Moi Quand Je Pleure

      It started at about, "There was nothing I could say, except the one unutterable fact that it wasn't true." I strove on determinedly, pausing to take a deep breath at "probably it was some final guest who had been away at the ends of the earth and didn't know that the party was over." I dug my nails into my palms at "that huge incoherent failure of a house," hoping the minor pain would distract me so I could continue. I came completely undone, however, at "Gatsby believed in the green light." It was at this point that I had to hand the Kindle to Lucas so he could finish the book's final paragraphs while tears rolled down my face and my nose turned an unattractive, mottled red.
       The Great Gatsby is a sad book. Really. It's beautifully written, moving, and its depiction of the emptiness of the American Dream is heartbreaking. That, however, is not why I was crying. Frankly, I have no idea why I was crying. I always cry when I read aloud. I can barely make it through Winnie the Pooh without my voice cracking. The final pages of The Great Gatsby was my Waterloo, but Lucas helpfully informs me that there were at least ten other times during the book when he could tell I was fighting back tears. I also cried the other night when explaining to my kids the history behind the Liberty Mutual commercial that features Olympian Kerri Strugg and her heroic vault. I cry in church almost every Sunday; sometimes it is the words to a song, sometimes part of the sermon or a Bible passage. I used to cry at swim meets when kids I didn't even know swam really well. I have cried at funerals of people I hardly know. The one place I didn't cry was at my Grandma Emy's memorial service, and I am sure I have never been sadder in my life.
       I can partially explain this abnormality genetically. I have often seen my mom cry in church, and my dad cries when he is moved or nostalgic. I never remember them crying when they read aloud to me, though, so the disorder must intensify from generation to generation. I have known other criers, too. We had a pastor years ago who used to cry during almost every sermon. We thought it was maybe because he needed to practice his sermon more, so he could get through the emotional bits tear-free. I'm not sure anymore, though. I know the last paragraphs of Gatsby almost by heart, and it did me no good. In fact, it is very often books that I know well that set me off the quickest.
      After Lucas finished "borne back ceaselessly into the past" (typing the words even now makes the back of my eyes sting), I told him that I probably have some kind of wire loose that switches on my faucets at bizarre times. That gave me an idea. I googled, "Why do I cry when I'm not sad," and happened upon a post by another crier, who said that she (or he) sometimes couldn't get through a telephone conversation about home maintenance without the sobs starting. Dozens of others commented, sharing about crying in school when they don't understand the homework, or crying if they feel stressed or overwhelmed. I was glad to find the company, but reading doesn't make me frustrated, stressed, or overwhelmed, so though our symptoms were similar, it didn't seem like I shared exactly the same problem. When I tried "Why do I cry for no reason," most of the websites had to do with depression. Reading doesn't depress me, either. So then I typed, "Why do I cry when I read a book," and got many helpful suggestions for books that would make me cry. Not necessary, thank you. I can pick up Pippi Longstocking and a be a puddle.
       Then I happened on an article about a disorder called PLC, "pathological laughing and crying." It's defined as "relatively uncontrollable episodes of laughter, crying, or both" (Parvizi). Basically, it is when a person laughs or cries for no reason, or for a reason that would not normally make a person laugh or cry. It is due to some kind of brain lesion (the article was challenging the conventional wisdom about what kind, but that didn't really seem important to me, so I didn't bother to try to understand it). The whole thing sounded a little loony, but I read on. The man in the case study had had a stroke, and would uncontrollably laugh or cry for 30 seconds to 2 minutes following neutral stimuli. He was "acutely aware of this abnormal behavior and embarrassed by it." Apparently they gave him some medicine, which controlled the symptoms of PLC. Interesting. Maybe I have lesions in my brain. I don't think my crying is as unpredictable as the man's in this article, though, and I don't think I've suffered a stroke. So I rejected that hypothesis.
       Then I started thinking about Eric, who rarely cries, but whose hands often sweat. They are not just clammy, they are drenched. When he was young, his piano teacher finally told him to find something else to do because he was getting her keys all wet. He once talked to a doctor about the problem. The doctor told him that it was basically wiring, and he could rearrange some things so that Eric would no longer have sweaty hands. But he warned that the sweat was the body's way of dealing with stress, and if that way was blocked, the stress was going to find some other outlet. Eric decided to stick with the sweaty palms. So I wonder if my crying is like that -- just a little pressure release. Brooke Siler, who writes for the Huffington Pos,t (and is a celebrity pilates instructor, so she ought to know), says that crying is good for just that reason: "It's the steam valve on the tea kettle." Maybe. I know that when I have been very stressed (as during some recent transatlantic moves), the crying has become more frequent. But that still doesn't explain the book trigger. The fact that certain passages in books reduce me to a soggy mess is not totally random, but it doesn't make complete sense either. Any ideas?

Sources

Siler, Brooke. "Stress Relief: Why Crying Supports Emotional Wellness." Huffington Post. Posted 4/7/10. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/brooke-siler/stress-relief-why-crying_b_629309.html.

Parvizi, Josef. "Pathological Laughter and Crying: A Link to the Cerebellum." Brain: A Journal of Neurology. 5/9/2001. http://brain.oxfordjournals.org/content/124/9/1708.full

The Best Laid Plans

        This was going to be the week. After endless weather-related school delays and closings, holidays, cold so severe it caused me to miss my morning swim in order to drive kids to school, and unusual orthodontist appointments, this was finally going to be a normal week. I couldn’t wait. Monday went pretty well, with a normal day of running errands while Luc was at co-op interrupted only by an unexpected visit to Pellet Stove Mike. (Our stove had popped its chain the previous night, and we didn’t trust ourselves to fix it.) I packed my swim bag Monday night, eagerly looking forward to the next morning’s pool workout, followed by a productive day of cleaning and homeschooling, followed by a pleasant evening of running kids around and Bible Study. 

I woke up Tuesday with a splitting headache. I took Ibuprofin, drank a few sips of coffee, and the headache was joined by nausea. I debated trying the pool anyway, but was sent back to bed by my husband. Strike one. I finally rose at 8:30 (shocking Lucas, who I think has never before woken up earlier than me), in time to call Pellet Stove Mike, who spent the morning unable to repair our stove. He likes to chat, and occasionally needs help lifting something, so I couldn’t leave the family room. The bathrooms remained uncleaned. Strike Two. Now we sit waiting for the snowpocalypse. The entire State of Maryland declared a state of emergency before a flake even fell: Strike Three. Clearly, school, swimming, and ALL MY PLANS will be cancelled tomorrow. So much for my normal week.

The radio station I listen to has a daily question. A few weeks ago, it was, “If there was an Olympic Team for something you excel at, what would it be?” I didn’t call in, but I knew right away: I would be the captain of the Olympic Planning Team. I plan vacations. I am planning college visits. I plan my week like a puzzle, fitting in times to shuttle kids, make dinner, prepare lessons, exercise, call friends, and clean. Those who know me won’t be surprised by this peek at my day planner. 

   

The good thing about being a planning kind of girl is that, if things go well, I get a lot done. Once I wrote something on a day, it’s rare that I can’t cross it off. The bad thing is that if I’m struck with something unexpected that throws off my schedule, I accomplish nothing. I’m not great at thinking on the fly. (That’s why I’m a planner, duh!) It’s probably just a teeny bit self-centered to think that the entire purpose of this winter’s Polar Vortex is to teach me that, despite my ambitious calendar and devotion to foresight, my illusion of control is just that -- an illusion. Nevertheless, as a part of whatever else is going on with the weather, I do think that this winter holds an important lesson for me. One that I am not particularly enjoying learning.

Most people are familiar with the poem “Invictus,” by William Ernest Henley. On first reading, this poem is inspiring: “My head is bloody, but unbowed” . . . “I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.” Gives you the chills, doesn’t it? I ran into this poem in college, and after the initial frisson, it actually scared me. It seemed so defiant, such a risky, fist-to-the-sky challenge to God. I thought, “that can’t be the right way to think.” Nearly a quarter-century later, the poem strikes me not so much as dangerously defiant as patently ridiculous. The Master of My Fate? Who am I kidding; I can’t even remember to switch the laundry from the washer to the drier if my schedule is thrown off. The Captain of My Soul? A little headache and nausea (which I did not have any part in causing) keeps me in bed hours longer than I want to be there. Henley was certainly made of tougher stuff than I, but I’m willing to bet that if he were honest, he’d admit to being hit with some flying snowballs that he couldn’t handle. And of course, no matter how in control a person is, the moment comes when life ends (what Henley calls “the horror of the shade”) -- and that’s not really in our hands. Nor is what follows.

Despite the fact that I don’t particularly enjoy being reminded of my finiteness and fallibility, I am actually thankful. If it’s true that I am not really in control, the best thing is to know it. After all, “the truth shall set you free.” And if the truth is that I’m not in control, it’s good news that Someone is. And the best news of all is that the Someone who is, is better, wiser, and more benevolent to me than I could ever be to myself. 

The Old Dog

I have started swimming backstroke voluntarily. For years, I have avoided this stroke out of fear of ramming my head into the concrete pool wall. I remained convinced, however, that if I ever did overcome my fear of cranial injury, the stroke would otherwise be pretty easy. After all, it’s basically upside-down freestyle, with the added bonus that my mouth would be out of the water the whole time, allowing unlimited breathing. As it turns out, I could not have been wronger about backstroke. 
I found this out when I decided to sign up for a “Masters Swim Team” at our local Y (the name of which has recently changed from the delightfully descriptive “Towson YMCA” to the impenatrable “Orokawa YMCA”).The name of the class sounds like it’s an actual competitive team for extra-talented swimmers. It’s really just swim practice for old people. It was advertised as a swim-team-like workout for people aged 18 - 99, taking place at 6:30 a.m. As a fairly fit recreational swimmer, I was a little worried that it would be lame. I showed up the first morning with my day-at-the-beach tankini, wearing a swim cap that compressed my forehead into extra wrinkles. Clearly, the cap was not designed with after-40 beauty in mind. I do like swim caps, though; they make me feel like my head is floating. The next person to arrive was a very young woman in a very competitive looking red swimsuit. She told me she was 22, a professional dancer, and had been on the swim team at this very Y, just a few years ago when she was in high school. Then another young woman entered, and she said that she had just started swimming. That made me feel better. Other students came in, a few of whom seemed to be more my age, then the “coach,” Ryan. He was definitely young enough to be my son. And I wouldn’t have been a teenaged mom, either.
The workout was far from lame. When I swim for exercise, I am usually the fastest swimmer in the pool. This is largely because I usually swim at the time when the octogenarians show up. I was not the fastest swimmer in the class. I also had trouble converting yard to laps in my head, and could never figure out whether I had swum far enough. I watched the real swimmer in the red suit for cues, only she was always a few laps ahead of me. Then, about halfway through the workout, Ryan suggested that we do an I.M. Having been a swim parent for a few summers (and an enthusiastic fan of the summer Olympics), I know what an I.M. is. For anyone who doesn’t, it is an Individual Medley (of strokes), including backstroke, breaststroke, butterfly, and freestyle. I figured my only problems would be 1. Bumping my head; and 2. Butterfly. I made myself into one of those whining students who flaps her hand in the air and says,
“But teacher, teacher, what if I don’t know how to swim butterfly?”
Ryan was patient: “You can just swim freestyle,” he assured me. After a moment’s thought, “Or I can teach you if you want.” 
Hmmm. Do I want to learn butterfly? I think I have mentioned before in this blog that, as an independent adult, I can protect myself from having to do anything I don’t know how to do. I don’t have to learn things like a new swimming stroke. And really, why should I? In the course of my life, I’ve learned to read and I’ve learned to walk. I’ve leaned the Nicene Creed, how to bake bread, and how to multiply polynomials. I’ve learned how to play the guitar, speak French, and find my way through an airport. The chances that I will need this most difficult stroke are infinitesimal. The chances that I will ever be proficient at it are smaller. But, well,
“Yeah,” I find myself saying. “I’ve always wanted to learn butterfly.”
Which is why I could be seen foundering gracelessly across the pool, arms and legs flapping wildly. I went home and watched several youtube videos on the stroke in an effort to improve. I still look ridiculous -- and I don’t look like I am swimming anything resembling the same stroke made famous by Michael Phelps -- but I think it must burn a lot of calories, so I persevere.
Butterfly, however, was not my only problem. It turns out that backstroke is really hard. I was so busy trying not to swallow water while keeping my arms close to my head and my chin up that I lost track of where I was and . . . bumped my head on the side of the pool. It didn’t actually hurt that badly. What did hurt was my shoulders and quads the next day. Apparently, in addition to being much more respirationally challenging than I had imagined, backstroke requires some muscle groups that are rarely used, in my body, anyway. I decided that this was a good thing, apologized in advance to my lane partner for my inevitable swerves into her lane, and swam backstroke with a will -- even choosing it sometimes for those laps variously termed “choice” or “stroke.”

I have found out that not only do my backstroke and butterfly lack finesse, but my freestyle, of which I have always been proud, stinks, too, from a technical standpoint. Also I do breaststroke wrong and my flip turns are too close to the wall. Nonetheless, the class is the highlight of my week. Sometimes I feel foolish taking instruction from someone less than half my age, but I think being willing to learn something new is actually the opposite of foolish. And the exercise-induced endorphin buzz from my new tricks is worth every humbling lap.

Skiing in America

       Loyal readers will recall a blog a few months ago, when I pointed out how nice Americans are. I am, as it turns out, an American, and so I really do like to be nice. I therefore didn't really want to start this blog, because I thought that I might come across as spoiled, ungrateful, complaining, and kind of not-nice. I especially don't want to come across as a ski snob. I'm not even that great a skier. I am not one of those people who schuss down the mountain with neat little turns, my skis perfectly parallel at all times. My family tells me that I am a slow skier, but I prefer to think of myself as "controlled." I think maybe, when people watch me ski, they might think things like, "Well, she might make it to the bottom in one piece." So I am certainly not a ski snob. (I'm not a snob about anything except for jam, and that is my mother's fault for being so talented in the kitchen.) With trepidation, however, I have decided to go ahead with the ski blog. So here are a few important disclaimers to preserve my niceness.

        First of all, whatever I say about skiing in America vs. Europe is purely my impression, based on my experiences and, as they say on Car Talk, unencumbered by the facts. Secondly, my experiences on the ski slopes are pretty limited. Our Christmas ski trip was to the Pocanos. I have never skied in Utah, Colorado, or Montana -- or even New Hampshire or Vermont -- all of which routinely make lists of the best places to ski in the U.S. (not to mention in the world). To be fair, however, most of my European ski experiences were not at world-renowned resorts, either. I have skied a few times in Chamonix, which makes most top-10 lists. Usually, though, we headed to the less ritzy French Jura, which someone might well term the Pocanos of Europe.

Here are our piles of ski clothes, ready for the trip. Skis and poles (and snowboard, as Luc
continually reminds me) are already in the car. There is nothing quite like packing for a ski vacation.

       Things That Were Better in Europe

       Okay, as nice as I want to be, I have to be honest. For a skiing purist, skiing in Europe is better. The snow in the Jura, and of course in the Alps, is real. I never heard of any resort in the Geneva area making snow. I never saw a snow cannon. This is, of course, because the elevation in the Jura is higher than in the Pocanos. At Col de la Faucille, where we usually skied, the telesiege started at 1,330 meters and went up from there. At Jack Frost, the highest point was 2,000 feet. The runs in France were much longer; even at the little resorts we frequented, I felt like it was a good day if I went up and down the hill six or eight times. In the Pocanos, I could do that in an hour. As soon as I felt like I was getting into a good rhythm, the hill was over. Strangely, the lifts seemed slower in Pennsylvania, though. I can't explain that one. I also don't necessarily consider that a drawback, as riding in the lift is a perfect opportunity for a chat with teenaged children or my husband, or for some quiet reflection and enjoying of the scenery. The last major drawback to skiing in the U.S. is the price. At around $40 - $50 per person, per day, we were not at expensive places, but in the Jura, we could ski for around 20 euros each, with kids after the first one free. Even places in the Alps were less than 40 euros a day, which I know is more than $50, but come on, it's the Alps. I did a check of prices at some of the premier resorts in America, and paying $100 for an 8-hour lift ticket wasn't unheard-of. To sum up, it seems that we were paying more for less in the Pocanos.

Skiing on man-made snow didn't seem that different from skiing on the "real" stuff. It did mean that the surrounding landscape wasn't quite as winter wonderland-y, though. That's Luc and Eric in the lift ahead of me.

        The price, I think, has to do with the place of the sport in the culture. In Geneva, the first question one gets asked as an expat is, "How long are you staying?" The next is, "Do you ski?" Everyone in Geneva skis. Babies, Octogenarians, people who live under bridges. With a steady stream of customers, resorts don't have to charge as much. And with the sport so pervasive in society, people won't put up with high prices. Maybe it also has to do with the cost of making snow in the U.S. That gets passed on to the skiers. Perhaps this also explains the relative skill level of skiers in each location. In the Jura, I felt  like the slopes were overrun with people who really didn't know how to ski. They were always falling right in front of me. Not being an incredibly skilled skier myself, I found this disconcerting. In the Pocanos, it seemed like most people on the slopes could ski pretty well. Except for the guy who barreled into me from behind, sending us both flying and earning a stern lecture from my husband (Eric is so nice that the guy probably didn't realize that Eric was being stern with him, but I can tell when my husband is angry). As a side public service announcement, the accident made me very glad that we had adopted the Swiss custom of always wearing ski helmets. But really, other than that guy, most people seemed competent. It's kind of like running in the U.S. versus Switzerland -- in the U.S., everyone runs, and so there are a lot of slow people out there (making me feel more comfortable with my own speed -- or lack of it). In Switzerland, only runners run, so recreational joggers like myself may well find ourselves in last place in a road race. 

That is Lucas under there.

Eric looking cool in mirrored goggles.

       Things That Are Better in America

       So in the Pocanos, we pay more and get less: Shorter runs, less snow, less beautiful scenery. It may sound like there is no upside to American skiing, but don't be so sure. Where we skied in France, hills were -- easiest to most difficult -- green, blue, red, and black. I never went on a black. They scared me. Frankly, even most reds made my heart palpitate. One day, we went to the Alps with friends who were the kind of people who have skied every weekend for decades. I spent the whole day in a cold sweat, failing to keep up. In the Pocanos, though, this was my favorite hill:

There's something to be said for the American "everyone's an expert" philosophy.

           

Of course, if everyone is an expert, then the people who are actually competent have to
be something even more expert.

       Another advantage to the American ski resort is the terrain park, which probably exists in Europe, but which I never saw. Lucas spent a whole day practicing spins and jumps; there were just a lot more options for snowboarders and trick skiers.

Approaching the jump.

This is the only decent picture I got after several tries. It's not easy to capture live-action with a cell-phone camera.

       And even though it's hard to beat the view of frosted treetops poking though the clouds at the top of Mont Rond in the Jura or the sight of Mont Blanc from Saint Gervais, the scenery in the Pocanos was really pretty.

The view from the top of the hill at Big Boulder, looking down on the lake and the town of Lake Harmony, I think.

    Finally, I found it reassuring that there was not a single place at Jack Frost or Big Boulder where a person could ski off the side of the mountain and die. That kind of thing is common in France -- even on green runs.

    I would be lying if I said that I didn't miss skiing in France. We could get up at 8, be on the slopes before 10, and do it again the next weekend. We had endless options for resorts, groups of friends to ski with, and some of the most breathtaking beauty in the world to gaze at as we rode the lifts (some people also enjoy the scenery as they descend the mountain. I, however, am focused on staying upright). For me, though, the best part about skiing is being outside, doing something active, and spending the day with the people I love most. For that, I don't need Kandahar. Mittelweg at Big Boulder in the Pocanos is just fine.

Happy skiers.

I made the kids give me a head start so I could reach the bottom of the hill first and take pictures.

I am embarrassed to tell you how long a head start they had to give me.

Tacky

      So see if this doesn't date me: There was a time in my life when my fondest dream was to have a truly elegant Christmas tree. The kind with white lights and coordinating Victorian ornaments of beige lace and dusty rose silk. That would be the height of class.
      Unfortunately for my dream, but fortunately for my fashion sense, I married Eric. When I suggested that all-white lights -- and perhaps a theme -- might be good for our first tree, he told me that he really wanted colorful lights because they are "more joyful." Who am I to mess with joy?
       Later, I thought maybe we could have really tasteful outdoor decorations. Like evergreen wreaths on each window, big burgundy bows (I had, thankfully, outgrown the pink phase, but was still not ready to embrace red -- so plebeian), and white lights, in understated icicles, perhaps, hanging from the eaves. The guru of Christmas decor, however, again somehow ended up bringing home strings of red, blue, green, and yellow. He was supported in this by the children, who were by then old enough to think that white lights were boring.
       Deep in my soul, I am not a decor person. Thus, the battle for the white lights was hardly a skirmish. Frankly, if someone else was going to hang the lights and help trim the tree, he/they could choose the color scheme. Once it's up, I hardly see it.
      I did notice, however, the lack of Christmas lights in Geneva. The Swiss do not, I think, traditionally use strings of bulbs, white or colorful, and I had a suspicion that the few decorated houses in our Onex neighborhood probably belonged to Americans -- or to the Spanish, who would use any excuse for making things look like a party. (I say that with deepest admiration.) I missed the lights, and looked forward to being back in the land of holiday illumination this year. I was therefore disappointed when it seemed that Baltimore was turning out to be somewhat subdued in its electrical celebration of the season. Our neighborhood has a few enthusiastic homeowners. Two houses down, they even have the very swags of white lights, evergreen, and bows that would have fulfilled by deepest wishes of yore. We did our part, with a display made up of several years' worth of collected decorations -- those that survived the move and the stint in storage, that is. In general, though, Towson is on the subdued -- not to say dark -- end of the spectrum.

The Admiraal contribution to Stevenson Lane's Christmas decor.

       We actually have the perfect location for something really big -- half the city uses our road as a cut-through to Target. I suggested a live nativity, but Johanna and I argued over who would get to be Mary (No, I am not old enough to be Elizabeth!), and we didn't know what we would do with the animals come January. Nonetheless, I do think our house expresses a certain amount of Christmas spirit -- of the perhaps tacky, but undeniably joyful, variety.
       The folks in Hampden, however, really know how to embrace Christmas decorating. This neighborhood, located about five miles south of us, produces a light display that they call Miracle on 34th Street. We drove down to see it, and, though it wasn't even a weekend, found ourselves in the middle of a crowd of gawkers. It was worth a look, for sure. Inflatables, yard ornaments, and lights, lights, lights. They even managed to make white lights look garish. My former, elegance-seeking self might have deplored the marked lack of restraint. Classy, Hampden's 34th Street is not.
       Yet, the spirit of fun and festivity in the neighborhood is unmistakable. It's creative. It's loud and exciting. It's joyful. It's the kind of tacky that America does so well, and that is something I love about this country. And I think Eric is right -- the fun is Christmassy. After all, the Star of Bethlehem was probably tastefully lovely, but the shepherds and donkeys were hardly the height of refinement.

Don't miss the hubcap Christmas tree and the bicycle-wheel snowmen.

The whole street from inside the car, taken when I thought we weren't going to be able to find a parking place so we could get out and take pictures. We actually didn't find a spot to park, but Eric kindly drove around the block a few times so I could take some better photos.

More glitz.

People were lined up to go into this house. We probably should have waited our turn as well to see what the draw was. They had the right motivation, anyway.

No need for a theme.

And a nod to the digital age.

I do love that hubcap tree. It's recycling, art, and kitsch all rolled into one.

     

Home Improvement

        It was two days before Thanksgiving. Two days before our house was supposed to be filled with family, delicious smells of turkey and pumpkin pie, and tasteful autumn decorations. Right then, though, our house was filled with tile guys chatting in Spanish, a painter putting the first coat on the kitchen trim, a plumber fixing the leaking refrigerator, and a furnace repair man draining all the radiators. With food shopping, baking, bed-making, and house-prepping to do, I marched around grimly, feather-duster in hand, wiping away tile dust that would be replaced with dropcloth dust the next moment. What is that old line about doing something over and over even though you know it’s futile?

The dining room the day before Thanksgiving.

The kitchen.

The driveway -- not our Thanksgiving company.

Ah, home improvement. Our last project was having the basement painted and retiled. Although it took weeks, we were mostly undisturbed, since the work took place on a floor we didn’t really need. Somehow, I imagined that the kitchen would be the same. I didn’t even consider, until the night before the work was to start, that I probably wouldn’t be able to get to the refrigerator or stove. I should have been wiser; they were both unplugged for the better part of two weeks. I learned three important lessons from this latest project, all of which should have been obvious and are doubtless well-known to all home improvement veterans.

The Time Factor: The actual length of any home-improvement project can be found by multiplying the contractor’s estimate by 9/5 and dividing by the square root of 2. Or, if that math is too much work, just take what the contractor says and add SEVERAL MORE DAYS (weeks, for a long project). Thus, when Juan told me that his guys could certainly finish our kitchen floor a good week before Thanksgiving, I should have known that it would take a miracle to get the project done by the day itself.

The Money Factor: We are blessed with a contractor who has tended, so far, to be both honest and accurate. That does not mean, however, that his estimate of the cost of a project is anything like what we will actually spend. I never considered the extra heating costs when people are going in and out constantly, nor the extra cost in Swiffer and Mr. Clean products for cleaning up afterward. Not to mention the fact that we had to eat out twice a day for a week. (The hospital bills incurred by our poor nutrition over that time are yet to come.)

Both of these factors, however, are negligible compared to lesson number three, which we will call

The Stress Factor: The workers who invaded our house were very nice. They didn’t play loud music, even though I told them it was okay. They didn’t drink our coffee, even though I offered. They didn’t have annoying conversations -- not ones I could understand, anyway. They didn’t track unnecessary dirt on the carpet. They did their work well. But for days on end, they were there, right in the middle of the kitchen. The most stressful part of the stressful situation is that I kept remembering that the whole thing was entirely self-inflicted. Voluntary. One hundred percent my own fault. 

When I lived in Geneva, my friend and I would snark about the American fixation on home ownership and home improvement, and how boring everyone was with all their talk of new carpet and new countertops. Be careful what you snark about. I had not been on American soil for a month before I was in it with the worst of them. What is this obsession with enhancement? 

According to an HGTV poll, 61 percent of Americans would prefer to spend money on their home than on a vacation. The Globe and Mail posits that an infatuation with decorating may reveal self-image problems: People see their homes as an extension of themselves, and it may be easier to control the look of our home than the look of our aging bodies. An article in the Economist suggests that the American dream of home ownership has become a controlling obsession, and that for many people, owning a home may not be the best option.

In Europe, lots of people rent. We didn’t mind renting there. It is relaxing to not be ultimately responsible for a place. If the refrigerator is leaking, someone else will take care of fixing it -- and take care of the bill. On the other hand, there is something about investing time, money, and thought into a house that personalizes it. It doesn’t matter if it’s paint on a wall or an entirely new kitchen, the point is that improving a house makes it yours. We can look at this as a shallow and materialistic desire to have more, newer, and fancier stuff, and that may certainly be part of it. On the other hand, isn’t the drive to create and beautify part of what it means to be made in God’s image? 

Thinking so sure makes me feel better about the new kitchen floor.

Cheese, Reusable Bags, and Other Shopping Conundrums

         If I ever publish a memoir of my time in Switzerland, I will call it Seventeen Different Kinds of Emmentaler. In the good old Geneva days, when I did my shopping online, I would type “fromage” into the Migros search engine, and the virtual cheese aisle would display an array of cheese choices to satisfy any palate -- as long as what that palate wanted was Emmentaler. This makes a certain kind of sense, of course, if one realizes that Emmentaler is what in the U.S. we would call Swiss cheese. It’s white and has holes. I have often thought that the entire country of Switzerland actually smells a little bit like Emmental cheese, which is off-putting at first. But one becomes accustomed, even fond.
Lucas and I once went on a hunt for provolone cheese in Geneva. He wanted to re-create his favorite Penn Station sub, which included lettuce, mayonnaise, bacon, and provolone. After an unsuccessful trip to Migros, we decided to visit the outdoor market cheese man, who that day was at the Grand-Lancy market, close to Drew’s school. When we asked him if he had provolone, he responded in an affronted tone, “I have only SWISS cheese.” Indeed. He did introduce us to a delicious cheese, of which I never learned the name. I always identified it by the red and green speckles of herbs in it, and we called it, “that good cheese from the cheese man.”
This past Monday morning, I went shopping at Martin’s, which is one of about 10 grocery stores within a two-mile radius. Martin’s has a typical American cheese aisle, with provolone, along with colby, cheddar, mozzarella, muenster, and more, all available shredded, cubed, in chunks, or in sticks. It also has a gourmet deli cheese section, where one can purchase brie, fresh mozzarella, feta, havarti, edam, jarlsberg, gouda, and -- if one is willing to pay over $10 a pound -- Emmentaler. I didn’t see anything resembling the good cheese from the cheese man, but I’m sure that’s just because I didn’t look hard enough.

I'm sure that if the grocery store doesn't have what you want, they will  order it for you.

Good old Emmentaler

The variety in the typical American grocery store is overwhelming. When I re-started serious grocery shopping this summer, I would wander up and down the aisles, staring in awe at all the different kinds of cereal, corn chips, jelly, and juice. It was sensory overload. I now try to cope (as I’m sure most people do) by finding the brands I like and becoming blind to everything else. This only works if I always shop at the same store, which I don’t. On the upside, every shopping trip is an adventure of discovery, and I never lack for fun, new snacks to try on the kids. Last week it was freeze-dried fruit. Not bad. Of course, in America, fruit of all varieties is perpetually available. In season? What’s “in season”?

The berry selection in November. This was right after I told Drew that I wouldn't be able to buy
 raspberries for his cereal, because they weren't in season. I should have asked him instead if he wanted red or black.

It isn’t only the variety that sets American groceries apart. I never recall the cashiers in Switzerland asking so many questions . . . . Paper or plastic? Cash back? Credit or debit? All on the card? Donate to cancer research? Amount okay? Buy reusable bags? I have more than once hit the red “cancel” button at the end of all those questions, just because I have becomes so used, during the long transactions, to hitting the red “no.” 
In America, food (except Emmentaler) is cheaper and packages are larger than in Switzerland. Also refrigerators are larger (as, often, are families). People here generally drive to the grocery store, rather than walking or taking the bus. All this means that we can buy a lot more at once. This is a good idea, as it encourages meal planning, saving money, and reducing waste. For some reason, however, I am having trouble getting used to the idea of a full cart. I keep flashing back to the bad old Geneva days, before I discovered online grocery shopping. My cart overloaded with food that would feed our family for about three days, I would look frantically for the person with the next-fullest cart and hop into line behind her, hoping the cashier would be used to embarrassing quantities of food by the time she got to me. Of course, in Geneva, one also has to bag one’s own groceries -- a process made much more difficult by having a cartfull, in which, inevitably, my de rigueur reusable bags were buried under several liters of milk and cans of tomatoes.

Those bags, interestingly, are the only thing that is smaller in the American grocery store. I have had more than one clerk in Giant, Safeway, or Martin’s comment on the large bags into which I ask them to pack my groceries. Why, in the country where people are buying more food and carrying it a shorter distance, would the bags be smaller? This is perhaps not on the level of the 10-hot-dog, 8-bun conundrum that has baffled the thoughtful for decades, but it’s a mystery that’s been puzzling me.