News from the Collège de Tirelonge

      One of Johanna's recent lab reports for Physical Science bore the conclusion: "We should find out the names of supplies in French before we go shopping." Here's why:

      The experiment called for hydrogen peroxide which -- silly me -- I assumed would have a name that sounded similar in French. I couldn't find anything of that description, so I picked up a brown bottle of something from the first aid section of the supermarket. The bottle looked like a hydrogen peroxide bottle, so I thought we'd give it a try. Well. The experiment involved filling a balloon with oxygen, which was going to be produced when we mixed the hydrogen peroxide with yeast. We were then going to release the oxygen near a candle burning under a glass jar, at which point the candle would burn brighter, demonstrating an important property of oxygen. Whatever I bought produced nothing when mixed with yeast, which I suppose is better than the alternative (that I bought something explosive). I then had an inspiration. We would mix vinegar and baking soda, which produces some kind of gas, fill the balloon with that, and see what happened. Those of you who know more about chemistry than I can already guess the results. The balloon filled nicely with gas, we released the gas into the jar with the candle, and the candle sputtered out (actually, it didn't even sputter, because some vinegar had gotten into the balloon as well, and it doused the candle immediately -- and made a mess of the kitchen counter). A quick visit to Google informed me that what we had produced was carbon dioxide gas. I comforted myself with the knowledge that Albert Einstein, Winston Churchill, and even Oprah Winfrey were at one time considered failures. (I learned this from a blog entitled "50 Famously Successful People Who Failed at First.")

      I will be making frequent returns to that blog, as homeschooling in Switzerland does present some unique challenges. Yesterday, Luc, Jo, and I had a meeting with the children's doyens. These people are basically guidance counsellors, who are each assigned to work with one grade level of children in the local public school. They follow that particular group all through their middle school years, which I think is a nice idea. Anyway, we should have met with them earlier, but it takes me a while to work up to making French phone calls, and I had some others earlier on the list. The two worst things about going to meetings which I have set up on the telephone are: 1) I am always a little nervous that I have the wrong time, since in addition to the numbers being in French, they also use 24-hour time. So I had written down 16h30, but you never know. 2) Unless I remember to ask for the spelling of the person's name with whom I am meeting, I usually have no idea what it is. This time, I had forgotten to ask, so all I knew is that we were meeting with a woman whose name sounded like it began with "s." Before the meeting, I had written down the things I needed to find out or obtain: Scope and sequence for history, geography, and the sciences, so the children could choose paper topics; French textbooks, which I had been told I could get for free; and previous-year copies of the Evacoms, which are the standardized tests the kids will take in May. I gave myself a strict pep talk about not leaving the meeting without answers to my questions, and I told the kids to look as happy, smart, and well-adjusted as possible. They had to go to running practice right after the meeting, so in their Stade Genève track suits, they at least looked sporty.

       The good things about the meeting: There was a nice big sign hanging from the ceiling directing us to the secretariat, where we were supposed to present ourselves. The staff mailboxes were in plain view, and only one doyenne had a name that began with "s." The doyens spoke less English than I do French, so they were very patient with me. Best of all, I did not have to ask a single question, as they were outstandingly prepared with website recommendations, a calendar of test dates, and textbooks for not only French, but math and English as well. Also, all of this took only about 20 minutes.

       The bad thing about the meeting: The kids hopped on the bus to Stade Genève right outside the school, leaving me to walk the mile home carrying a stack of 15 textbooks.

       The good thing about the textbooks: Whenever we start to develop inferiority complexes, we can open up the English workbook and knock out a few exercises.

Forme des phrases complètes avec les mot suivants:

a) can/speak/I/French/.

b) Julie/the/Can/piano/play/?

c) can/Denis/not/baseball/play/.

I'm feeling smarter already!

       

The Cows Coming Home

      I'd like to open this post with a few random observations, each a propos of nothing and none interesting enough for a blog of its own. Then I will move to the real topic, which involves more pictures of cows than you've ever seen (probably), and certainly more than I've ever taken. (In the spirit of crediting sources, thank you to a dear friend for the "observation" idea. I do realize that it was yours first.)

      Observation #1: This has been a really successful cooking week. I baked brownies from scratch that actually tasted as good as brownies from a box. I also welcomed the autumn chill with risotto and my first run at polenta (with pumpkin -- so yummy). To top it off, Johanna, Lucas, and I stretched the meaning of nutrition class to allow us to make our own Asiago cheese bagels on Friday. Although the project did involve several steps (including boiling before baking -- who knew?), it was actually surprisingly easy, and the bagels, though not Panera, were outstanding.

     Observation #2: All of a sudden, our family is consuming astonishing amounts of food. I understand that this state of affairs is considered normal for households with (almost) three teenagers, but still . . . . I am at the grocery store daily. Good thing it's a short walk.

     Observation #3: Every time we meet someone's grandmother, she comments on how handsome Drew is. He is beginning to develop a complex about this; while it's always nice to be complemented, he'd prefer to hear about his good looks from the teenage girls. I told him that the phenomenon is due to the fact that he is handsome, but in a very non-threatening, "I will have your daughter home by 10 p.m." kind of way, rather than in that smoldering, dangerous way that may attract the younger set. Someday, he will appreciate this. Perhaps.

      Observation #4: As with everything else about the Swiss, the Swiss chapters of Boy Scouts of America are not kidding. Lucas just returned from a 9-hour hike up a mountain in Kandersteg. Even allowing for 12-year-old exaggeration, that's a long hike. Amazingly, he said he'd do it again given the opportunity. Clearly, there is some brainwashing going on. Actually, it was probably the outdoor cooking that made it all worthwhile for him.

     And now, on to the cows. Last weekend was the Desalpes festival in St. Cergue, which is a town in the Jura mountains about 45 minutes from here. The Desalpes celebrates the cows coming down from their summer pastures in the mountains to their winter pastures at lower elevations. I had heard that the cows have flowers on their head and come down in troops, led by the herdsmen. Last year, when I suggested that we go see this spectacle, I was met with moaning about getting up early on a Saturday and who wants to go see a bunch of cows, anyway. So this year, I announced that I was going, and people could come or not, as they wished. This, as it turns out, is a brilliant strategy. Everyone except Drew bit (he has a Saturday morning job teaching English, so he had a legitimate excuse).

We had pictured the cows ambling slowly down a grassy path. Instead, they thundered -- or at least jogged -- through the streets of the village. Apparently, they were eager to reach their winter pastures.

The herdsmen all had matching outfits, which I assume were traditional Swiss cowherd garb.

These two were leading the troop, carrying a sign with the name of their family or farm.

You can see one of the flower-bedecked cows here. They didn't all have flowers; just the ones in the front of each herd.

The bells were huge and loud, in a nice, pastoral kind of way. They had them for sale for 300 chf a piece.

Here's my best cow picture. Lots of them had evergreen branches with tissue flowers on their heads, rather than actual flowers.

Some of the herdsmen seemed kind of nervous that their cows would run out of control and trample someone. Also, there were signs everywhere disclaiming responsibility for adults, children, or animals injured by the cows. We didn't see any injuries, though. When the loudspeaker announced the next "troupeau,"  people pretty much moved to the side to give the cows their space. And to avoid being splattered with . . . well, I'm sure you can guess.

More cows.

And still more cows. This was my favorite herding family, too.

Between the parading cows, dancers performed traditional Alpine dances.

It looked very much like Dutch dancing, except that they didn't wear wooden shoes, and they shouted a lot in the middle of the dance.

A band accompanied the dancers.

Leading a herd.

Cows with headdresses.

      This is about half of the pictures I took, but I think it is adequate to get the general idea of the concentration of cattle. We did not invest in a 300 chf cowbell, but we did buy some local honey and some cheese . . . emmentaler, of course. We returned home cold and wet from the rain, but I don't think I was the only one who was happy to have experienced the Desalpes.

The Gold Star

I don’t cook on Sunday evenings. Sometime’s we’ve had a large and late lunch. Sometimes the kids are at youth group. For whoever is around and hungry, though, we have a rule for Sunday supper: “You’re on your own.” The kids actually love it, as it is permission to make a dinner of anything from a bowl of cereal to ice cream and salami. When we moved to Switzerland, however, we discovered a broader application of the whole “you’re on your own” principle. Want to know where to dump your garbage? “You’re on your own.” Interested in your kid’s progress in school? “You’re on your own.” Wondering  how to turn the heat on, where to sign up for the local 5K, or what the neighborhood noise policy is? On. Your. Own. That is, of course, until you break a rule. At this point, depending on what you have done, you will (1) hear a sharp rap on your car roof as you are stopped at a red light, and roll down the window to have the angry bicyclist demand, “Didn’t you know this street was for residents only?” (2) receive a polite letter in the mail informing you that the piece of correspondence that accidentally blew out of your trash bag into the street is INTERDIT or (3) be informed -- in March -- that someone in your family has hardly turned in any math homework all year. In Switzerland, a friend recently quipped, everything is either mandatory or it is forbidden. The only problem is that, for newcomers, it can be difficult to figure out which is which. 
Sometimes all this mystery gets to me. Johanna and Lucas have been running with a team for about a month now. I still don’t understand how races work -- if there are any. It took repeated emails to get someone to explain how one purchases a uniform. And frankly, I’m still not sure we’ve payed the appropriate enrollment fees. Likewise, for homeschooling, I was helpfully directed to Planet Études, the website where I was told I would find all I needed to know about scope and sequence for the Swiss public schools. I set out last week to plumb the depths of this website -- or at least to try to figure out what concepts I needed to make sure we covered in math -- only to be met with an impenetrable fog. My understanding of French was less a problem than the organization of the website, which has math topics listed, not by grade level or any other discernible system, but in a huge chart with labels like “M11” and “M34.”
So, after navigating the uniforms, surviving without a washing machine, writing innumerable emails trying to track down the Geneva Boy Scouts, successfully finding a TUMS substitute for a physics experiment, and facing an hour of coffee in French, all with a husband in either Moscow, Frankfort, or Madrid, I was feeling like maybe someone should notice my efforts to get along, fit in, and FIND SOMEONE WHO WILL TELL ME SOMETHING. What I wanted, in fact, was a Gold Star. I told this to Drew, who was both unimpressed with my achievements and unsympathetic to my desire for a reward sticker. But really, sometimes I think I have a Gold Star coming, and I wish someone would recognize it and give me one. It would be a reward for effort, of course, not necessarily success, something kind of like a participation ribbon for the science fair. 
I realize that I am not the only person in this situation. Geneva is full of expats, many with far larger challenges than finding a Boy Scout troop. I recently heard about a woman who had her wallet stolen and then was in a head-on car collision, all in her first month here. And I don’t think for a minute that it is any more difficult to have a broken washer, a traveling spouse, or a confusing website in Switzerland than it is to have any of these issues in say, Cincinnati. We all face innumerable hurdles every day. Sometimes, just getting something that looks like dinner on the table feels like a notable accomplishment. So, to anyone reading this, I would like to say, “Good try. Nice effort. Keep it up.” And here’s a Gold Star. You know what it’s for.

Great Is Thy Faithfulness

The sermon last Sunday was on Gideon. I am feeling a bit like that particular Bible character these days. God keeps proving faithful, and I keep going around with this knot in my stomach like maybe he won’t the next time. “No, but could you just make the fleece wet . . . ?” I think I am so stupid and keep making such a mess of things that even God won’t be able fix it this time. Oh me of little faith.

This time, it started with the washing machine. It broke on a Friday after 5 p.m., which around here means no hope of reaching any repair people until Monday after 9. So on Monday at 9, I did what any homeowner would do and called the service number on the machine. The lady on the other end nicely reminded me that I am no longer a homeowner, and if I wanted my washer fixed, she had to deal with the landlord. Here in Geneva, one does not deal directly with the owner of one’s rental. Instead, one goes through an intermediary known as a regie. So I emailed our regie, only to receive the all-too-ubiquitous automatic out-of-office response. Was I supposed to let the dirty clothes pile up for a week while Valerie sunned herself in the Canary Islands? Well, no, she had left the email of a compatriot, Jacques, whom I could contact in an emergency. That gave me a moment of pause, until I decided that 3 kids + 4 sports - any desire to familiarize myself with the genevois laundromat system = EMERGENCY. I emailed Jacques, who promptly replied that he would send a “bon de travail” either to or for me (in French, as in English, the indirect pronoun can be the same).I looked up the term, discovered that it means “work order,” and paused again. Was he sending the work order for me to a company who would then appear at my door at some unspecified date? Or was the work order coming to me, and then I would . . . do what? Fix the washer myself? I emailed my friend Carol, who, having lived in French-speaking countries for seven years, often knows the answer to these kinds of questions. She said (1) the work order would go both to me and the company, probably by mail; (2) then I would have to set up the appointment; and (3) this whole process could take a long time, and I needed to throw a fit in order to get action. I decided to begin with a very small sniffle, and sent a deferential email to Jacques asking how long this whole bon de travail business was likely to take, because I have three children and, after all, we already established that this is an emergency. Jacques, whom I was liking better with every email, sent the work order as an attachment with the words “TRÈS URGENTE” on the bottom. I don’t know if he was laughing in his sleeve or not, but it got the job done. When I called Proménagér, the lady said she’d send someone over in the morning. She also mentioned that the parts for our refrigerator, which the same company had been working on fixing for about a month, were finally in.

When the repair man showed up, he said he was there for the refrigerator. I said great, thanks, but what I really want fixed is the washer. He seemed confused, but when I showed him the all-powerful bon de travail, he said he’d take a look. To shorten the story, his diagnosis was grim. Madame, he said, I cannot fix it. You need a new washer. By this time, of course, what with all the emailing and calling and fixing of refrigerators, it was Thursday morning and my washer had been broken for more than a week. Despite a few trips to the laundry rooms of understanding friends, the piles were beginning to mount, and I was beginning to hear things like, “Mom, where is my P.E. shirt?” and “Mom, I have no clean socks.” 

So, again reverting to my American do-it-yourself spirit, I called Conforama and ordered a washing machine. After all, that’s what homeowners do when the repair man says they need a new washer. Ah, but madame, you forget that you are not a homeowner, and you have no control over the destiny of your laundry. This is what Jacques informed me when I emailed him to say what I had done. Actually, what he said was, “You aren’t allowed to order a washing machine.” Well, darn. I just did. Now what will I do with this 700 chf piece of equipment due to arrive at my house? If it had been Wal-Mart where I bought the washer, of course, I would just call and cancel the order. In fact, if I had bought the washer at another store five years previously, Wal-Mart would still probably take it back. This, however, was not Wal-Mart, but Conforama, a Swiss appliance chain. How gracious would they be? How expensive a hole had I dug this time? This would not have been such a big deal if I didn’t find myself in situations like it so often. The Swiss Athletics Championships. Climbing a mountain, the angry family in tow. Lost in Paris. In a coffee shop sitting across from an elderly woman who speaks no English. 

The Conforama website contains the comforting words, “satisfied or your money back.” Buoyed by that hope, I called the store. Sure, I could cancel the order, but I had to do it at the store, not online or by phone. By this time in was Saturday, and my forbearing husband offered to come with me on this quick errand.  Armed with my printout of the sale, we approached the customer service desk, waited in line, and were told that, actually, we needed to be in the other customer service line, just around the corner. We followed the people who had been waiting in front of us (at least we weren’t the only clueless ones). At the next desk, the clerk helpfully created a receipt, which we were to take, he explained, into the store, to the welcome desk. At the welcome test, we were told, naturally, that we were going to have to take our documents to the other welcome desk. Clearly, this was all part of a plan to frustrate people into keeping their unwanted merchandise. My hypothesis was confirmed when we arrived at the other welcome desk and found no one there to welcome us. Eventually, a woman showed up and told us we could only get store credit. Emboldened by impatience, guilt, and absolutely no desire to spend 700 chf on anything else in the store, I told her we didn’t want store credit, and that the website had said money back . . . money. She nodded, seemed unperturbed, and said we’d have to talk to Michelle, who would be over by the televisions. She then uttered, in English, the words, “no hair.” The picture that leaped into my mind -- of a tall, slender, bald woman with several tattoos and piercings -- was not what we saw by the televisions. This was, of course, because it was bald Michel whom we sought, a stocky man with a white beard and no hair on top. I have got to stop thinking like an American.

“We don’t want store credit. We want money,” I told Michel, regretting my inability to phrase this request in a more elegant and persuasive fashion. I was anticipating an argument, but he nodded, signed the receipt, and handed it back. Sure that our ease in accomplishing this mission meant we had actually failed, we headed next to the cash register, with Eric planning all the way the big TV he would buy with the store credit, since we clearly were not getting our money back. I was paying attention to my stomach, which had begun its familiar churning about the time we reached the second welcome desk. At the register, however, the cashier looked at the document and opened the drawer to give us -- not store credit or even money back on our credit card -- but 700 chf in cash. 

A few weeks ago, the pastor said that God loves seeing us get ourselves into trouble because he loves to get us out of it in surprising ways. The worse trouble, the more fun it is to rescue us. Of course, a broken washer or even foolishly wasting several hundred franks hardly rank as serious trouble. But still. They are poor things, but mine own. 

My authorized washer from the regie is supposed to come tomorrow . . . sometime. The piles are getting pretty high. When I think of all the folding to come . . . that is, if the machine gets here . . . and when I wonder what it will cost and who will pay for it, I feel that sickish feeling in my stomach. 

"Come on, God, now if you could just have the ground be wet . . . .”

I’m still waiting for the moment when we conquer the Midianites with nothing but a flashlight and a canning jar. 

“Greetings, mighty man of valor.” Ha, ha.

But it’s only a farce if you don’t know how the story ends.

The alien with the defunct washer on what I hope will be the washer's last night at home.

Il Va Y Avoir Du Sport!

Back in the States, our family used to enjoy track meets. Some of us ran, some watched, some helped. So when the coaches at Stade Genève (the athletics club that Luc and Johanna belong to) asked for volunteers to help with the Swiss Junior Athletics Championships, I encouraged the family to get involved. I am, for those who have not yet divined my deeper motives, on a continual campaign to make Geneva our home. I felt like participating in the meet might help with that effort. The family (some more reluctantly than others) agreed -- or at least agreed to humor me.

I tried to be completely transparent about our French abilities. I told Vanessa, who sent out the initial “help wanted,” that if she had a job for people who didn’t speak French, we were happy to oblige. Nonetheless, Eric was somewhat worried when he was assigned the job of “host.” Further, I questioned my success at communicating when I received an email addressed to “Fils,” which I later figured out was intended for Drew, (“fils” is “son” in French). Somehow, in my broken French, I had communicated, not only that I had a son, but that I had actually named him Fils (which the gentleman reading the note must have found odd). Nonetheless, I set myself down to translate the email describing our duties. I thought I had a fairly good handle on the job, but decided that I would send the whole note through Google Translate, so that I could make sure I understood without bothering Vanessa. The results were not encouraging. Here, for your reading pleasure, is what I got:

Your task will be to manage the rally to accompany athletes locations and transmit that leaves law.

Clocks in the stadium should be given to the time, and if this should not be the case down the clocks will be hidden. You will need your watches time clock stage ... If at the end of the call athletes are not present and the leaves are already parties with athletes when .. it will be too late for latecomers.

For hosts and hostesses: Your task will be to accompany the series or groups of disciplines on their sites. Once there you will let the commissioners to whom you have given the competition leaves (leaf starter switch). It will also put the leaves in the anemometer.

On the plan attached you will find the number 3.

I give you an appointment:

- Saturday 11 am at the stage of Bout-du-Monde to take your t-shirts and your good to install and corridors if we took behind the plant on Friday. The first athletes to present to you 12.

I ask the young shuttles silence and a sober, no more mobile on the stage, or headphones.

I think I have toured the situation and thank you again for your commitment.

After that tour of the situation, I joined Eric in his concern. What if we failed to get the leaves in the correct anemometer, and then it was too late? What should we do with the number 3 when we found it? And what if one of the young shuttles (neither silent or sober) set off the leaf starter switch and the clocks all came out of hiding? I devoted many nights to prayer, fingernail-biting, and questioning why this had seemed like such a good idea.

The  day of the championships was sunny, clear, and warm -- really too warm for the athletes, but lovely for volunteers, even nervous ones. It turned out that the people in charge of the hosts and hostesses spoke excellent English, and that our job (which was to take athletes to the starting line), required only knowing where each event started and being able to motion for a group of teens to follow. Best of all, as this was a championship for all of Switzerland, most of the athletes didn’t speak any more French than we did. It was even kind of fun to watch the French-speaking Geneva volunteers try to resurrect their  schooldays German to communicate with the kids participating. I could see them counting in their heads trying to find the right German number, “ein, zwei, drei . . . vier -- Bahn vier!”   just like I do in French. And half the time, they used the English, “Follow me!” assuming that it would make more sense to the athletes than the French, “On y va!”

Drew had a job shuttling heat sheets (turns out, that’s what the “leaves” were) from the office, and Johanna and Luke carried baskets for the athletes’ gear. In a spirit of honesty, I do have to say that being a track-meet volunteer will not rank among my favorite Geneva memories -- it was actually kind of boring to watch people we didn’t know compete. Nonetheless, it is a memory. And we all got cool t-shirts with the intimidating Stade Genève red, yellow, and black logo. Not every Ohioan can say that.

Je Suis Toujours Perdue

        I am somewhat reluctant to include this post, which I wrote as my "final" in French class. Firstly, those of you who can read French will probably find so many mistakes that I will be embarrassed for the rest of my life. Secondly, those of you who don't read French won't really get anything out of it.

        So, it would be fair to ask, why include such a potentially mortifying and/or useless piece of writing? Three reasons:

1. I haven't written another post yet this week, and in case I don't, at least I've met my self-imposed goal of one post a week.

2. This blog is where I'm preserving Geneva memories, and this is one of them.

3. Despite its flaws, most of which I can't even catch because my knowledge French is so basic, I am actually kind of proud of having written something in French. Perhaps those of you with a similarly elementary knowledge of French (enough to understand; not enough to catch errors) will enjoy it!

J’aime penser que je suis une femme vraiment intelligente et capable. Je peux apprendre très vite tous les noms des pays d’Afrique; j’ai lu toutes les oeuvres classiques en anglais; je peux lire un plan et monter une bibliothèque. Je peux cuisiner et je peux monter un vélo. Mais souvent, dans ma vie, je suis perdue.

Je me souviens une fois quand j’étais petite, et je suis me promenée chez mon amie, qui s’appelait Emily. J’ai marché et j’ai marché, mais je n’ai pu pas trouver sa maison. J’ai pensé que j’avais marché pendant des heures et des kilomètres. J’étais sûre que j’avais raté la maison parce que j’avais marché trop loin. J’étais épuisée et j’avais peur. Les maisons étaient gigantesques et pas familières. Enfin, j’ai arrêté une fille plus grande que moi qui jouait dans son jardin, et je lui ai demandé où habitait mon amie. Heureusement, elle savait. J’ai dû seulement marcher quelque mètres en plus, et ensuite, je suis arrivée. 

Une autre fois, quand j’étais plus grande -- peut-être j’avais 12 ou 13 ans -- je suis me baladée dans la forêt avec mon ami, Jerry. La forêt appartenait à mes grand-parents, et je pensais que je la connaissais bien. Mais après des heures, quand nos jambes étaient tellement fatiguées, nous sommes arrivés à une route vraiment inconnue.  Nous avions passé une barrière presque un kilomètre avant, et nous n’étions pas encore dans la forêt de mes grand-parents. Après peut-être un kilomètre, nous avons rencontré un homme qui conduisait un camion très vieux. Il nous a dit que la maison des mes grand-parents était à plusieurs kilomètres sur la route. Nous lui avons demandé de  nous emmener dans son camion. Nous nous sommes plaints que nous étions trop fatigués pour marcher. Mais l’homme nous a dit, “L’essence, c’est cher.” Et il est parti dans un nuage de poussière.

Le problème était pire quand je suis devenue maman, parce que maintenant, ce n’est pas seulement moi-même qui est toujours perdue, mais la famille entière. Chaque fois quand nous allons dans une nouvelle ville, j’emmène mon plan et j’étudie la route. Mais chaque fois, nous nous  perds. Nous sommes perdus dans toutes les grandes villes d’Europe: à Paris, à Londres, à Barcelone, à Venise. Nous ne sommes pas perdus à Rome, mais c’est parce que nous ne sommes jamais allés à Rome. Quand nous sommes arrivés à Genève il y a un an, nous nous sommes perdus presque tous les jours. Pendant plus qu’une heure, nous avons cherché l’Office Cantonal de la Population. Enfin, nous l’avons trouvé -- c’était à 400 mètres de notre maison!

Mais le pire moment, j’étais seule. C’était en octobre dernier, et je me suis arrêtée chez mon amie pour lui donner des confitures. Je suis passée une porte, et j’ai garé la voiture. Quand je suis retournée, je n’ai pas pu trouver ma voiture, parce que il y avait une grande porte en métal. Je ne savais pas lire le français, et de toute façon, personne était là. J’ai erré dans le garage, en panique. Je me suis demandée ce que je pouvais faire et j’ai pensé à ce que mon mari ferait quand je lui aurais dit que j’ai perdu la voiture dans un garage genevois. Je me suis presque affolée, quand j’ai trouvé un bureau dans lequel il y avait un homme. J’ai essayé en français: “Ma voiture . . . je vais dans le parking, et la porte est ouverte. Je reviens, et la porte est fermée! Je ne sais pas pourquoi!” L’homme était très gentil et très calme. Il m’a montré un ascenseur pour le parking, et il m’a emmené jusqu’à ma voiture. Il m’a montré que, si j’avancais, la porte s’ouvrait. Je l’ai remercié encore et encore, jusqu’à ce qu’il pense que j’étais folle. 

Peut-être mon problème avec le fait d’être perdu est parce que j’aime le chanson qui s’appelle en anglais, “Amazing Grace.” La fin de la première strophe dit:

“I once was lost, but now am found; was blind, but now I see.”

(Une fois j’étais perdu, mais maintenant je suis été trouvé; j’étais aveugle, mais maintenant je vois.)

This One's Full of Adventure, Introspection, and Aliases Based on Traditional Swiss Foods

Picture the worst possible nightmare for an active but shy 12-year-old boy. I can imagine that it might involve spending part of your summer vacation in a sweltering classroom filled with unfamiliar students and a teacher whom you have never seen before, taking tests for which you aren’t prepared . . . in a foreign language. In fact, that is how Lucas spent part of last week. Johanna too, although since she is a studious but outgoing 14-year-old girl, the scenario was perhaps marginally less nightmarish.

And what cruel forces conspired to create this torturous situation? Well, as with most torturous situations in which young people find themselves (like consuming lima beans or organizing dresser drawers) this one was precipitated by their mother, that is to say, me. Having decided that just living in a foreign country did not pose a sufficient challenge, I determined that it would be a good idea to gain first-hand experience with an area of Swiss policy into which even the Swiss themselves rarely venture. In short, we decided to homeschool our two younger children. The explanation behind why we decided to do this is not nearly as interesting as the path down which this decision has taken us during the last month or so.

Unlike in some European countries, homeschooling is legal in Switzerland -- at least in Geneva Canton it is. (Independent as the Swiss are, they let the individual cantons make their own laws about things like education.) Still, only about 1 percent of people in the canton choose to take advantage of the opportunity afforded by the law to pursue “l’enseignement à domicile.” This may have something to do with the Swiss mindset about education (more about which below), and it may have something to do with the fact that these people love their children and don’t want to put them through the pain through which I have put my children -- and will need to continue to put them -- in order to meet the Swiss requirements for homeschooling. 

So, having decided that we needed a little more excitement in our lives, and having been put in touch with a woman who has homeschooled in Geneva for two decades and could help navigate the system, we began the process. It started innocently enough -- I sent off a letter stating my reasons for wanting to homeschool and the subjects that my children would be studying. I learned two things through this letter. 1. “Accuser réception” is the equivalent of the American “signature confirmation,” and 2. “accuser réception” is quite an expensive service (11 chf). Both things, I felt, were worth knowing. As I sent the letter in August, everyone at the Service de Scolarité was on vacation. Nevertheless, on the very Monday when the staff there was expected to return, I received a phone call from a charming woman whom we will call Madame Rosti, and who has subsequently become an important figure in our lives. Madame Rosti conducted the first part of the conversation in French (one of her great charms in that she has a very comprehensible accent and speaks quite slowly). When she figured out that I was having a difficult time explaining my “motif” for homeschooling in French, she graciously allowed me to switch to English (I tried to be similarly easy to understand). With her speaking French (and a little English) and me speaking English (and a little French), we carried on a pleasant conversation, the upshot of which was that the children would have to take the placement exams for the Geneva Public Schools. I explained, pleasantly, that this would be difficult for the children, as they had only studied French for one year. She replied, pleasantly, that they had to do it anyway, since it was “the first step.” I responded, pleasantly, that I guess if they had to, they had to, but they weren’t going to do very well. And she agreed, all very pleasantly. 

Her colleague, whom we will name Monsieur Raclette, was also very pleasant. That is, until I balked (pleasantly though repeatedly) at his insistence that the kids take IQ tests in French. Frankly, I did not feel convinced that the tests would be particularly indicative of their abilities. He called, Lucas answered the phone, and, upon learning that I was not available, Monsieur Raclette proceeded to give Lucas a (possibly not so pleasant) earful about how his mother had no right to think that her children didn’t have to do what all the other children in Geneva had to do. Part of me (the independent American part) wanted to remain firm in my refusal to comply with a request so ridiculous. Another part, however, understood that we were in Rome and had better behave like Romans if we wanted to make any progress. Further, being constitutionally a rule-follower myself, I have a lot of sympathy for the Swiss proclivity for sticking to established procedure.

Thus, the first part of last week was spent in math tests, French tests, and IQ tests (for Luc), Math, French, English, and IQ (for Jo), and many hours in the Service de Scolarité’s cafeteria (for me). In fits of sympathy and guilt, I bought the kids McDonald’s, iced tea, eclairs, and other unusual treats during those two days. Wednesday was a day off, and Thursday we all returned for a meeting with Madame Rosti. The meeting lasted well over an hour, and was conducted, as the telephone call had been, in both English and French, since both of us were more comfortable speaking our native language, but were quite able to understand the other. We did have someone there to translate if necessary (whom I will call Mrs. Tartiflette, since I really want to use another alias here). This definitely made me feel better, even though we didn’t use her services much. Madame Rosti truly seemed like a good person, kind and clearly concerned above all with the welfare of children. Though her experience with homeschoolers was limited, she nevertheless had a generally positive view of the option, provided, of course, that we followed the rules. 

Most of the rules are not problematic. I have to fill out forms. The children have to meet with a Geneva-approved nurse, social worker, or child psychologist partway through the year. We have to teach French, English, math, history or geography, and a science. German is a rule, too, but I was able to persuade her that in our particular case, German (though a lovely language) would not be a useful one and would take valuable time away from the other subjects. She wanted the kids to do some kind of P.E. and some kind of art, but seemed content with whatever we proposed in those areas. 

The only part of the rules that seems a bit harsh is that in May, the kids have to take what is basically the Geneva equivalent of the Iowa Tests or the SATs. These tests will be, naturally, in French. In lieu of the tests for science and history/geography, they will write papers on a topic that we choose, but which must be at least partly in French. I tried to persuade her that the Iowas or SATs would be a reasonable substitute, but she remained unmoved, informing me, with utmost pleasantness, that they were welcome to do those in addition to the Geneva tests.

As a mom, I am somewhat mixed in my reactions to this requirement. On the one hand, I want my children to learn as much French as they can while they are in Geneva. Having to take tests and write papers in French will certainly be a good motivator. On the other hand, I feel the grip of pity and panic that this might be too much to ask of my sweet babies. 

As a detached observer, however, I think I have to come down on Madame Rosti’s side. Geneva is about 40 percent expat. Some people stay for a year or two. Some people stay for 20. For whatever length of time we are here, however, we are part of the society and culture of Geneva. Clearly, it is impossible to have a working society and culture if you do not have a common language. Geneva already has a huge subculture of people who don’t speak French, which has to provide many challenges for the natives. I have no sympathy with my fellow expats who act as though, because there are so many of us, the city should speak our language and bow to our customs. Of course it is frustrating for me when I can’t understand what someone is saying or make them understand me. That, however, is my problem to solve. And what the Service de Scolarité is doing by requiring my children to “be approaching” the maternelle level of French is working toward a solution. 

Where I seriously differ with Madame Rosti is in her view of whose responsibility all of this ultimately is. She said something very telling during the meeting, along the lines of: “Homeschooling is built on my trust of you. I am trusting you to provide your children with a good education. I will not come to your house and check, because I trust you.” Well. I’m glad that she trusts me, but how different that is from the mission statement of Mars Hill, which says that the school is there to assist parents in the education of their children. Education is a parental responsibility. The Bible tells us to bring up our children in the nurture and admonition of the Lord, and the choice of how to do that -- and the burden of doing it right -- is ours. If I fail to educate my children well, it’s not Madame Rosti or anyone in the government -- Swiss or American -- to whom I am ultimately accountable, but to God.