Summer Skiing

       Ever since I read that the ski lifts are open for hikers, I have been chomping at the bit to go check out our favorite slopes in their summer garb. Last Saturday I finally had the chance. While the resort may not be quite as exciting in the off season as it is when one can zoom down snowy slopes, it was definitely worth the drive.

Johanna and her friend speed down the luge. Whoever owns Col de la Faucille is trying to make it exciting in the summer. The luge was fun, but overpriced and lacking the athletic thrill of skiing. I'm just saying this because I think it's true; I didn't actually ride the luge myself, since I could walk down the hill. 

The view from the telecabine. I think that, in winter, this is the hill we  call the Big Blue Hill, to distinguish it from the one I prefer -- the Little Blue Hill.

       I was hoping that we could ride up the mountain in the chair lifts and enjoy the fresh air. Instead, the only things running were the enclosed telecabines. The view was still good, but the ride was kind of stuffy. I felt soft for riding up the mountain at all, as most people there were hiking both up and down. This is the kind of thing that always happens in Switzerland when we feel like we are doing something really outdoorsy and athletic. We head out to the mountains for an afternoon of strenuous hiking, only to find that all the geriatric Swiss and the moms with babies on their backs have already been both up and down the mountain several times.

The view of Lake Geneva from the top of the mountain.

Atop the Little Blue Hill

Same place as the above picture. Drew and Eric are relaxing and checking Olympic scores while Lucas climbs some rocks he found. We had no idea all those rocks were beneath the snow!

My favorite slope. We walked down this one.  Turns out, there's a whole road under the snow. It made me appreciate how much snow must fall each winter to completely change the look of the mountain.

        We marveled at the view of Geneva from the top of the mountain, tried (unsuccessfully) to find our house, and I shooed the children away from the edge. They kept saying, "It's not steep, Mom!" I kept saying, "I don't care. Move back!" I started to enjoy the hike more when we were far from any edges that anyone could conceivably tumble from. The outcroppings of gray boulders appearing amid the greens and pastels of the summer flowers were enchanting, as were the mossy trees. The best news of the day, however, was the fact that our favorite crêperie was open for business. I was also extremely proud of Eric, who has mastered some of the most important words in French -- those required to order his own Nutella crêpe
     
     

Lucas, Jo, and Ariana enjoy crêpes. They're good even in the summer!

Happy Birthday to Switzerland

      I started writing this on August 1, which is Swiss National Day. For us, this means that Eric was home from work on a Wednesday, which is a great treat, and that the grocery stores were closed (less of a treat). I was curious, though, about what the day means for the Swiss. My first assumption was that the reason that August 1 isn't called Independence Day is that the Swiss have always been -- politically as well as socially -- independent. That, it turns out, is only sort of true; parts of Switzerland were occupied by the Hapsburgs in the 1300s and overtaken (briefly) by Napoleonic France. What is true, though, is that National Day isn't celebrating independence. In fact, it's actually celebrating interdependence. What happened in 1291, is that the leaders of three groups -- the people of the valley of Uri, the democracy of Schwyz, and the community of the valley of Unterwalden (all of which are in what is now central Switzerland) -- got together and made an agreement. These typically Swiss gentleman were apparently not particularly interested in extending their territory or conquering any other people groups. According to the Federal Charter of 1291, what they wanted was: "the proper establishment of quiet and peace." And on that modest yet worthy platform was founded the Swiss confederacy. Uri, Schwyz, and Unterwalden became the first three Swiss cantons.
      Later on (in the 1350s) Glarus, Zug, Lucerne, Berne, and Zurich joined up. Others joined through the years, ending with Neuchatel, Valais, and Geneva in 1860. Now Switzerland has 26 cantons, all dedicated to preserving quiet and peace, mostly through the liberal use of traffic cameras and a police force extremely responsive to noise complaints. The national goals have expanded, of course, to include cleanliness, hedge conformity, and unity in cheese production. Efforts in the early 20th century to add "Service with a Smile" to the national charter were rejected in a referendum, though the sparing use of a subdued "Bonjour," or (in German-speaking cantons), "Guten Tag" was approved.
       The communities around Geneva each have their own August 1 celebration. We headed over to check out what was going on in Onex.

Here's a carnival for the kids at the Onex Mairie (City Hall).

And here's the soup supper, band, and platform for the reading for the 1291 Charter.

       We have been in the area long enough that we actually saw someone we knew at the celebration -- a German couple from church, who were there with friends, to whom we were introduced. The whole place smelled like raclette cheese and fireworks, which, in a typically Swiss fashion, were confined to a barricaded pen and monitored by the police. The band played some inspiring music, and the mayor prepared to read the 1291 Charter. It all seemed festive but staid, as befits a celebration of peace and quiet.
        When the sun went down, however, the mood changed. We were home by this time and, by standing on the street in front of our home, we were able to see a 360-degree fireworks display coming from the communities of Lancy, Bernex, Plan-les-Ouates, and Plainpalais. Americans, of course, love their fireworks on July 4, but I have yet to see a U.S. fireworks display that compares to the European ones. When the Swiss come out of their shells, they really come out. The pyrotechnics continued until about midnight, when the raucous dance music started. We turned on the fan, put the covers over our heads, and tried to sleep. There is a limit to my enthusiasm for patriotism-by-association.
       The next morning, I went outside, expecting to see the shells of burnt-out bottle rockets littering the neighborhoods. I didn't see a stray paper wrapper or cardboard tube. The spirit of the Swiss had returned.

Return to the Home Planet

My mom took this as the kids and I came up the elevator into the Cincinnati Airport. Eric followed a week later (someone has to work so the rest of us can play!).

The best things about our visit to the United States (clearly not in order of importance):

1. Guess what language most people in the U.S. speak? I had a moment at the hotel the first day, before I picked up the telephone to request our car from valet parking, when I was trying to rehearse the phrases in French. Then I realized that I could ask for the car in my mother tongue!

2. The food. I know it may sound ridiculous to compare American chain food to European haute cuisine, but if you have tasted Graeter's, you'll understand. Swiss chocolate is great, but they don't put it in black raspberry ice cream. Plus, in the U.S., our entire family can eat out for under $25. That feeds about one of us in Geneva.

3. The food.

Come on, there's nothing this good on the billboards in Switzerland.

4. Capture the Flag. We spent a week in Grand Rapids with the Admiraal clan -- with all 22 grandchildren (ages 0 - 16). Despite the 100+ heat and the crispy grass, we managed to squeeze in several games. I showed myself to be a true Admiraal aunt by chasing opposing team members in bare feet and a skirt, executing several spectacular flying falls. We had the de rigeur Little Caesar's, though after a revolt led by the rising teenage set, Uccello's Pizza was added as well. We also played multi-age Scattergories (and we don't let the kids win), and the kids cleaned out Grandad's piggy bank by earning $5 each for singing "O Worship the King."

5. Sailing, sand, and sunsets (and a little karaoke).

Eric attempts to take a visiting friend on a windless (but beautiful) sailboat ride.

We spent another week at Douglas Lake, relaxing with the Waggener family, including my parents, my sister and kids, and some bonus Swedish cousins. Eric managed to flip most of the kids on the tube behind our very old speedboat (with a very new motor). We had Grandma Ruth's Swedish pancakes, fishing trips with Grandpa Joe, and a trip to Mackinaw City for Pizza Palace, Murdick's fudge, and karaoke night (which revealed to the Swedish cousins a slice of Americana perhaps better left under wraps).

6. Friends. Cincinnati was a whirlwind of bike rides with friends, parties with friends, church with friends, coffee with friends, dinner with friends, and even chance encounters at Costco and Panera with friends. What a joy to spend time with the people who share our life on the home planet.

7. Family. In Geneva, with our closest relatives an 8 hour car trip away, there is nothing we miss more than family. We were so thankful to spend time with the people who know us best. We were also thankful that, knowing us best, they still wanted to spend time with us.

My little sister.

8. Patriotism. The Dorr parade, with candy, fire truck sirens, and (a great idea, considering the weather) ice pops. Flag waving, wearing the red, white, and blue, and being unabashedly thankful to be an American. Also fireworks and sparklers.

Sparklers on the dock at Douglas Lake. We didn't even set anything on fire.

9. Friendly driving. I love the way that motorists in Wayland, Mich., and Connersville, Ind., wave to everyone they pass on the road. Eric loves the way that, when you need to pull out into traffic in Ohio, someone will almost always let you pull in front of them. And while Americans may complain about gas prices, fuel over there costs less than half of what it does here.

     Despite a trip that was really even more wonderful than I had hoped, I was ready to board the plane for Paris when the time came. If I could have taken all my family and friends with me, it would have been a perfect ending.
     No one slept much on the plane ride. By the time we rode three different RER trains to Gare de Lyon, navigated -- laden with 50-pound luggage -- work on the rails and broken escalators, and boarded the TGV train to Geneva, even the noisy children in our coach couldn't keep us awake. I awoke after two hours to views of clear blue skies and green mountain slopes rising out of rocky, river-cut valleys. Blearily, I staggered to the dining car and used my best French to ask if they could give me a BIG cup of coffee. The nice man behind the counter assured me, "Bien sûr, madame!" When he handed me my 6 ounce cup, half full of strong brew, I knew I was home.

   

God Save the Queen

The British spread included a contribution from the
relatives across the ocean: It's those chocolate chip
cookies again.

       The Alien family enjoyed celebrating with our comrades in anglophony last weekend at a Jubilee Tea. We don't really know that much about the Queen (shhhh), but we'll toast her with pleasure if it comes with cake, cucumber sandwiches, and Union Jack lollipops.

       I, as the woman of the house, started the afternoon with the question that transcends all national and cultural barriers: "What will I wear?" Having received a gracious but unhelpful "anything goes" in response to my dress code query, and not having any red, white, and blue in my wardrobe (a situation I hope to remedy in time for the the next holiday that demands those colors), I chose my most comfortable dressy shoes and picked an outfit to go with them. The comfortable shoes were a must, because our friends who were holding the party live in Cologny. Cologny is only about 4 miles away, but it is on what one calls here "the other side of the lake," requiring either a tortuous drive through the center of town or a three different TPG conveyances, with a good amount of walking in between. If you've been paying any attention at all to previous blog posts, you'll have no problem guessing which option we chose and why shoes drove my wardrobe choice.

        The 14 Tram, the 12 Tram and the 1 Bus brought us to Cologny, where we were greeted by a lovely spread, then told we couldn't partake until we publicly demonstrated our ignorance of all matters royal by participating in a Diamond Jubilee Quiz. Actually, the quiz was not bad, because we got to do it in teams. My team included three actual Englishfolk, one of whom was even named Elizabeth, so clearly we had a chance. Also, the questions weren't just about the monarchy, but also about diamonds, the number 60, and the name Elizabeth. We referred all math questions to the high school student on our team, and all Elizabeth questions to Elizabeth. We faltered a bit on the diamond questions, but guess who could name every monarch between William I (the Conqueror) and the current queen? (Thank you Mars Hill Academy Middle Ages History Curriculum!) I was a little less up on current news, however, having no idea how old the Queen was when she met Prince Phillip, and not being able to name even one -- much less all -- of the royal grandchildren. This is what comes of being more interested in the past than the present and more interested in fiction than reality (at least the kind of reality that makes the 6 o'clock news). I admit this with embarrassment, but other members of the family are not as ignorant of current events as I, so I rely on them. Anyway, our team, appropriately named "Elizabeth and Her Subjects," trounced the other teams and won the gold medals, which were actually wrapped Cadbury's chocolate. Unfortunately, I forgot my medal when we left, my friend's daughter brought it to Lucas at school to give to me and, well, it never made it home. The defense: "It was too tempting."


       Following the quiz, we devoured tea and its accompaniments, including a cake decorated with a fondant Union Jack (very impressive to the family bakers). The kids swam, even though it was not quite 70 degrees, and there were many flips on the trampoline. (Also involving only those under 16 years of age.) I am thankful to Queen Elizabeth for a pleasant afternoon with friends. It was interesting, though, to hear our kids musing (fortunately at home and on the bus, not around the actual English) about the queen in particular and royalty in general. "It's not fair that the Queen makes such a huge salary," was one comment. We understand becoming rich in America, but not so much just being rich, although there is certainly hereditary wealth and privilege in the U.S., too. The kids also had questions about the devotion that the English have to the royal family. "We just don't feel that way about our president," they said. Well, no, but no one is president for very long, and we never watch our presidents grow up, knowing one day they will inherit the title. Plus, as one of my English friends explained when I asked her a similar question, being queen is not a political position -- in fact, it is a position somewhat above and outside of politics. She pointed out that having a monarch around can be nice for the prime ministers who, no matter what their party or positions, can talk to the queen knowing that there will be no leaks and that she's not really on anyone's side -- except the country's. I don't know that America has any equivalent. Perhaps Billy Graham when he was the spiritual confidant of presidents both Republican and Democtratic -- but of course, that was not weekly, nor has it continued for generations.
       Musing on the differences between the old country and the young one makes this a good time for a news flash concerning a former old country that would like to be new again . . . or something. Some Savoyards apparently held up traffic at the border crossing, demanding that Savoy (an area of France bordering Geneva) be recognized as an independent country. Given that when they were independent, they attacked Geneva, I'm not sure what I think of their request (though the attack was about 500 years ago, admittedly). Anyway, we've been wondering if maybe our family should send a letter to the U.N. requesting to be our own country. We could hold up traffic entering the neighborhood until they grant our request. We think we'd like our own time zone as well, if that's not too much trouble.

       

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!

L'Italie!

      In Geneva, the word for Italy is pronounced like "little-ee." This is kind of funny, coming from the Swiss, who occupy a country that is less than 1/6 the size of Italy, and not much more than 1/10 the population. Perhaps, however, they are referring to the Italian people, who are often on the short side. More likely, I think, the reference is to the size of the coffee in Italy. When the unsuspecting traveler orders "café," she receives a cup that belongs in a child's tea set, and this doll's cup is about half-full of coffee. The true Italian polishes this off in one swig, as if he were doing shots. This traveler, not being a true (or even a pretend) Italian, spent much of our adventure in Italy longing for a large mug filled with coffee that she could sip in a leisurely fashion.

   
      And an adventure it was. This is our view as we approached the Mont Blanc tunnel, which passes under the Alps from France into Italy. Why nobody warned us beforehand that we would wait 60 minutes  in a 2 km long line to drive through the tunnel, I cannot imagine. Everyone told us that we could tour Northern Italy as an easy driving trip. Clearly, the European concept of "easy driving" bears no relation to  traveling from Cincinnati to Michigan on I-75. It's more like a pleasant drive through downtown Chicago during rush hour. On the plus side, the view was much nicer than what one sees driving through Dayton and Toledo. Our GPS told us the trip from our house to Tremezzo, an appropriately romantic-sounding town on Lake Como, would take under 5 hours. Seven and a half hours later, after the tunnel, an excursion through the suburbs of Varese, and somehow becoming completely lost and reentering Switzerland (although we did meet a lovely guard at the douane who gave us directions back to Italy only after telling us all about his multiple trips to the United States and how much he loved our country), we arrived at our hotel. Like the typical brash American, we had come to Italy with a knowledge of the language which hovered somewhere between minimal and nonexistent. We did find the Italians very cheerful about trying to communicate, though, and sometimes it worked to say French or Spanish words with an Italian accent.
      When I book our hotels, my strategy is to visit hotels.com and choose the cheapest one. So far, this has worked well. Our hotel on Lake Como was small and quaint, with a restaurant taking up the entire ground floor. The receptionist walked us first to the kids' room, which was enormous, with beds, armchairs, dressers, and a large bathroom. She threw open the shutters to reveal a breathtaking view of the lake.

Lake Como from our hotel -- well, from the kids' room

      After that introduction, I was a little disappointed in our room, which was less than half the size of the other, with a postage-stamp sized bathroom whose shower was at waist level. As far as bathroom amenities, there was shampoo and a shower cap. The shower cap in the hotel bathroom is something I don't understand. I have never used a shower cap, and the only people I know who have were my two grandmothers. When I think of it, however, I have not really discussed the issue of shower caps with my friends. Perhaps everyone else finds them a very useful hotel freebie and I am just ignorant. In this hotel, however, with the shower setup as it was, it would have been impossible to get one's hair wet accidentally. It was, in fact, challenging to get one's hair wet on purpose. I will say that we slept deeply and soundly, and the hotel breakfast was quite good, and included, to my joy, pitchers of coffee and warm milk that one could mix and sip to one's heart's content. Highlights of our stay included a trip across the lake on the ferry to Bellagio, which is where George Cloony apparently has a house (we saw neither it nor him), a walk along the lake looking at huge villas from the days of the Grand Tour, and gelato twice in one day.

Johanna's gelato at dinner. The coffee in Italy is tiny, but the ice cream is  just about the right size.

Eric and Lucas waiting for the ferry to Bellagio.

      Non-highlights (lowlights?) of the trip included my decision that we should try to see the lighthouse where electricity pioneer Alessandro Volta did experiments. This led us through the unpleasantly dingy suburbs of Como Town, then up a narrow mountain road whose hairpin turns and tiny alleyways kept us in palpitations until, unaccountably, our GPS turned us around and sent us back down without ever seeing the lighthouse. Discouraged, we drove on to Padua, where our GPS again proved not so trusty, triumphantly announcing that we had reached our destination when we were in the middle of a highway bridge with no other road in sight. We have since been told that because Italy has so many roads,  a GPS doesn't really work well in that country. No kidding. Eric had booked our Padua hotel, and his strategy is to find a member of the Starwood chain where we can use points, which is how we did, finally, end up at the Sheraton. Although the hotel was inconveniently situated in Padua's dying industrial district, it did offer a free shuttle service to the center of town, which was gratifyingly ancient and quite bustling. By this time, my cell phone had run out of batteries, so I have no pictures of Padua. Instead, I'll include one taken in Como of the person who does have lots of pictures.

He usually doesn't like to have his picture taken;
this was the way to catch him standing still!

      We had a really nice time roaming the streets of Padua, which is one of the oldest university towns in Europe. It has a canal, an impressive basilica, and lots of delicious gelato. We ate dinner at a table on the square and watched people and pigeons before catching the shuttle back to the hotel.
       The next day, we rose early and took the shuttle to the train station, where Eric and the kids went to get breakfast from McDonald's (still always a highlight for our kids), and I went to buy tickets for the train to Venice. The tickets were surprisingly inexpensive -- only €3.50 a person. When the train arrived, we immediately figured out why -- it was old and run-down, but most of all, packed to the gills. We pushed and squeezed our way on, and spent the 30-minute trip to Venice in intimate proximity with the 20 or so other people squashed into the area between the cars. This was especially amusing when the train lurched and people went flying into one another or when we stopped and someone wanted to debark -- usually someone in the interior of the train who had a large suitcase. But none of that mattered, because we were thrilled to be headed to the unique and romantic city of Venice.
      And I do have to say, Venice really is a unique and romantic city. Our picture-takers couldn't get enough of the canals, gondolas, markets, buildings, and bridges. Despite having purchased a map, we became lost several times, but enjoyed the narrow alleyways, the stalls selling masks and glass beads, and the atmosphere of unreality. We decided that the lines were too long to try to go inside the Doge's Palace or Saint Mark's Basilica, and we just kind of nosed around, shopped, and ate a long, late, and leisurely lunch before returning to Padua on the train.
      Our hotel was truly in a dead zone of the city, with absolutely no restaurants or shops within walking distance. That being the case, we decided it would be very smart to take the car and find a grocery store, to stock up on provisions for the journey home the next day. Note to self: never put the words "very smart" and "take the car" in the same sentence in Europe and expect good results. Our purple GPS route looked like the path of a roller coaster by the time we had been to Lidl and returned with breakfast and snack food for the next day. We also attempted to fill the car with gas, and had to try four gas stations before we found one that was open and had a machine that would take our cards. Although the self-service machines allowed us to opt for English, they were still confusing enough that we somehow inadvertently stole €5 worth of gas from the nice lady at the pump next to us. The attendant (who had to come out anyway to help us figure out the machine, which was clearly not self-service for us) managed to pantomime what had happened and gave us change to repay the poor woman for her lost fuel.
       In order to avoid another pileup at the Mont Blanc tunnel, we decided to leave by 7 the next morning. We went to bed early. At 4 in the morning, I woke to feel the room shaking from side to side. At first, I thought we were perhaps in one of those hotel beds that you can feed quarters into for a massage and that somehow it had malfunctioned. It turned out, however, that we were in an earthquake. Worried about the kids sleeping down the hall, I listened at their door, but heard nothing. I heard a few people running down the stairs, but no alarms or sirens. Then I called the front desk, to be told that the hotel was anti-something, so we were okay. I took this to mean that I could go back to sleep, and had almost done so when an aftershock shook the room again. The kids told us the next morning that yes, they had woken up, yes, they knew immediately what was happening, and no, they hadn't been scared and had gone right back to sleep. It's nice to have secure and resilient children. We did learn that the epicenter of the quake was in Bologna, about 50 miles away, and that, sadly, several people there had died. We left the hotel feeling sad  about that, but thankful as well.
       We were also thankful for our trip home, which, perhaps due to our 6:45 a.m. departure, was without much traffic, without any episodes of lostness, and without any wait at all at the tunnel. Despite this smooth ending, however, we have resolved that it is worth almost any price to travel by train or plane on our next voyage.
     

International School Sports

      In case you are reading the blog because of your burning interest in the title, let me assure you that I will get to the sports. First, however, an update on the Alien Bakery, the wares of which improve with each passing week. Here is the cake Lucas baked to celebrate my birthday -- and the birthday of a good friend from the U.S. who was visiting last weekend. I thought readers might be interested to see the progression of beauty and skill.
     If you are reading the blog because the cake caught your eye, I apologize for the fact that, unfortunately, cakes have nothing to do with International School Sports -- at least in my experience so far. So, on to sports.


     I am unsure to which nationality I should attribute the unusual (for us, anyway) attitude toward children's sports that we have encountered here. Although Institut International du Lancy is British in curriculum, I don't think their sports program is typically British, as I am told that many British schools are extremely serious -- not to say rabid -- about their sports. I'm also not sure it is typically Swiss; the Swiss runners whom we have encountered, at least, seem to approach their sport with a competitiveness bordering on assault (see Trans-Onesienne for details). So I'll just say that perhaps it's an international school thing. Whatever the case, the attitude toward sports at IIL is so relaxed that it is a bit unsettling for someone used to typical American insanity. A case in point is the IIL football team, for which Lucas has played since September (there are no sports seasons here, apparently). Practices run for about 45 minutes once a week. Originally, Lucas was told that he couldn't play in any games, since his birthday is in 2000, and the team is for boys born in 1998 and 1999. This fact seemed to slip the coach's mind, however, when it came to games. I think there aren't enough boys. Of course, I wouldn't know, since parents are not encouraged to attend games. Also, in the 8 months the team has been together, they have had two games -- one in October and one last week. They lost both, presumably to teams who practice for an hour a week, or maybe even more (and don't have illegally young players).

     May, apparently, is tournament time for sports. Exactly 10 days ago, Drew was invited to play on the school's lacrosse team for the international school tournament that took place this week. As far as we know, the school did not have a lacrosse team prior to 10 days ago. Further, the P.E. teacher who invited Drew to play had no idea whether Drew knew how to play lacrosse, which did not bode well for the team as a whole. Having had bad experiences with pick-up lacrosse games (experiences so bad that they involved ambulances), Drew politely declined.
     All three members of EuroSMAC were invited to participate in the cross country championships which took place yesterday. It was somewhat disconcerting to receive a permission slip for their participation on the afternoon of April  20 that was supposed to be returned "before April 20." At least, however, Luc, Ariana, and Johanna had already been training. How the school expected students to prepare for a cross country race given only a week and a half was a mystery to me -- but not one that I had to deal with, fortunately.
     Sports here are set up for the convenience of the parents -- meaning their convenience in not having to attend any events or transport their children anywhere out of the way. Therefore, sporting events often take place during the school day. That was the case with the cross country meet, so Johanna, Ariana, Luc, and I showed up at school at 7:20 a.m. so the kids could join the other IIL representatives on the luxury bus that would transport them to Lausanne for the meet. Johanna says that she plans to participate in many other school events if they involve rides in nice buses. I had planned to follow in the car, and asked the attending P.E. teacher if he could give me an address for my GPS. He helpfully showed me something that looked like a 19th century surveyor's chart. There were no street names, but the words "Chalet-à-Gobet" were written in script on a large amoeba-like shape, and he told me that's where I should go. It was unclear to me whether Chalet-à-Gobet was a town, a park, a road, or perhaps an actual chalet, but I didn't let such a minor detail bother me. The coach also explained that the races would be held "on the plain above Lausanne." Apparently he thought this would be meaningful information. I foresaw a long morning of driving around searching for children in running clothes. Miraculously, though, typing "Chalet-à-Gobet" into my GPS actually brought me directly to the large park where I could see the buses and tents that told me this was the right place. I could not see much else, as a cold rain was falling and a thick fog obscured most of the park.
     Despite the chill and the damp, the park was full of the kind of enthusiasm and camaraderie that attend such events. A cheery man wearing plaid shorts and carrying a megaphone gave directions in French and English, teams walked the course to scout out the slipperiest mud patches, kids painted their faces with mud warpaint and cheered for their teammates.

Johanna and Ariana with two fellow IIL runners before their race.

Lucas with teammate Ricky.

Cheering for teammates as they finish. The kids got to know several new IIL friends who share their enthusiasm for running. Though in general I like the relaxed attitude toward sports, this did make me wish that IIL had a real XC team.

The boys set out. The course started on a big hill, effectively wearing out the runners before the race even got underway. The hills and the mud made this a TRUE XC meet! 

Lucas finishing. He was 6th, which I thought was outstanding, especially considering that he was throwing up two nights before the race. Running -- or even the thought of running -- seems to do something odd to my children's digestive systems. This time, though, Lucas really did have the flu; we know because other family members caught it as well.

The girls starting. Johanna and Ariana are the ones in green. It is very difficult to take good pictures of moving runners with a cell phone camera, so you'll just have to take my word for it that they are who I say they are. Johanna did throw up at the start, as usual. She discovered this time that this is the way to deal with the runners who elbow and push for position. After you puke, everyone gives you plenty of space.




Johanna finishing. Sorry this is a bad picture, but I had to include it. She is running with a bike in front of her because she is WINNING!!!! (Please excuse the proud mom.)



Ariana finishing. She was in the top quarter -- running against older girls -- and I was proud of her as well.



The top three. Even though Johanna is on the highest pedestal, the second-place finisher is taller. Typically, Johanna became bosom friends with the other girls while on the podium, and gave me a full report afterwards.



Snacks while waiting for runners to appear so they can cheer some more.

     IIL may not prepare their competitors well, but with running, anyway, the school seems to know how to pick them. Johanna was one of four IIL students to make the podium; the 1996-1997 boys were second and third. Most amazing of all was the sole IIL girl in the 1996-1997 race. Because fewer students participate at that age and the race is longer, the boys and girls ran together. Nancy from IIL was the first girl, which was impressive enough, but she was also fourth overall. That's no small feat against high-school boys.

     While I enjoy being part of a community that isn't obsessed with children's sports, the day made me realize that I also miss the fun of being a sports parent. As the only IIL parent in attendance, I pitied the moms and dads who had been forced to spend such a lovely day inside their dry offices and homes while I hung out on the sidelines with the cheering, muddy kids.