one must be more prepared for a grocery shopping trip here than back in the States. If you do not have your coin (it could be 1 or 2 euros or 1 or 2 francs, depending on the store), you do not get a cart. And if you do not have your own grocery bags, you have the choice of paying 30 centimes each to buy them at the store or carrying all of your groceries home in your hands. I am thankful to my friend Nancy, who lived here several years ago, for preparing me for these preliminary shopping hurdles. This was especially helpful because I was severely jet-lagged on my first trip to the grocery, and being denied a cart might have sent me into hysterics.
     The second grocery challenge is the prices. The first several times I went shopping, I emerged from the store feeling simultaneously depressed and panicked. A Swiss franc (chf) is slightly more than a dollar, so milk priced at 1.60 chf a liter caused some serious palpitations, as did ice cream at 8 chf a liter and cereal at around 5 chf for a smallish box. Red meat, which costs about 30 chf a kilogram, (and isn't even very good), seemed as unattainable as the stars. My sticker shock was compounded both by the fact that, having just moved here, we had no stock of food, and by the fact that Drew and Lucas were trying to do the P90X diet and wanted all kinds of specialty items.
      One solution to the price problem is to shop in France, where food is less expensive. I go to Bible study on Thursday mornings in a town called Ferney-Voltaire, and there is a large Carrefour Supermarche near the church. So, it made sense for me to start shopping there on Thursdays. Buying groceries at Carrefour, however, also had its drawbacks. First of all, I hated the place, which reminded me of Wal-Mart on steroids. Not only did I hate the bright lights, packed aisles, and dubious quality of many goods, but I especially hated the fact that I had to bag my own groceries (which is true everywhere in both Switzerland and France. With my huge cartfull of goods, I couldn't fit everything on the belt at once, and the checkers wouldn't let me through to start bagging until the cart was empty, and then I felt like I was holding up the entire line (which not just a feeling, but the reality) while I inexpertly and frenetically tried to shove everything into sacks. I always tried to go to a line where someone in front of me had an even bigger cartload, so at least I would not be alone. The other issue with shopping in France is that there are import regulations on meat, milk, fruit, wine, and all kinds of other things. For example, one can only bring half a kilo (about a pound) of beef into Switzerland from France. That, unfortunately, is not enough to feed our family for a week. Sometimes I went over the limit, figuring that if the broder guards stopped me, I'd just pay the fine, whatever it may be. But I always had a sick feeling in my stomach driving through the douane, whether or not I had contraband orange juice in the back of the car. I am, therefore, thankful for the current weakness of the franc against the euro (kept that way by the Swiss on purpose for people like me), because it means that shopping in France is no longer that much cheaper than shopping in Switzerland.
     Besides a shlep to France, other good shopping options include Aldi-Suisse, which is just like Aldi in the U.S., except that the meat all has little Swiss flags and pictures of the animal it comes from. This is very helpful, seeing that groceries here sell horse meat. I just avoid any packages with little pictures of horses. Even Swiss horses. There is also a store nearby called Aligro, which is sort of like Costco in that it sells large quantities of items (it is, unfortuantely, not like Costco in that the items are cheaper). For the Swiss, "large quantites" means several 1-kilo packages of flour wrapped together with shrink wrap. Then they have to put a sign on everything telling shoppers not to separate items. This is because, in a regular grocery store, people feel free to, for example, take one yogurt carton out of a package or one can of Coke out of the box and buy it that way.
     Another interesting differences between groceries here and in the U.S. is that here, the eggs are not kept refrigerated. This worries me, but I haven't seen anyone dead of salmonella poisoning yet, so I guess it must be okay. Most milk is not refrigerated either, because it is that UHT pasteurized stuff that lasts forever. We buy the refrigerated kind which is, of course, more expensive (but tastes much more "normal" to us). In most stores, you have to weigh your own produce. I have yet to find whole oats in a store here, though they do have surprising items such as taco seasoning packets and Nesquik. The boxed cereal is not as sweet, the sodas are sweetened with sugar rather than high fructose corn syrup, and almost every store bakes its own bread. On the down side, the carts are impossible to push in a straight line. I have not yet figured out why this might be.  The fact that I am now shopping Swiss (mostly) will warm the hearts of my neighbors. One of my friends told me that many locals use grocery bags from Swiss stores when shopping in France to avoid nasty comments about not supporting their country.
     My latest wonderful discovery is online grocery shopping. Both of the big local chains, Coop and Migros, have sites. It does take about an hour to order everything online, but I can do it with a cup of coffee at my right hand and the cupboards and refrigerator nearby in case I forget what I have. The groceries come the next evening, and the frequency of coupons paying for delivery has soothed my guilt about taking the easy way out. You'll see, now that I've calmed my conscience about grocery delivery, soon I'll be justifying the hiring of a maid to do my housework.