One Step Closer to Being Swiss and Other Tales

There is a reason the alien is standing in front of the photo on my
new Swiss driver's license. I look dead or at least seriously ill. Eric looks furious
on his. This is what happens when people are not allowed to smile in pictures.

The  title of this blog is actually a lie, as we are not any steps closer to becoming Swiss. I don't know exactly how one does become Swiss, but I know that being born in the country doesn't do it for you, as I have several friends whose children were born here. I'm not sure what nationality these children are, in fact. If your mom is American and your dad is Italian, but you were born in Switzerland, what are you? Not Swiss, anyway. I think one has to have papers proving one's  descent from William Tell to qualify for citizenship.
      What is true is that Eric and I now have Swiss driver's licenses. As with everything else here, the process involved a lot of bureaucracy and visits to different places to collect the appropriate documentation. We went to VisiLab for an eye test (60 chf) and to Cabine Photo for color passport-sized photos (8 chf). I called the Ohio DMV and they sent a paper proving that we have been driving for more than 5 years (free!). And, like everything else here, the process is on the pricy side -- 150 chf for each license after the other preparatory fees. However, like everything else here, the process is also extremely efficient. We were in and out of the Office d'Automobiles and de Navigation in under 30 minutes, licenses in hand.

Gardening

My thumbs are not particularly green, and it took me several months to decide if I really cared about beautifying a yard that wasn't even my own. Inspired, however, by warm weather and the thought of cookouts as an easy spring and summer entertaining solution, I decided to give gardening a try. This is a "before" view of one of our flower beds. While we certainly have a lot of plants, it's unclear to me which ones are weeds and which ones are flowers. This particular bed has roses, some ferny things that look promising, and some plants that I recognize as desirable from seeing their orange flowers toward the end of last summer, but they are all so mixed together I don't really know where to begin. I'm thankful for the dandelions, because I know I can uproot them. I also made the decision to ruthlessly slaughter a raspberry bush because it had no flowers or berries and was twining through everything, making weeding painful. Basically, I'm just kind of wading in and madly uprooting, figuring that even if the plants are good ones, there are far too many and they can use some thinning.

      To my surprise, I have been thoroughly enjoying the gardening experience. I'm outside, I'm moving around, and I feel like I am making progress in some visible direction. It gives me great joy to take a whole basket load of weeds (or maybe flowers, who knows) to the compost. It also does look like we'll have a wonderful fruit harvest. The apple tree already has little baby fruit, we have a grapevine which our neighbor told us how to care for, a raspberry bush (one that I didn't tear out), the quince, some wild strawberries, and the most exciting discovery of all: a cherry tree, which we had no idea of until I happened to glance out of the window and see something red in among the leaves. So despite the fact that I am fairly useless at gardening, the experience has been a positive one. I'm not showing an "after" picture of the flower bed though.


Utility
      In addition to feeling useless at gardening, I have also been feeling useless at French. The other day, I went to the American consulate, entered the building where it was supposed to be, and found myself completely lost, as there was no signage of any type in the lobby. A man exited the elevator, and I prepared to ask him for directions. I had only said (in a bright and friendly manner), "Bonjour!" When he responded with a laugh, "With that accent, you're looking for the second floor." He was, unfortunately, quite correct. I also forgot the word for ice last Saturday, possibly because I haven't had any since we arrived here. Feeling thirsty for an ice-cold beverage (after all the gardening), I made my way to the gas station, where I was forced to explain in broken French that I wanted this thing that was really cold water, in small pieces, in a bag.
      The worst though, is my comprehension of spoken French. I have now finished three regular-length novels in French (think Mary Higgins Clark novels, not Charles Dickens, here, before you get too impressed), but I still cannot understand a word that anyone says to me -- at least not if they are talking at a normal speed and I don't know what the conversation is going to be about. Drew keeps telling me about these great French youtube videos by this guy named Norman. I'm sure they are hilarious, but I have no idea what the kid is saying. I cannot tell where one word ends and the next begins. I especially dread talking to the people at the Manege d'Onex, where Johanna takes horseback riding lessons. Not only do I not understand them half the time, but they act as though anyone who can't speak perfect French really doesn't deserve to be taking up valuable earth space. I have vowed, time upon time, to always behave with kindness and patience toward anyone I meet who can't speak English, and to never judge anyone's intelligence based on their accent. I don't think I ever did before, but you can bet I won't now.
      I do realize that lessons in humility have value; nonetheless, I was thrilled last week when I attended a meeting of the P&G spouse's group. The leader was a German woman who spoke perfect English (and French and German, of course), but she was thrilled when I offered to help with the newsletter. "We really need a native English speaker, because writing in English is so difficult for the rest of us," she explained. I could have kissed her -- I had forgotten that being a native English speaker could actually be of use to someone.

American Football
      Even though Drew had his American football taken away at recess, he has still tried to share his love of the sport with his friends. Last week, he decided he'd like to have a group over for a game. He figured he needed at least an afternoon to explain the rules, as no one else in the class had really ever watched, played, or knew anything about the game (One boy responded to Drew's invitation with a request to be the "runner back" -- I'm not laughing; I know I'd been even worse if someone asked me to play cricket). The football afternoon also spurred on my gardening and inspired us to figure out our grill, because Drew asked if we could have a cookout afterwards.
       Drew got a great response from classmates, but the game almost didn't happen due to equipment failure. Saturday night, we were in the yard after having enjoyed the grill's inaugural burgers, and Lucas gave the football a boot which sent it over the hedge. We thought it went into the neighbor's yard, but after a thorough search, neither they not we could find it. We even looked all through the center of the cedar hedge that separates our yard and found in it's remarkably cavernous interior two ping pong paddles (theirs) and two lacrosse balls (ours), but no football. We decided to give it up for the night and pray for better success the next day (I was feeling guilty at keeping the neighbors looking, and it was obvious that, in a really delightful effort to be friendly, they were not going inside until we did). The problem was of course, that the next day was Sunday, a day on which no stores are open, if we could even find one that sold what we needed (doubtful), and the following day, when the game was scheduled was a holiday as well (Pentecost here, not Memorial Day). Thankfully, later that evening, the neighbor's 8-year-old daughter showed up at the door with the ball. She had been intrigued by the hunt, even climbing on a ladder to peer down inside the hedge, and had apparently received permission to keep looking after dinner. We were are appropriately grateful in French as we could possibly be.
      The game was a success, measured by avoidance of injury, an increased appreciation for a new sport, and extremely healthy appetites afterwards. The nine boys consumed 20 hamburgers, a watermelon, two bags of Doritos (the "cool American" flavor in honor of the occasion), 5 large bottles of Orangeina, a salad, a plate of tomatoes, and at least 50 chocolate chip cookies. Just for the sake of keeping track, we had kids from Brazil, Italy, South Africa, Kenya, Sweden, Armenia, and three other countries that I can't remember. The opportunity to continue chocolate chip diplomacy remains one of my favorite parts of living in Geneva!