Various Peeves

**Warning: This post is all about things that bug me. Therefore, it is kind of grumpy, and basically a downer. You've been warned. **  


     We go to church in France. This sounds much more glamorous than it is. First of all, driving 15 minutes in almost any direction from Geneva will land you in France. Secondly, Ferney-Voltaire, at least the part where Crossroads Church is, is a really dumpy little border town with gas stations, car dealerships, auto washes, and lots of mud and weeds. Its claim to fame is as the hometown of Voltaire, and the author was apparently so good to the residents that they added his name to the name of the town. I spent several months feeling ashamed that I couldn't remember Voltaire's first name. Then I looked it up and learned that Voltaire was actually a pen name. Surely I learned that at some point?
      An interesting part of going to church in another country is driving through the douane, or border crossing. I guess it is because Switzerland is not at EU country that there still is a douane, complete with border guards. And I guess it's because Switzerland is not really a threat that the boarder guards on the French side could absolutely care less. The ones on the Swiss side occasionally stop cars and ask what you were doing in France. If the answer is shopping, you'd better have your receipt, and you'd better not have purchased more than half a kilo of beef, 2 liters of milk, or food exceeding a whole bunch of other limits that I forget. This is because food prices in Switzerland are insane, and so people shop in France. In order to protect the cow farmers and other Swiss producers, people who buy more than the prescribed limit have to pay import taxes. Yes, the authorities will search the car. Not often, but it happens. This is one of the many reasons I don't shop in France.
       If the answer to "What were you doing in France?" is "Going to church," the douaniers will laugh and say something outstandingly clever like, "Pray for me." This is way better than a car search. If the answer is, "Je ne parle pas de français," the understanding douaniers will wave the car on. They care about illegally imported steaks, but not enough to suffer through an excruciating conversation with an anglophone.
       We drive through this particular douane into France at least once a week, often two or three times for youth group, Bible study, or whatnot. Every time, I feel a twinge of irritation. This is because there is a stop sign on the little building in the middle of the road where the guards play Trivial Pursuit. No one ever stops at this stop sign. The border police can be standing right there, right under the stop sign, and no one will stop. The police don't even spare an eye blink as car after car rolls right past the sign. Granted, at this point the cars have slowed to about 20 kph, but driving slowly is not the same thing as stopping. I remember this clearly from driver's ed, where Mr. Pyfrin told us repeatedly, "There is no such thing as a rolling stop."
       If there is one thing that I can't stand, it is a rule that isn't a rule. Either take down the stop sign or make people stop. Unenforced laws are just confusing. Plus, I'm pretty sure they lead to the erosion of civilization as we know it. Plus, they bug me.

      And while we are on the subject of confusing rules, let's talk about kissing. When we lived in the US, we had a few friends who kissed hello. As a firm handshake kind of person (or better yet, a wave from afar), I always felt awkward with the one kiss on the cheek. Little did I realize how good I had it. In much of Europe, two kisses is the norm when greeting an acquaintance. In Geneva, it's three. Three kisses! Not only is this overkill in terms of physical contact with someone to whom I am not related, it also takes a really long time. The problem, however, is compounded by the fact that Geneva is something of a culturally diverse city. We have friends from Spain, England, France, South Africa, Italy, Ghana, the U.S., Sri Lanka, Greece, Madagascar. I love this diversity, but it complicates the whole kissing thing. How many kisses? Do men kiss men? Do you kiss hello AND goodbye? Which cheek first? Should your lips actually touch the other person's face? Do your cheeks touch? Do you just kiss air? The opportunities for social gaffes are abundant and varied. The good news, I guess, is that everyone is pretty relaxed and forgiving. Also, I read that in some cultures, people kiss four times -- or more. I should count my blessings.

       And while we are on the subject of counting blessings, I just need to say that I am very thankful that our blown fuse only provides power to the doorbell, front door light, and several other interior lights and not to something vital, like, say, the refrigerator or the heat. The fuse blew in mid-December. We replaced it, and it immediately blew again. We contacted the regie (property management company) to ask whether it was okay to call an electrician (see post on the washing machine if you wonder why we contacted the regie). The electrician came. He rerouted the current through another fuse. It worked great until he left, at which point it blew again. This is the juncture at which the problem became a "defect in the house" and therefore not our problem (payment-wise, of course; it remains our problem lack-of-power-wise). This being the case, the electrician will return next week. He will look at the fuse box and make an estimate. He will then leave and send the estimate to the regie. The regie will set up another time for him to come and actually fix the power. Maybe. If the estimate is acceptable. It could be spring before we get our power back. To end on a positive note, I will say that I learned some new French: "Le fusible saute," means that the fuse is blown. Every cloud has a silver lining.